The Girl in the Gatehouse (51 page)

“William says I may bring George as chaperone, so Mrs. Pitt is not tempted to send him away while I’m gone. He knows how I worry about him. Is that not good news?”

“Very good news.”

Mariah offered to lend a larger valise, and gave Lizzy two of her own gowns for the trip. The girl was delighted and embraced Mariah warmly. “Oh, thank you, miss. I shouldn’t want to embarrass William.”

“You would never do that. He thinks the world of you.”

Dimples appeared on Lizzy’s flushed cheeks. “Yes, he does.”

This is how love should be,
Mariah thought. Two honest people, forthright in their intentions, loving and protecting one another.

Thinking of Lizzy and Mr. Hart, as well as Miss Amy and Captain Prince, and even Dixon and her suitors, Mariah rose and stood before the hearth, where a fire had been laid against the misty chill of a damp September day. One by one, she began feeding pages of
Lydia Sorrow
to the flames. She would start afresh. She no longer desired revenge or to be avenged. She desired only forgiveness. And, God willing, a second chance.

“Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery,”
she remembered hearing a friend of a friend say, and found it resonated with her own soul.

She would write an uplifting tale of mercy and true love, she decided. One with a happy ending.

Well . . . she could dream, couldn’t she?

Leaving the gatehouse a short while later, Mariah came across Captain Bryant and Martin sitting on the garden bench. She overheard Martin relating the tale of Captain Prince’s origins and identity.

“Can you believe it? Now we know why the authorities could not trace the missing captain to a Prince family. So you see, we were both right.”

Captain Bryant nodded, but Mariah thought he looked rather dazed by the news.

“Where is he now?” he asked.

“Gone back to the poorhouse to comfort Miss Amy’s sister, he said.”

Martin saw her and quickly rose. Captain Bryant followed suit.

“Miss Mariah here can tell you the rest,” Martin said abruptly and disappeared into the house. It was done without subtlety, but even so, she appreciated Martin’s thoughtfulness. She longed to speak to Captain Bryant alone.

He was regarding her warily, she realized, and no wonder after their last meeting.

She stepped nearer and began, “I am in receipt of your letter and your . . . tale.”

He nodded, eyes cautious.

“And I think it fair to say you could easily have a second career in . . . shipbuilding.” She smiled mischievously, and his reserve dissolved into a welcoming grin.

“Just as you might have a second career as an opera singer,” he teased.

She held his gaze as their smiles faded into something else, something deeper and more serious. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Will you forgive me?”

He reached over and took her hand in his. “It is done.”

Her pulse quickened at his touch. With his free hand, he gestured toward the bench, and she sat down.

“I had hoped to find you earlier to tell you about Captain Prince,” she said. “But with Miss Amy’s death and everything . . .” She let her words trail off and instead asked, “Are you not glad now Hugh refused to sell you Windrush Court?”

Sitting beside her, Captain Bryant looked skyward and inhaled deeply. He made no answer.

Mariah’s heart began beating dully. “He did refuse, did he not?”

“Initially, yes.”

She studied his flat expression, realization dawning. “Oh no. . . .”

He sighed. “Oh yes. I have already given Hugh Prin-Hallsey a sizeable sum in good faith on the place. Now only to find that not one brick was his to sell, or mine to buy.”

Mariah shook her head, mind whirling. “Then we shall have to find him and demand repayment.”

He gave her a wry look. “Mariah. What do you suppose is the likelihood of my getting one farthing back from Hugh Prin-Hallsey?”

She stared into his bleak brown eyes but found she could utter no false assurances. “Was it a great deal of money?” she asked softly.

Not meeting her gaze, he nodded.

“Oh, Captain, I am so sorry. You have lost your fortune.”

Slowly he shook his head. Looking into her eyes, he squeezed her hand. “
Here
is my fortune.”

But Mariah’s guilt kept her from fully hearing and acknowledging his words. “I feel so responsible. Hugh was a sort of cousin, after all.”

One side of his mouth rose. “How you do take on the weight of the world, Mariah. Whereas I feel as if I have finally shed an anchor.” He exhaled and straightened. “I have some money left but will need to find employment soon. Seek another commission.”

“But, Matthew – the bloodshed, the nightmares . . .”

“I know. And now with Napoleon exiled, there are ten captains vying for every ship the navy will maintain. Still, there are other options. The West Africa Squadron is working to suppress the Atlantic slave trade, but that is a thankless task, I understand. The squadron’s few frigates are mere water spiders in a vast ocean, and the slavers continue to sail around undeterred. Yet, I might go, if not for you, Mariah.”

If not for me . . . ?
Mariah found she could hardly breathe.

When she made no reply, he added, “That small fleet has insufficient quarters for a captain, let alone a captain’s . . .” He hesitated. “For a woman.”

Mariah nodded her vague understanding, but her thoughts were spinning and her heart beating so loudly she was not certain she heard correctly.

Matthew continued, “I visited an old friend of mine recently, a Captain McCulloch. He is spearheading the creation of a new fleet he calls the Coast Blockade Service. I believe he would give me a post. It would not pay very handsomely, nor be impressive or romantic.”

