Concerned, Mariah asked, “Dixon, what is it?”
Tears again shimmered in Dixon’s blue eyes. “Who would have guessed? To have my first kiss like that . . .”
Mariah pressed her friend’s hand. “Plenty of girls have their first kiss on Kissing Friday. I know I did.”
Dixon expelled a dry puff of air. “My first kiss, and no doubt my last.”
Mariah grinned. “Not if Mr. Phelps has anything to say about it.”
Dixon squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head. “Old fool.”
But whether referring to Mr. Phelps or herself, Mariah wasn’t certain.
She stepped outside to thank Jack Strong for coming to repair the rope swing and to ask after his wife, who was housekeeper up at the great house. Then, taking a piece of cheese with her, Mariah went upstairs to continue revising
Daughters of Brighton
, a story of two cousins – one vivacious, the other timid and chaste – both in love with the same man. She paused once more at the window, nibbling her cheddar. George and Sam had given up or moved on, for the road was empty. Mariah thought dully that perhaps she ought to have obliged the boys with a kiss. It might have been her last as well.
My dear aunt, my reputation is perfectly safe;
though I cannot but be wonderfully indebted to you,
for the prodigious fuss you make about it.
–
The Village Coquette
, 1822 (anonymous)
When a knock shook the gatehouse the next morning, Mariah laid aside her quill, rose from the little writing table in the sitting room, and hurried downstairs, expecting to find Jack Strong or Mr. Phelps.
But neither man stood on her back doorstep. Instead it was Jeremiah Martin, her aunt’s manservant.
Mariah shivered. Perhaps it was his icy blue eyes. The strange high shoulder. The hook. Or the sudden fear at what his unexpected call might bode. He had not come to the gatehouse since the day Mariah and Dixon arrived last autumn.
“Hello. Mr. Martin, is it?”
“Just Martin, if you please.” He gave the barest bow, black suit straining. “The mistress bids you come to the great house.”
Dread filled her. “Is Mrs. Prin-Hallsey unwell?”
“That is it exactly, miss. At the strike of eleven and not before.” He turned and walked away, his gait awkward as he swung the one hand but held the hook tightly to his side.
Dixon appeared at her elbow. “I am surprised a woman like your aunt can abide having that man about the place.”
“It is surprising,” Mariah agreed. She shook her head, lips pursed. “What can she want?”
At the appointed hour, Mariah walked over to the great house, dressed in one of her finer frocks of Clarence blue. She climbed the stairs and crossed the covered portico to the imposing front door. She had knocked only once when the door swung open. Martin, brushing past the footman, gestured her inside. “Two minutes late.”
Mariah bristled. “The walk took longer than I expected.”
With a dismissive wave, he led the way through an echoing entry hall adorned with a massive stone fireplace. Glancing up, Mariah saw a magnificent ceiling with carved and painted medallions of fruit, flowers, angels, and birds.
They reached the grand staircase. At the landing were displayed two large formal portraits lit by a glittering chandelier above. The first was of a man in middling years, with thick gray hair and long side-whiskers, his green eyes downturned and nearly sad. Beside it was a portrait of an arrogantly handsome young man, with black hair and dark eyes, and a jewel in his cravat. “Who are they, Martin?”
“The older gentleman is the mistress’s late husband, Mr. Frederick Prin-Hallsey. And the younger man is his son, Master Hugh.”
Mariah nodded and followed Martin up the remaining stairs and down an echoing corridor. At its end, he opened a paneled door and gestured her inside, closing the door behind her.
While the rooms Mariah had passed had struck her as being stark, this room was crowded with furnishings – paintings, clocks, candelabra, and statuary. At the center of it all, Francesca Prin-Hallsey sat upright in a neatly made canopied bed. She was fully dressed in black crepe and lace and her curled wig. A lap rug over her legs was the only concession to her invalid status.
“Mariah. Thank you for coming. Does black suit me? I think not, but Dr. Gaston assures me I shall go any day, so I wish to be prepared. You see Miss Jones here in black as well.” She lifted a lace-wreathed hand toward a plain but kind-looking woman sitting on the far side of the bed. “She does not like it, but I say why wait for all the fuss and ceremony until after I am dead and buried and cannot enjoy it?”
