The Girl in the Gatehouse (41 page)
Matthew turned over in bed yet again. Illogical! That’s what it was. Why should his thoughts be consumed with her now, when Isabella was under his very roof at last? This time it was not nightmares of war that disturbed his sleep, but thoughts of Mariah Aubrey.
Illogical!
The more Matthew learned about Miss Aubrey, the more he realized he should distance himself from her. So why did he find himself drawn to her? He could not allow himself to feel anything more than friendship for her. And even then, friendship from afar. Anything else would ruin his well-laid plans.
Overheated from tossing and turning, Matthew threw back his bedclothes, rose, and strode to the mantel clock. In a shaft of moonlight he saw that it had just gone midnight. He had awoken after less than an hour and doubted he would return to sleep anytime soon. Restless, he pulled on trousers, slipped a shirt over his head, and wrestled on his boots, which he preferred to the fancy buckled shoes, though shoes were easier to get on. Too warm to bother with a coat, he slipped from his room and passed silently through the house. From somewhere down the corridor he heard the faint sound of a female giggle but did not recognize the voice.
Stepping outside, he was at once cooled as the night breeze passed through the fine fabric of his shirt. His boots crunched over the gravel as he walked on, hoping to clear his head. And his heart. Above him the sky sparkled with stars as numerous as the diamonds he had once seen in a chest of confiscated African treasure.
“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars,
which thou hast ordained . . .”
He recalled reading that passage from the Psalms on more than one Sabbath in his role as spiritual leader, at least on Sundays, when the crew assembled for divine services after inspection. Often he had felt like a hypocrite, taking the thick black book – a rare gift from his father – in his hands and reading to the men as though he were worthy to do so.
He was not.
Matthew did believe in God. One could hardly sail the mighty seas and not believe in, revere, and stand in awe of his creator. And Jesus must have been powerful indeed, to calm the wind and the waves. Sometimes, however, Matthew could not believe that God knew a speck like him, or cared. Perhaps it was because his earthly father was cold and distant. Still, Matthew hoped he was wrong.
Matthew thought about another line from the Psalms, and recited it to himself as he walked.
“For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for
thy name’s sake lead me and guide me.”
Mariah sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the warmth of the dying embers in the cookstove as she sipped a late-night cup of tea. After the stressful events of the day, she felt too restless to sleep and instead sat rereading one of her aunt’s novels by candlelight into the wee hours. Chaucer jumped up and sat on the chair beside her. He prodded her hand with his head, hoping to be petted. As she lifted her hand to oblige him, movement caught her eye through the kitchen window.
She rose. There in the moonlit back garden, Captain Bryant paced, side to side, not approaching her door, nor retreating. She watched him for several minutes, then went to the door and cracked it open.
“Tea?”
He stopped his pacing. For a moment he stared at her almost sullenly, as though he would refuse.
“Or warm milk, if you prefer?”
He exhaled deeply and slogged to the door.
Mariah laid aside the manuscript and set about filling the kettle. She placed it on the stove, bending to stir the embers. In his present state he likely wouldn’t notice if the tea was tepid or weak.
He slumped into the seat, almost atop Chaucer, who meowed in indignation and bolted from the room. When Mariah sat in her chair, he reached out and caught her ink-stained hand in his.
He said nothing, only studied her fingers.
Nervously, Mariah began, “Martin has saved newspaper accounts of naval victories at sea, including your glorious triumphs.”
Captain Bryant snorted softly. “Hardly glorious. I still have nightmares about all the bloodshed.”
She gently tugged her hand, but he retained it, seemingly loath to let it go. “You did all those things to prove yourself to Miss Forsythe?”
He gave a brittle laugh. “I once thought so. I have come to realize she shares that privilege with my father.”
She waited for him to explain. She was tempted to tell him about Hugh Prin-Hallsey, but refrained, realizing Captain Bryant had other things on his mind. She allowed him to keep hold of her hand, though she knew she should not.
He kept his gaze on her fingers. “No matter what I do, how much I achieve, it is never enough for him. Not being promoted to captain, not all the victories and prizes, not this estate. There is no rank high enough, no prize – or house – big enough to earn his esteem.”
“Surely you needn’t do all that to earn your father’s affection. You are his son, after all.”
“Then why is he never pleased with me?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps – ”
“I shall tell you why,” Matthew interjected. “Because I am not my brother. Perfect Peter, who died at seventeen but who lives on in unadulterated perfection.”
He rubbed his free hand over his eyes. “Peter was everything I wasn’t. Studious, quiet, always reading some lofty tome I could make little sense of. He hoped to go into the church.”
“Let me guess,” Mariah said. “You were the mischievous one, always running about, making swords of sticks and getting into fisticuffs with boys twice your size.”
