“Nearby, yes.”
Ann said archly, “I wondered what became of her.”
Bartholomew Browne scratched his dark beard. “What do you mean?”
Ann scoffed. “Oh, come, Mr. Browne.” She turned to Captain Parker. “You must remember, Captain, for it happened in your house.”
“That was her just now?” Parker twisted his neck so far around, Matthew heard it pop. “How surprising she should be here.”
Isabella murmured, “Surprising and upsetting.”
“Why should it be?” Matthew asked.
Ann Hutchins looked at him as though he were a simpleton. “Why? Because she – ”
Isabella shot Ann a warning look. An awkward silence fell over the group, and the conversation died. Perhaps they had just remembered the presence of the other person involved in the scandal, if scandal it was.
“We found it!” Helen Mabry ran out of the hothouse, waving a small square of paper. Her sister and Mr. Crawford followed behind.
“Come, Ann, let us go back,” Isabella said. “I want to freshen up before dinner.”
“Of course,” Ann replied, eyes lowered in chastisement for her unnamed social gaffe.
“Captain Parker, you will escort us?” Isabella asked, her tone transforming the question into a command.
Parker dragged his gaze away from the lane. “Oh. Of course, if you like.”
Matthew was both sorry and relieved to see him go. On one hand, he wanted to ask Parker what had happened at his house. But on the other hand, he was not really sure he wanted to know.
Parker and the two ladies retreated while the others hurried away in search of the next clue.
After the treasure hunt, the group dispersed, some to the house, some to the stable, some to the gardens. Matthew decided to call on Miss Aubrey and ask if any of his guests distressed her. To offer to keep them away from the gatehouse if she liked. But as he neared the wooded lane leading to the gatehouse, he heard voices and paused. Through the trees, Matthew was taken aback to see Miss Aubrey standing near Bartholomew Browne. The man’s hair was too long, Matthew thought, especially as he did not tie it back. But he supposed poets need not concern themselves with fashion.
The two were speaking earnestly together, as though well acquainted. Miss Aubrey did not appear at ease, however. In fact she appeared agitated. And why would that be?
Bartholomew Browne was a married man, or had been, until his wife died some six months or so before. Matthew was still surprised the poet had accepted the invitation. Was six months long enough to grieve the loss of a spouse? Perhaps if one had married for reasons other than love. Or perhaps one grew lonely after a half year of mourning and longed for society. Matthew decided he should not judge the man too harshly.
“Mr. Browne, please,” Miss Aubrey said. “Do not tell anyone. It was a long time ago.”
“And you have put all that behind you, now you are older and wiser – is that it?” His tone was mildly teasing and lilted with a Highland brogue.
“I don’t know about that.”
“What does that say for me? For I have not given it up, irresponsible though it may be.”
Matthew turned and walked out of hearing range, chagrined and in a state of denial. Surely it did not mean what it sounded like. Surely not. Not Miss Aubrey and Mr. Browne – whose wife had still been alive and well last summer.
Standing there in the gatehouse lane, Mariah felt her frustration rising. Would that she had never met this Scottish poet! Why had she ever confided in him? She had imagined some bond of empathetic trust between them as likeminded individuals. Clearly she had been mistaken.
“I wish you would not press me so,” she said. “If I were the woman, would I want it known? Clearly whoever she is, she has gone to some effort to conceal her identity.”
“I knew it.” His dark eyes glinted. “It
is
you.”
“Mr. Browne . . . !”
“Mum’s the word, my dear. Mum’s the word. But well I remember our first meeting. And your confession of your secret desires . . .” He waggled his brows suggestively. He certainly did not comport himself like a man in mourning.
“You make it sound so scandalous. I was still quite young and – ”
“And the young must be forgiven their foolishness, I know.”