“Is that so important?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “In novels, the heroes are always captains or lords, are they not?”

He attempted a grin to lighten the moment, but she regarded him soberly.

“A woman who truly loved you would not care if you were a baker, a chandler, or a captain. I should not.”

He stilled, looked at her fondly, and stroked her cheek – a cheek suddenly very warm as she realized what she had said.

“My sister said something very like that not long ago,” Matthew whispered. “And predicted I would find a woman who thought and felt as you do.” He leaned near, his whispered words a caress on her cheek. “Meddlesome creature was right again.”

He leaned nearer yet, until Mariah knew – hoped – he would kiss her.

Someone behind them cleared his throat. Matthew squeezed his eyes closed in exasperation and somehow managed to bite his tongue.
Now what?
He turned and saw Martin standing on the other side of the gate, gesturing him over.

“Captain. Sorry to disturb. I tried to wait until you two were finished . . . em, talking. But it’s urgent.”

Martin waved a piece of paper, as though Matthew should know what it signified. Sighing, Matthew smiled apologetically at Mariah and gave her hand a parting squeeze. Then he rose and strode over to the gate.

Martin spoke in an agitated whisper through the bars. “We’ve got it. We know where they sent Maggie.” He unfolded the torn piece of paper.

“How?” Matthew asked. “Did Mrs. Pitt relent?”

“No, sir. It was Captain Prince. Prin-Hallsey. What have you. He snuck into the office and went through her files. Found an entry in her registry, explaining the transfer, or falsifying excuses, if you ask me. Young George just brought over this note.” He thrust the paper through the bars into Matthew’s hand. “She sent her to Westhill House.”

“Westhill House?” Matthew read the scrawl to confirm the news. “I know the place. It is the workhouse in Highworth.”

He turned to share the news with Mariah but saw that she had already retreated into the house, allowing the two men to speak in private.

Martin touched his arm through the bars. “I wasn’t certain I should tell Miss Mariah or Miss Susan. Didn’t want to get their hopes up, in case Maggie has been apprenticed to one of the mills.” He winced. “I figured you might know what to do. Besides,” he added sheepishly, “you are the only one of us who has a horse.”

Matthew nodded, thoughts racing.

Martin continued, “I could go myself, but I doubt they would release a little girl to the likes of me. Don’t know that they would to you either, no offense, but we’ve got to try.” His voice thickened. “I cannot abide the thought of the poor little mite alone amongst strangers. She no doubt thinks we have all forgotten her.”

Matthew placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I shall go straight away and see what can be done.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you were right not to tell the ladies – not yet. We don’t want to arouse their hopes only to dash them. But I leave that decision to you.” He hesitated. “Martin, do me a favor. Tell Miss Aubrey I have had to leave . . . on business. But be sure and tell her that we will finish our conversation as soon as I return. Understood?”

Martin nodded. “Right. Gone on business. Will finish chat forthwith.”

What has happened? Why all the secrecy?
Mariah tried to concentrate on peeling apples, and instead nicked her finger.
Fiddle!

Martin came into the kitchen a few minutes later. “There you are, Miss Mariah. Captain Bryant charged me to tell you something.”

“Oh?” she said casually, trying to mask her emotions.

“He’s gone off on business and will speak to you when he returns.”

“What manner of business?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“I . . . I couldn’t rightly say, miss. But Captain Bryant is gone to Highworth, he has – that much I can tell you.”

Highworth
. That was where the Forsythes had their country estate. Where Mr. Forsythe lived, even though Isabella spent much of her time with an aunt in London. Mariah wondered if Martin had brought a message from Miss Forsythe. That would explain the secrecy. But surely Matthew had not gone to see Isabella or her father. Not after the conversation the two of them had just had. True, Matthew had not asked for her hand, but he had hinted at a future together. Or had she imagined the implications of his words, because she so desired them to exist?
Just as I did with Mr. Crawford?

Doubts and sinking dread filled her, even as she told herself she was being foolish. “I see,” she said, feeling as if she did indeed see all too well.

An hour later, Mariah went outside to dump the apple peels. She saw Susan Dixon and Albert Phelps standing in the gatehouse lane. Hat in his hands, Mr. Phelps hung his head as he listened to whatever Dixon was telling him. From the look of his slumped shoulders and crestfallen expression, Mariah guessed she was turning down his offer of marriage.

Poor man
, Mariah thought, heart squeezing in empathy. She went inside and busied herself in the drawing room to give the two privacy.

When the back door opened several minutes later, Mariah stepped tentatively into the kitchen to see how Dixon was feeling. She thought her old friend looked drawn and weary.

“Everything all right?” Mariah asked softly.

Miss Dixon’s eyes were damp. “Hated to do it.” She sniffed. “But it had to be done.”

Mariah nodded. “How did he take it?”

Dixon paused to consider. “Better than I feared. He harbors no grudge. Says he’s already known the ‘bliss of wedlock’ and wishes me happy.”

Mariah had underestimated the man. She squeezed Dixon’s hand and left her. She hoped her friend would not regret her decision, for as far as Mariah knew, Martin had never offered marriage. Might there forever be two spinsters in the gatehouse?