The Girl in the Gatehouse (20 page)
I shall conclude with exhorting all young women
not to be drawn from the paths of virtue and
innocence thro’ pleasure, or believing what
designing men will say to gain their own ends.
–
The History of Miss Sally Johnson, a Magdalen
(anonymous)
The Frenchmen kept coming. One after another, like stinging ants from their hill. One after another he cut them down, his cutlass swinging red, his arm so tired, so heavy, so numb with death. And still they came. Some barely more than boys.
“S’il vous plaît, non!”
“Please, sir. Let me go home.”
Frenchman, Spanish, Dutch. Appendages piled up on the deck, blood flowed over the tops of his boots, and still they came.
Lord almighty,
will it never end?
And there, another young man fell to his knees before him, begging for mercy. He raised his cutlass once more. At the last second, Matthew recoiled, shocked to recognize the young man’s face. It was his own brother. Peter. But the cutlass was in the air, the blade flying in its silver and red arc, ready to deliver the deathblow.
“Noooooo!” Horrified, Matthew shot up in bed, hearing the echo of his own cry. He was drenched in sweat, bedclothes tangled around his limbs, his right arm in numb needle pricks from lying on it. His chest heaved, his heart raced.
Footsteps drummed down the corridor and, after a quiet knock, his bedchamber door creaked open. “Matthew? Are you all right?”
He inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to regain his breath. “Sorry to wake you, William.”
Hart stepped tentatively inside, candle lamp high. “Another nightmare?”
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me?”
Matthew shuddered. “Not really. Same old thing. Killing, bodies, regret.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as though to erase the lingering images.
“It was war, Matthew. You are not a killer – you are a decorated captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“Then why do I feel guilty?”
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“Tell my conscience that.” Matthew expelled a harsh breath. “Look, Hart. Go back to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
Hart chuckled, trying to lighten the moment. “The nightmares don’t bother me, Matthew. It is the snoring I can’t abide. I should have chosen a room farther down the passage.”
In the morning the two men went riding together, Matthew handling Storm with relative ease now. They rode across the estate, and then through the front gate and out onto the open road, startling birds into flight and dogs to barking as they went.
Matthew gave his friend a sidelong glance. “You really don’t regret any of it?”
Hart shrugged. “I regret getting in the way of that French bullet, and squandering my prize money, but otherwise, no.”
As captain, Matthew received the greatest share of each prize. The scheme of percentages had grown increasingly complex, but on average, Matthew knew he received eight or nine times what Hart had for the same captures. And then of course Hart had been injured and sent to the naval hospital, while Matthew had gone on to capture several more ships, including a Spanish frigate loaded with gold specie.
“Can you really say it was all for the sake of winning the war, for king and country?” Matthew asked. “I cannot. Warships are one thing. But what about those merchantmen?”
“It was all for the good of our cause.”
“No, it was unmitagated greed. I killed for prize money. What does that make me?”
Hart pursed his lips. “Rich? In line for promotion?”
Matthew argued, “Our prime directive was to destroy enemy warships, not to capture rich merchantmen, no matter how profitable.”
Hart shook his head. “I disagree. The Admiralty knows the lure of prize money is its best recruiting tactic. Heaven knows it is not the regular wages.”
Matthew knew this. Knew that most captains, at least of fast frigates like his, keenly sought such prizes, for the value of a captured ship was often more than a year’s pay for the crew, and earned by only a few hours of fighting. The capture and eventual sale of a seaworthy or at least repairable ship increased the size of the prize. It was the reason boarding and hand-to-hand combat remained the attack of choice, even though cannons could be used to sink the enemy from afar.
“I do not lose sleep over the warships, their officers and crew. What wakes me at night are the thoughts of all those young men pressed or in trade, whose mothers, whose wives and children, still cry because they are not coming home.”
“Even that shortened the war, Matthew,” Hart insisted. “Anything that hindered France’s ability to trade served to weaken the country and Napoleon’s supply routes. You must believe that.”
“I do. Usually.” Matthew grinned weakly. “At least, by the light of day.”
But inwardly, he wondered for the hundredth time if it had all really been worth it.
It might be
, he told himself, if it allowed him to finally win Miss Forsythe.
Mariah did not see the Miss Merryweathers after her encounter with the man from the roof, so she returned to Honora House the next day hoping to deliver his message.
She walked up the lane in time to see Agnes and Amy stepping gingerly from the house toward their customary place outside. As Mariah approached, Amy’s legs seemed to give way and she crumpled into her sister, who grabbed hold of her arm and tried to keep her upright. Mariah ran forward and took Miss Amy’s other arm, and together she and Agnes helped her onto the bench.
“Are you all right?” Mariah asked in concern. “Shall I fetch Mrs. Pitt, or run into the village for the apothecary?”
Miss Amy put a hand to her chest to catch her breath and still managed a smile. “Thank you, my dear, but there is nothing either of them can do. My old body is just giving out – that is all.”