Staring at facetious Mr. Browne, Mariah recalled the night she had been cursorily introduced to him, along with several other young ladies, at a ball a few years before. His wife, the ladies whispered, was home in her confinement. Mariah later saw him standing alone, looking bored. So she plucked up her courage to speak to him, expressing admiration for his new volume of poetry, and defending it against critical reviews. Flattered, he engaged her in a long conversation during which they discovered a shared love of several authors, poems, and novels. Her interest was so keen that he asked if she harbored her own secret desire to write. In confidence, she admitted that she had written a few plays and a story set in Bath – intended only for her brother and sister’s amusement. How she wished now that she had kept her mouth shut.
“Mr. Browne,” she tried again. “I beg you would not speak of this. Of me at all, with the other guests, or your host. I am acquainted with others in the party, and I should not like them knowing I am here.”
“And why not?”
“I am not an invited guest, Mr. Browne. Do you wish to embarrass me, and your host?”
“I don’t care if I do embarrass that lot. But no, I should not like to embarrass you.”
“Thank you.”
“You are more than welcome.” He winked.
“Lady A.”
Matthew returned to the house, wanting to put the whole episode from his mind, but Parker met him on the portico, glass in hand. “I was astonished to learn Miss Aubrey is here.”
“So I gathered,” Matthew drawled.
“Remember when I said you might yet have a chance with Isabella, because her intended was rumored to be an immoral rake?
Miss Aubrey
is the woman he was supposedly involved with.”
Matthew’s stomach soured. His jumbled thoughts rattled into different slots in his mind. Not Browne. Crawford. “If that is true, why did you not tell me long before now?”
“Why should I, when I had no idea you had ever heard of Miss Aubrey, let alone shared an estate with her?”
Matthew huffed but did not protest further. He knew he had no reason to take the news personally. But that did not stop the bile of disappointment from rising up his throat.
“It happened at our house party last summer,” Parker continued. “I flirted with Miss Aubrey myself when she first arrived, but unbelievable as it seems, she somehow resisted my many charms.” He smirked. “I did not witness the events myself. I was in my cups that night and slept like the dead till noon. But from what I heard, she was found in bed with Crawford. And him an engaged man . . . or rather, nearly engaged at the time. In any case, not with me – and more’s the pity. Found by Miss Forsythe herself. I gather Isabella raised quite a row that night, though since has tried to hush the thing up.”
Matthew grew increasingly nauseated as the man prattled on.
“Spoilt the party, I am afraid.” Parker crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “These things go on, of course, but when the future wife walks in, well, that’s sure to ruin the fun for everybody else. No wife for me, thank you. No matter what form of coercion
Mamma
tries next.”
Parker slowly nodded his head. “Miss Aubrey, ey? Now the party is looking more interesting.” He elbowed Matthew. “You old devil. Where do you keep her?”
A novel, like poetry, should have for its hero
a person superior to the common herd of men.
– Lady Shelley, 1819
I nstead of writing back in a week’s time, as promised, Mr. Crosby appeared at the gatehouse in person, unannounced. Maggie and Dixon were off picking gooseberries together, so Mariah answered the door herself. Seeing him, Mariah conjured up a smile and invited him in.
“I thought this might be better,” he said. “I did not wish you to waste several days in anxious worry that you could otherwise use in writing.”
How thoughtful,
Mariah thought sourly, dreading his next words.
“Here is what I have arranged. Thomas Piper will meet us in the Mill Inn at three o’clock today. I shall go along as chaperone, and for the sheer pleasure of seeing two authors I admire become acquainted.”
Mariah’s heart pounded erratically.
Today?
“Have
you
met Mr. Piper?”
Mr. Crosby screwed his lips to one side. “Not in person, no. My father met him, and I have exchanged several letters with him, but I look forward to making his acquaintance. My father thought him a colorful and interesting personage – that I do recall. There is nothing to fear, I assure you.”