He chuckled dryly. “I suppose that is why I thought the navy would suit me. It was everything I was good at – games of strategy, risk, fighting, swordplay. . . .”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, paused, and swallowed again. “When Peter died, it was as if my parents died with him. All their joy gone. What little interest my father had shown in me dried up. No matter the good reports that came of me, all seemed to fall on deaf ears.”
Mariah asked gently, “Did your father blame you for Peter’s death?”
“Lord help me, I hope not,” Matthew said ruefully. “I don’t think I could bear that along with the rest. I don’t see how he could, as I was already away at sea when Peter contracted lung fever. Always was rather sickly. Such a drafty, damp house. It’s why I was so determined to bring my mother here. I fear she has the same weak constitution Peter had.”
The kettle steamed, but Mariah stayed where she was, her hand in his.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Matthew shrugged. “At all events, I suppose that is why it was such a nettle to my soul when Mr. Forsythe pronounced me unsuitable. It was as if he was in league with my father. As if his judgment validated what I had grown to believe – I would never be good enough, no matter how hard I tried.”
Mariah squeezed his hand. “Then perhaps it is time to stop trying.”
He met her gaze, his eyes large and intense in the dim light. How tormented he looked, yet how appealing. She wished yet again that her secrets did not stand between them. Even if Isabella Forsythe did.
She said, “Miss Dixon tells me we are worth a great deal to God, just as we are.”
He pursed his lips and blew a loud exhale. “That is difficult to believe sometimes.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”
His mouth parted as though to say more, or as though to kiss her. Instead he stared at her a moment longer and then released her hand and rose.
“I should go. It is late. Thank you for tea.”
“You have not had any.”
“Right. Never mind. Good night.” He bowed and turned, letting himself out and striding purposefully away.
Mariah checked the kettle. The fire had gone cold.
Oh to meet him was a pleasure
Though the courting was a woe
For I found him false hearted
He would kiss me and go.
– “The Cuckoo,” traditional English folk song
During the house party, Matthew had casually mentioned the theatrical he and Hart had taken part in. William had chimed in, describing the scripts, the sword fights, the props, with great animation. And how his face fairly shone whenever he mentioned the innocent dove portrayed so charmingly by Lizzy Barnes. As Matthew anticipated, several guests, especially of the female variety, enthused over the idea of putting on a theatrical of their own.
Matthew obliged them by obtaining the props and scripts from Miss Aubrey and distributing them to the ladies. Isabella and the Mabry girls quickly chose parts for themselves and debated which man among them was best suited for each role. Rehearsals soon began, and Matthew quickly realized this was going to be a far different experience, with finer costumes, an accomplished soprano singing the part of the nightingale, and real swords.
When asked, Matthew was reticent to describe the original performance in detail, but clearly Hart felt no such compunction, proclaiming Miss Aubrey’s talents in directing, costume-making, and acting alike.
When Hart mentioned that Miss Aubrey had been cast as the crow in the original production, Isabella Forsythe refused to play the part, though a choice one, and it fell to Millicent Mabry, who Matthew knew would not do the part justice.
Miss Ann Hutchins, who eschewed frivolity, agreed only to participate as narrator, leaving Isabella to play the goddess Juno, and Helen Mabry to play the two nonspeaking roles of fawn and dove. Captain Parker claimed Matthew’s former role as fox to Millicent Mabry’s crow, as well as a role in “The Bear and the Lion” opposite Bartholomew Browne. Matthew had not realized his friend Parker was such a keen thespian.
Matthew himself was subjugated to a few minor roles. Isabella wished James Crawford to play Peacock to her Juno, but he was sullen and refused to participate, leaving Hart to fill that role once again.
During the first rehearsal, the hinge of the crow beak had come loose and several feathers of the peacock mask unfastened. Matthew took them to the gatehouse to ask Miss Aubrey what she might suggest. She offered to repair both if he could return for them the following day.
Matthew planned to return. Meant to return. But the ladies kept him so busy writing out extra copies of the script, rearranging the library for the performance, and painting a backdrop, that he quite forgot. And by the time he did remember, it was too late.
Disaster was already waiting in the wings.
Mariah had mixed feelings about Captain Bryant’s guests using the scripts and props she had created. On the one hand, she was glad to see them put to use. But on the other, she couldn’t help but worry that her props and scripts would naturally make her a topic of conversation – an uncomfortable thought indeed.
But since she had never been able to resist a call for help, she repaired the beak and mask for Captain Bryant and awaited his return.
When he did not return the following day, or the day of the performance, Mariah wondered if there had been a miscommunication between them. Did he expect her to deliver the mask and headdress? As the appointed hour of the performance drew nigh, Mariah began to feel as forgotten as the props. Both Martin and Dixon had already gone to the Watfords for whist or she would have dispatched one of them. Reluctantly, she decided she must take the costumes to the great house herself.