Mariah did not think the woman past sixty. Had she always been sickly?
“She will be right as a trivet in no time, out here in the sunshine,” Agnes said, the hollow look in her eyes belying her bravado.
“Nonsense, Sister. It is only a matter of time. After all, we have already outlived most of our friends and relatives.” She looked at Mariah. “How do you think we ended here?”
Agnes explained, “We managed on our own for many years after Father died. Sold our house and moved into a small pair of rooms together. Our few friends did what they could, but Amy’s health began to fail and eventually . . .” She shrugged to punctuate the inevitable.
“That is what happens to women who don’t marry,” Miss Amy added. “Unless you have family to provide for you, of course.” Her concerned blue eyes fastened on Mariah’s. “You do have family, I trust, my dear?”
Mariah hesitated, not wishing to add to Miss Amy’s worries. “I have family,” she said, sounding unconvinced in her own ears. Well, she did have Henry.
Miss Amy asked abruptly, “You haven’t need of any help around the gatehouse, have you?”
Mariah hoped Miss Merryweather wasn’t looking for a post in her present state of health. “I . . . What did you have in mind?”
“You are acquainted with Lizzy Barnes?”
“Yes, I have met her several times. I understand she has worked for Mrs. Pitt since her sixteenth birthday.”
Miss Amy nodded. “She has, yes. But, well, you see . . . that is . . .”
“The Pitt boy has his eyes all over her.” Agnes showed none of her sister’s delicacy. “And where eyes go, hands are sure to follow. And you know what follows after that.”
Mariah’s cheeks burned.
Amy whispered, “Perhaps she doesn’t, Aggie.”
Agnes frowned. “Oh, she knows, and so do you. Just look at her.”
Mariah shifted, uncomfortable. “And has Lizzy told this young man to leave her alone?”
“Of course she has,” Agnes said. “Or tried to. But she’s afraid to lose the position, so she’s had to be nice about it. And you know how convincing ‘nice’ refusals are with a young buck like John Pitt. Not at all. But if she had another place, then she could be out from under his eye and his power, see?”
“I do see,” Mariah said. She considered the situation. If only Mrs. Barnes were on hand to advise her daughter. But Mariah knew Lizzy and George were only able to see their mother every few months or so. “I haven’t much extra money for wages at present, but I shall see what I can do.”
“You would have to call on Mrs. Pitt first,” Amy apologized. “All employers must gain her approval before engaging one of the residents.”
“But whatever you do, say nothing against John,” Agnes warned. “He is her angel, and woe to anyone who forgets it.”
A few moments later, Mariah took her leave. She walked away, her mind filled with images of Lizzy Barnes, barely able to keep John Pitt at bay. And of Miss Amy, barely able to walk and with no family except her sister. So deep in thought was she that Mariah was back in the gatehouse before she realized she had forgotten to deliver the message from “Captain Prince.”
She went to find Dixon, but the kitchen was empty. Through the window, she saw her in the garden shelling peas, and went outside to help. She sat on the bench and scooped a handful of peapods from the basket. Dixon sent her a grateful smile before returning to her work.
Mariah split several pods with her thumbnails, releasing the peas with a soft
pling, pling
into the bowl between them. Suddenly she stilled. Here she and Dixon sat, very much like Amy and Agnes Merryweather. Too much alike. Miss Amy’s words echoed in her mind,
“That is what
happens to women who don’t marry.”
She and Dixon were unmarried. Two peas in a pod. Dixon had no family that Mariah knew of, and she was connected to her own family by only a spindly thread. Would they end as two old women living alone, or worse – if her books did not sell – side by side in the poorhouse?
“Dixon,” Mariah said abruptly. “If you have opportunity to marry one day, or to take a better post, promise me you won’t forgo that chance on my account.”
Her friend turned and studied her face. “What is it? Has something happened?”
“No. It is only that I worry about the future. What might become of us.”
Unperturbed, Dixon continued to shell peas, long fingers steady, as confident about the future as if each green orb were a priceless pearl.
“I don’t worry,” she said. “All our days are in God’s hands.”
Mariah wondered if that were true. Or had she fallen from His hand, and taken Dixon down with her?
The gardener ambled up the lane as they finished the last of the peas. He carried his latest offering – a basket of scarlet berries.
Mariah sent Dixon a knowing smile. “What have we here, Mr. Phelps?”
“Only the best fruit in England, miss.” He lifted his chin with pride. “
Fragaria elation
. I have kept aside the choicest berries for you ladies.”
“How kind, Mr. Phelps. Was that not kind, Dixon?”
Dixon halfheartedly agreed.
“Miss Dixon adores strawberries,” Mariah said. “Did you know it?”
Albert Phelps ducked his head, his ruddy cheeks darkening further. “She may have mentioned it.”
Dixon rose and tossed the spent husks on the compost heap. “We are much obliged to you, Mr. Phelps.”