The Girl in the Gatehouse (27 page)
– Annabella Milbanke, 1813
Mr. Crosby wrote to ask if he might call again the following week, and Mariah felt she had little choice but to write back and accept. She felt self-conscious about posting a letter to the man, and refrained from inscribing the word
Publisher
in Mr. Crosby’s direction.
In his letter, Mr. Crosby had expressed interest in publishing her second novel, as Henry had indicated he would. So what was the purpose of this call? She hoped it wasn’t to continue his interrogation.
Mariah glanced out the window at the appointed hour. Nothing. That was odd. The man had said he prided himself on his punctuality. Mariah paced across the room, then paused before the small looking glass, checking her appearance again. She had taken more time with her hair than usual, brushing it until it shone, pinning it into a neat coil high on her head, and then even using the hot iron to sear curls on either side of her face, which she rarely bothered to do. The day was damp. She hoped the curls lasted through Mr. Crosby’s visit.
Again crossing to the window, she saw a flicker of movement through the trees lining the road. She was surprised to see not one man but two standing there. The first wore the telltale brown coat of Mr. Crosby. The second, a taller man, held the reins of a black horse. This man threw his head back in laughter and Mariah recognized the profile of Hugh Prin-Hallsey. She found herself frowning.
That’s odd
. Did the two men know one another? Or had they met by chance in the village and walked this way together?
She did not like the idea of Hugh discovering that a publisher was coming to call at the gatehouse. He would probably raise her rent again. What excuse would Mr. Crosby give? She hoped he would not confide in Hugh, foolishly choosing to trust the man due to his family’s distinction. Mariah shivered at the thought.
As she watched, Hugh swung himself up into the saddle and rode away back toward the village and the turnpike which led to the estate’s main entrance. Mr. Crosby lifted a hand in farewell and stepped from the road onto the gatehouse lawn, carrying a thin valise. Was that a small smile on his face, or a grimace? She wished she might decipher his expression.
At the door, he greeted her warmly. “Miss Aubrey, how good to see you again.”
“Mr. Crosby, you are most welcome. Do come in.” Dare she ask about Hugh? Admit she’d seen them talking and appear a nosy spy?
Instead, she said, “I was beginning to worry when you did not arrive at the time you mentioned in your letter.”
His full eyebrows rose. “Am I tardy? I did pause to speak to a fellow traveler . . .” He checked his watch. “I
am
five minutes late. Imagine that.” He looked back at her, eyes alight. “It was good of you to worry, Miss Aubrey. I hope that means you look forward to my visits.”
Her cheeks heated. She had walked right into that. How forward he must think her. She attempted to cover her embarrassment with a carefree smile.
He smiled warmly in return, handed her his hat, and sat on the settee as he had during his first visit. Chaucer jumped up and tried to climb onto his lap, but Mr. Crosby gently but firmly pushed him down. “I am afraid cats make me sneeze.”
Once again Dixon and Martin brought tea, and again Mr. Crosby declined all but a solitary, unadulterated cup. Mariah did not mind. She had eaten ahead of his call this time.
“I have good news and bad news,” he said, pulling out a pile of clippings and a few periodicals from his valise. A corner of his mouth quirked. “Or should I say good reviews and bad reviews. Which should you like first?”
Mariah pulled a face. “Horrors. I am not certain I wish to hear the bad reviews at all. Scathing, are they?”
“Decide for yourself.” He picked up a clipping and began to read. “ ‘
A Winter in Bath
I do not very much like. Want of interest is the fault I can least excuse in works of mere amusement.’ ”
“Want of interest?” Mariah sputtered. “Work of mere amusement?”
He selected another. “This one is not so bad. ‘A clever novel. And though it ends stupidly, I was much amused by it.’ ”
Mariah regarded him suspiciously. “You are enjoying this, Mr. Crosby, are you not?”
“Very well, I shall leave off tormenting you. But one good review first.” He lifted
The Critical Review
high. “ ‘Well written. The incidents are probable, highly pleasing, and interesting.’ ”
“That one is more palatable, thank you.” Feeling self-conscious, Mariah changed the subject. “I was very pleased to hear you will publish
Daughters of Brighton
as well.”
He nodded. “Yes. And since we’ve found a few errors in the printing of
A Winter in Bath
, I will want you to correct proofs for the next book. But we shall cross that bridge later. I am here today because I have another proposal for you.”
“Oh?”
“I have come to understand, from your brother’s unspoken more than spoken hints, that additional income would not be unwelcome.”
Her cheeks heated anew.
“Now, now, no need to be embarrassed before the likes of me. Am I not in business for profit?”
She braved a smile.
“That is better. Now. I represent a playwright who is stymied to devise his next script and who would pay handsomely for another writer to create a first draft in his stead. Your name would appear nowhere on the work, and you would receive no credit should it succeed, and only his censure should it fail. But either way you would earn a substantial sum for your efforts.”
Mariah’s head spun. “Is it not unethical? I mean, to pass off one person’s work as another’s?”
“Only if plagiarism is involved – if one steals the work of another without his or her consent. I would need you to sign a contract agreeing to the terms.”
“It still seems deceptive.”
“Happens all the time, Miss Aubrey, with novels, plays, operas. One of our authors supported herself by writing poems and love letters for gentlemen before she was published. Whether ethical or not I cannot judge, but it is certainly legal and smart business to marry a well-known author’s name with a skilled author’s work.”
