The Girl in the Gatehouse (39 page)
Dixon frowned and began unloading her basket. “He prattles on endlessly about stamens and pollen, seeds and germination. And he always has dirt beneath his fingernails.”
“He is a gardener, Dixon.”
“Mr. Montgomery hasn’t such flaws.”
“Mr. Montgomery is a fictional character.”
“What about Captain Bryant? Surely he does not prattle on or have unsightly appendages.”
Appendages?
Mariah thought. Were they speaking of Mr. Phelps or Martin?
Dixon added, “And he is very handsome.”
“True,” Mariah acknowledged. “But there is something not quite right there.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is so . . . driven. To a fault.”
Dixon inspected a cabbage from her basket. “It is good for men to have a sense of purpose. Better than some spineless male without a will.”
“True. But it seems he would do anything to get what he wants, regardless of the cost to himself or others.”
“To win a certain lady, you mean.”
Mariah nodded.
Sighing, Dixon said, “I shouldn’t mind being the object of such determined pursuit.”
Mariah glanced out the window. “I think you may be, for here comes Mr. Phelps now.”
In one hand the gardener carried a flowerpot; with the other he removed his hat as he neared. His bristly grey hair, Mariah noticed, was slicked down.
Dixon retreated to the larder, gesturing wildly to send the man away.
Mariah shook her head, whispering, “He’s already seen you through the window.”
Dixon groaned, narrowed her eyes at Mariah, and dragged herself to the door. When she opened it, Mariah saw that Mr. Phelps wore a tweed coat over a clean white shirt and dark trousers. Only his shoes were not as well polished as they might be. She could not see his fingernails.
Mr. Phelps handed Dixon a potted tea rose. “Miss Dixon. I wonder. Would you be so kind as to accompany me for a stroll about the gardens? The new dahlias are in bloom, as are my bachelor’s buttons, and I should very much like to show you.”
His
bachelor’s buttons
? Mariah wondered at the significance of his mentioning that particular plant.
When Dixon hesitated, Mariah parroted the words Dixon had used to prod her into going riding with Captain Bryant. “She would be most delighted to accompany you, Mr. Phelps. Just let me fetch her shawl.”
Shame on his coward soul! He knelt to her, wooed her,
vowed eternal love, honor and truth; won her,
– and then cast her, like a loathsome weed away!
–
The Village Coquette
, 1822 (anonymous)
Mariah walked across the gatehouse lawn and bent to retrieve a crumple of biscuit-stained brown paper one of the children had discarded. She was wearing her ivory day dress again, this time with a modest lace fichu tucked into the neckline.
A man on horseback came trotting down the road. She ducked her head, but it was too late. He had seen her.
“Mariah? Excuse me – Miss Aubrey. I . . .”
That voice. His voice. She would know it anywhere. Instantly, her pulse quickened.
She looked up, but as soon as her eyes met his, she self-consciously ducked her head once more. Squeezing the wad of paper into a tiny ball, she forced her chin up and feigned nonchalance. “Hello, Mr. Crawford. What brings you here?” She wished the words back as soon as she uttered them.
“I am visiting Windrush Court. A Captain Bryant invited us.”
Us
. The word was an arrow.
He looked over his shoulder. “In fact, he and I were out riding together, but he stopped to greet a neighbor. He should be along directly.” James Crawford looked around, and seeing no one, added, “I must say . . . I did not expect to find you here.”
Did he think her a latecomer to the party? She had been certain Mr. Browne or someone else would have alerted him and his wife to her presence. Or had they not, wishing to shield the couple from that uncomfortable knowledge? “I am not one of the guests, Mr. Crawford. You need not fear.”
He expelled a rush of breath. “Oh. Right. Of course not. That would be devilish awkward. Are you – ”
She cut him off. “I fare well, Mr. Crawford. Thank you for asking.” If he was about to ask a more personal question, she did not want to hear it. “And you? Are you well?”
“Um . . . yes. Quite well, thank you.”
“Excellent. I hope you and your wife have a lovely time here.” Mariah turned toward the gatehouse.
“Wife? Ah. Yes. We are engaged, but not yet married.”
She spun back around, mouth ajar. “But . . . you said she was your betrothed. And that was . . . nearly a year ago now.”
It was Crawford’s turn to duck his head. “I know. We were about to be engaged at the time, but after the, uh, row, at the Parkers’, she called things off. But she has forgiven me, I am happy to say, and we are officially engaged – announcement puffed off in the
Gazette
, banns read, all that.”
Mariah stared at him. He had been free. He could have come to her. Married her. Rescued her. But he had not. Her father might have
worked
on him, had she not assured him the man involved was already attached. But it was all too late. Now that there had been a formal announcement, a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw from an engagement.
“You lied to me.”
He winced. “Not exactly. She is my betrothed and soon to be my wife. My father is most adamant.”
Mariah’s heart sank anew, but her ire rose. “Have you any idea what you have done to me? The price I have paid? I was stunned that I had not seen your supposed ‘engagement’ in the papers, but then, you had been out of the country for several months.”
“It was my feeble plan. I thought if you believed me already engaged, I could remain resolved. You wouldn’t be able to tempt me, to sway me from my course.”