Mr. Crosby had not met him either? Having seen the two men on the road together, she had begun to feel quite certain the secret author must be Hugh Prin-Hallsey, who claimed to be the indomitable “Mrs. Wimble.” After all, he was the only author she knew, save the poet Bartholomew Browne. Did Mr. Crosby not know the identity of the man behind Mrs. Wimble
or
Mr. Piper?
She asked, “You have met Mrs. Wimble, I trust? When you were making the rounds to meet all of your new authors this spring?”
He frowned. “Actually, I was unable to arrange to meet that author. It is still an outstanding item on my agenda.”
“I see. . . .” Mariah murmured.
That meant Hugh
could
still be Thomas Piper as well as Mrs. Wimble. What would Hugh do if he learned she was Lady A? She did not think he would evict her, as he admitted to being a writer himself. Or, what if the author were someone else acquainted with her family? Mariah wondered which would be worse, her father finding out she was further damaging her reputation by scandalous novel writing, or Mr. Crosby learning the sordid reputation of the woman he was publishing under the guise of a lady.
Mariah rose, rubbing her fingers, and paced across the room. “I think I may know who Thomas Piper is. Is it Hugh Prin-Hallsey?”
“Prin-Hallsey?” Mr. Crosby frowned in concentration.
“I saw you speaking to him on the road when you called here last month. A man on horseback – tall, dark hair?”
“Yes, I remember him now. But I don’t think he could be Thomas Piper. I am under the impression from what my father said, and from the fact that he did the majority of his writing more than a dozen years ago, that Thomas Piper is an older man.”
“But you do not know that for certain?”
“I suppose it is possible that Mr. . . . ”
“Prin-Hallsey.”
“That he wrote
The Golden Prince Adventures
as a young man, but it would surprise me exceedingly to find them the work of an inexperienced youth. Has he ever been at sea?”
But Mariah did not answer immediately. His mention of the title had caught her attention and was busy echoing through her mind, bringing her up short.
The Golden Prince Adventures
.
The Golden Prince
.
Prince
. . .
Mr. Crosby asked, “Have you read his books, Miss Aubrey?”
She shook her head.
“They are tales of the sea,” he explained. “Swashbucklers, pirates, castaways – you know.”
“Oh . . .” she breathed. Could it be? Had Captain Prince written stories based on his own life upon returning to England?
Was that why Thomas Piper had not written anything in so long? Had he not the freedom to do so any longer? Mariah wondered if he would even be allowed to correspond with Mr. Crosby from Honora House or to contribute to periodicals. It seemed so unlikely. She doubted he even had the funds to post and receive letters. And if it was him, did he plan to escape his room this very day to meet Lady A in the village? He had certainly managed to free himself before. If so, she would not want to disappoint him.
But it seemed too fantastic. More likely it was Hugh, or even Bartholomew Browne, poet-turned-novelist. Both were at Windrush Court, after all, and could easily slip away for the meeting.
Finally, Mr. Crosby rose and said, “I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about, Miss Aubrey, but I will not pressure you further. I will walk into the village now and leave you to think. I for one look forward to meeting the man. He hasn’t written anything in far too long. Perhaps I can reinspire him.” He grinned, then extracted and consulted his pocket watch. “If you are not at the inn by half past three, I will make your apologies to Mr. Piper and take the coach back to Oxford.” He patted his pocket. “Oh, and before I forget, here is the remainder of your payment from Simon Wells. He is very pleased with your script and says rehearsals will soon begin.”
Distracted, Mariah blindly accepted the money. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby.”
Mariah went upstairs to stew in private but could not sit still. Instead she paced the sitting room, her soul not at peace. Was it worth the risk? Could revealing herself to someone like Hugh Prin-Hallsey or even Bartholomew Browne, who already believed she was Lady A, really help her? And what if it was Captain Prince? Kindhearted though he might be, would it be wise to trust her secret to such an unpredictable man?
Martin knocked on the sitting-room door, hat in hand. “I heard you pacing from belowstairs. Are you all right, miss?”