She was too stunned to be flattered. “I have never written a real play before.”
“Your brother mentioned you are quite adept at theatricals.”
“Well, yes, but those were only for our family, or for the local children.”
“Very much the same. Here. I have brought the playwright’s outline and the few pages he was able to produce ‘before the muse deserted him,’ as he says. Read them over and see if you think you might be game for the challenge.”
She glanced at the scrawled words. “I don’t know. . . .”
“I realize you are likely writing a third novel, and there will be proofs to correct for the second, but I am hoping you can fit this in.” He withdrew a calling card and handed it to her. A figure was penned on the back. “This is what he is prepared to pay you.”
It was more than she would have expected. Not quite the amount her novel had brought her but nothing to dismiss lightly either. Her rent would be paid for the next quarter. She and Dixon would have enough fuel and food for the winter. Better yet, she could hire Lizzy.
Mariah smiled at Mr. Crosby. “I find I am ‘game’ after all.”
She went to see Mrs. Pitt that very afternoon, for the first time since the ill-fated theatrical. The woman greeted Mariah with her prim, close-lipped smile and a vague wave toward the guest chair before returning her attention to a ledger on the desk, her bony forefinger resuming its glide down a neat column of figures.
Sitting across from her, Mariah licked her lips and announced, “I should like to employ Miss Lizzy Barnes.”
Mrs. Pitt stilled, her hand midair above the ledger. “Lizzy? But she already has a position here, working for me. Surely one of the other girls would suit just as well.”
“Perhaps. But I specifically wish to engage Miss Barnes.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What has she told you? Has she said she doesn’t like working for me?”
“No, Mrs. Pitt. Nothing like that, I assure you.” Mariah hesitated. “I . . . I think she would like a change of, um, scenery and . . . society. After all, she has lived and worked within these walls for some time.”
“And what is wrong with these walls?” Mrs. Pitt challenged.
“Nothing.”
Fire lit the matron’s muddy eyes. “Has she said something about my son? Has she accused him of anything? Ungrateful chit!”
“Accused him, no. She has not said a word against him. I did hear from . . . someone. . . . that he pays her unwanted attention, but – ”
“Those Merryweathers told you. Is that it? Told you my John is sniffing after the likes of Lizzy Barnes. Vile imaginations! Well, let me tell you something, Miss Aubrey. You cannot trust everything the Miss Merryweathers tell you.” The woman leaned forward across her desk. “Don’t let them fool you. Proper matrons, ha. One of them was sold into prostitution by her own father as a young woman – and that’s a fact. It’s no wonder they imagine lust in the eye of every male they see.”
Stunned, Mariah felt bile rise in her throat. “Which one?” she asked weakly, guessing she already knew the answer.
“I’ll say no more. I only confide it to prove that you cannot credit everything that pair tells you. You’ve heard how the pox affects the mind, I trust?”
Mariah stared at the woman, shocked speechless that she would say such a thing about anyone.
Mrs. Pitt leaned back and pursed her lips. “I will speak to Lizzy and leave the decision to her.”
Mariah was taken aback by the matron’s glower and what could only be described as hatred glittering in the woman’s eyes. Hatred aimed at Lizzy and the Miss Merryweathers . . . or her?
She left Honora House feeling unsettled and concerned. She wondered what sort of manipulation Mrs. Pitt would use to keep the girl from accepting.
Crossing the road to the gatehouse, Mariah paused, marveling at the exuberant scene before her. Children from the poorhouse were spread across the lawn – George, Sam, and even Maggie, along with several other children whose names Mariah could not recall. And there was Lieutenant Hart, standing with bat ready, while Captain Bryant bowled the ball at him.
Thwack
. Hart hit the ball and the children scrambled after it. Hart converted the bat to a makeshift walking stick and ran-hopped toward the opposite wicket, while George, the other batsman, ran to swap places with him, becoming the next to bat.
“Join us, Miss Aubrey?” Captain Bryant said. “We could use a wicket keeper.”
“Very well.”
His dark eyebrows rose. He had clearly expected her to demur.
She walked across the lawn and stood not far behind the striker’s wicket, awaiting his next delivery. George gave it a whack, but Captain Bryant caught it after a single bounce. He threw it hard and hit the makeshift wicket before George and Hart could again swap places, and Hart was declared out.
They had insufficient players for a proper game, but the children enjoyed running about on the fine July day. They eventually switched sides, even though not everyone had been called out on the first.
Mr. Hart took over as wicket keeper as Mariah stepped up to bat. George and Sam both begged for turns as bowler, but after several consecutive wild deliveries, Captain Bryant again took to the pitch.
He rubbed the ball on his trouser leg, gave her an impish grin, and spit on the ball.
She wrinkled her face at him.
Holding the bat low, she tapped the ground in preparation. Only belatedly did she realize she was unconsciously swaying her hips as she did so. From his appreciative glance, Mariah knew Captain Bryant had not failed to notice.
He took his running start and bowled the ball. It bounced once in line with the stumps. Perfect.
Thwack!
She hit it dead on.
Captain Bryant’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe it. My best delivery.”
The ball flew past Sam, past George, and past Maggie – who was picking dandelions, in any case – all the way to the road, their boundary “fence.”
An instant four runs. She didn’t even have to move.
Mariah raised her bat high in triumph, then smiled at Captain Bryant. “Did I not tell you I grew up with two brothers?”