“I, tempt you?” She stepped nearer his horse. “You came to
my
room that night.”
The words he had spoken – words she had committed to memory – replayed in her mind, mocking her.
“I thought we had time. That I could
court you. But my father wants to see me married. Settled. . . . You know I would
marry you tomorrow, if I could. . . .”
He nodded, face grim. “I came to your room to tell you I could not marry you.”
“Your chosen method was
most
ineffectual.” Her words scorched with sarcasm.
He winced again. “I know. Once I was alone with you, I could not help myself.”
Mariah slowly shook her head, over and over again. Why had she ever loved him? He was no gentleman, no man of honor. She had wasted herself. Her heart, her life, on a selfish, lying, manipulative man.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for setting my mind at ease.”
“Oh?” His eyes were wary, clearly anticipating another verbal blow.
“I feared you were about to renew your addresses to me. How relieved I am to find I was mistaken.”
At that moment, Captain Bryant galloped up the road, and James Crawford, suddenly self-conscious, turned his horse’s head. “I had better head back.” He rode past Captain Bryant, a few words were exchanged which Mariah did not hear, and the captain looked inquiringly in her direction.
As Mr. Crawford rode away, Captain Bryant trotted Storm over to her. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
Did she look as shaken as she felt? She must, but she nodded affirmation anyway.
He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating horseman before returning his speculative gaze to her. “I take it you know Mr. Crawford.”
Mariah shrank back as if pricked by a hidden needle. Had Captain Bryant learnt of the scandal? How exposed and sullied she felt at the thought.
“We are acquainted, yes.” Then before he could inquire further, she asked, “And how are you acquainted with him?”
He dismounted. “I am not. Never met him before the party.”
She frowned in surprise. “Then why invite him?”
He seemed to study his riding gloves. “It is always wise, Miss Aubrey, to get the opposing ship in one’s sights, to size up the enemy, before determining the best battle plan.”
She cocked her head to one side. “How came Mr. Crawford to be your enemy when you have never met him?”
“Quite easily.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Has this something to do with a certain lady?”
“It has everything to do with a certain lady – Miss Isabella Forsythe. I believe the two of you are acquainted?”
She stared at him.
Isabella Forsythe?
It couldn’t be.
She
was the woman Captain Bryant longed to win? The woman she had believed married to her former love this twelvemonth gone? Isabella must have been the woman she had seen riding with Captain Bryant. Mariah had not recognized her from such a distance – would never have paired the two of them in her mind.
“We . . . have met,” she murmured. “Briefly.”
Captain Bryant patted the horse’s damp withers. “If you wish to tell me your version of the tale, I promise to believe you.”
She gave a dry laugh and looked away. “And why should you?”
He grimaced. “I am some acquainted with Mr. Crawford’s reputation.”
She turned. “Are you? Or are you merely willing to believe anything against the man engaged to the woman you want for yourself ?” She was suddenly irritated with the captain. Must every man she admired fall for Miss Forsythe?
“Touché, Miss Aubrey. But there is another reason as well.”
“Oh?” She waited, brows high.
“Will you keep what I tell you in confidence?”
She met his somber gaze and nodded.
“My own sister, who is, I am thankful to say, safely and happily married, had an unfortunate acquaintance with someone very like Mr. Crawford in her youth.”
“Oh . . .” Mariah breathed.
“You see why I am keen on keeping it quiet.”
She nodded.
The captain’s confidence about his sister was kindly meant but did little to soothe Mariah’s pain. Seeing James Crawford again had poured salt into a raw, freshly reopened wound. The salty tears burned her eyes, and she quickly excused herself to shed them in private.
When Miss Aubrey had retreated into the gatehouse, Matthew rode back around to the main entrance of Windrush Court. Trotting up the drive toward the stable, he saw Miss Forsythe wave to him from the portico and descend the stairs to meet him. His pleasure at seeing her was dimmed by his troubling encounter with Mariah. No wonder Isabella had warned him against associating with her.
Miss Forsythe smiled warmly up at him. “James returned ten minutes ago and has already gone inside. What kept you? I was afraid you had met with some calamity.”
“I stopped to speak with Miss Aubrey.” He dismounted, realizing he probably should not have mentioned her.
Isabella winced. “Captain Bryant . . .” She hesitated. “I know it is not my place, but . . . must she be allowed to roam the estate?”
“Miss Aubrey is a tenant here.” Keeping hold of Storm’s reins, he looked about for the groom, then realized he must still be busy with Crawford’s horse.
“I find the timing most . . . troubling,” Isabella said. “That she should be here, at the very same time James is.”
“Miss Aubrey has lived here for nearly a year.”
She pondered his words. “So, she must have come here almost directly after . . .”
He decided to feign ignorance. “After what?”
“Surely you heard? The Parkers’ house party last summer?” She shuddered, cheeks flushed. “I am mortified even to think of it.”
Matthew faltered. “I . . . may have heard . . . something.”
Miss Forsythe continued. “I suppose she told you she and James had an understanding? It is not true, no matter how much she wanted to believe it, or imagined it. James admits he may have allowed her to believe him fonder of her than he was, because he hated to injure her feelings.”
Matthew considered this. “If he is not attached to her, why should you care if she is here? Are you not secure in his attachment to you now?”