Miss Jones shook her head, sharing a wry smile with Mariah. She wore an unadorned bombazine day dress and was sewing what appeared to be black funeral arm bands. Mariah hoped they would not be needed for a long while.
Mariah sat in a hard-backed chair near the bed. “You look well to me, Aunt.”
“Do I? Dr.
Ghastly
will not like to hear it. Hugh either, I daresay.”
Mariah did not know how to respond.
Mrs. Prin-Hallsey straightened her lace cuffs. “How is life in the gatehouse?”
“Fine. Quiet.”
“You still have my chest?”
“Of course.”
“Have you looked inside?”
Mariah hesitated. “I . . . no . . .”
Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. “Aha. You tried, but found it locked, did you not?” She pulled at the chain around her neck, and from her bodice emerged an ornate old key.
“And nor shall you, until I am dead and buried.” She tucked the key back into its hiding place. “After that, you may sift through my things all you like. You never know. You may find something valuable, or at least interesting.”
Before Mariah could thank her, her aunt continued, “Whatever you do, do not tell Hugh. Some of my things have gone missing already, and I suspect he is selling whatever he can to pay down his gambling debts. Wicked boy.”
Her aunt cocked her head to one side, and for a moment, Mariah feared the heavy wig would topple.
“I remember you as a child, my dear.” She regarded Mariah levelly. “You and I have more in common than you might guess.”
“How so?”
Mrs. Prin-Hallsey smiled cryptically and then leaned forward. “If Hugh throws you out after I die, take the chest with you. Promise me that.”
Would he?
Mariah swallowed. “I promise.”
“Good. That is settled.” Francesca Prin-Hallsey leaned back against her cushions and closed her eyes. Mariah realized she had been dismissed.
On her way down the portico stairs, Mariah saw a man striding toward the house from the stable. She recognized him from the portrait hanging inside. Hugh Prin-Hallsey, only son and heir of Frederick Prin-Hallsey, by his first wife. Both now deceased. Though still handsome – tall, with straight black hair, thick dark brows and side-whiskers – Hugh appeared a decade older than the portrait and was somewhere in his mid to late thirties. He wore a well-made riding coat and walked with an easy, long-legged stride and elegant bearing. As he neared, she noticed a few lines between his brows and alongside a smirking mouth.
His dark eyes lit with interest. “Hello there. How do you do? Hugh Prin-Hallsey.” He bowed. “And you are?”
She hesitated, fearing his reaction when he learned who she was. “I am Miss Aubrey. And I know who you are.”
“Do you indeed? Have we met? I should think I would remember such a lovely creature.”
“We have not met. But I have seen your portrait in the house.”
“Have you? And what do you think?” He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. “Does it do me justice?”
She grinned at his comical swagger. “Whatever the artist was paid, the sum was too little.”
He quirked one heavy black brow. “I think the lady replies in riddles.”
She changed the subject. “I have just been to see Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, who is not in the best of health, as you know.”
She noticed him wince, and wondered if the news distressed him as much as it appeared to.
He quickly righted this misapprehension. “How I dislike hearing that name used for anyone but my dear mamma – God rest her soul.” He sighed.
“I am sorry.” For his mother’s death or for using her appellation, Mariah did not clarify.
His wince deepened into a grimace. “Do not tell me you are the supposed
niece
.”
She smiled apologetically. “I am afraid so. I live in the gatehouse.”
“So I have recently learned. Pity.”
She wanted to ask which aspect of these circumstances inspired the word, but refrained.
He folded his arms behind his back. “You say your aunt is not in good health?”
“No. The physician told her it will not be long.”
“Excellent. First good news I have had all month.”
Mariah gaped. “Mr. Prin-Hallsey, that is unkind in you.”
“No doubt. But I’ll not feign a regret I do not feel. How she would scoff if I did. She is well aware of my opinion of her, and I daresay her opinion of me is little better.”
Mariah could not contradict him. “Still, she looked well to me.”
“That’s too bad. Say – ” He gave her a sharp look. “How much are you paying for the gatehouse?”
She stared at him, stunned at the bold question. The truth was she paid nothing. “I . . . That is, your . . . my aunt was very generous in allowing me – ”
“Never mind – I shall speak with my steward on the matter. And now I must bid you good day, Miss . . . ?”
“Aubrey.”
He frowned. “Aubrey . . . I have heard that name before. But you say we have not met?”
She shook her head.
“Well. It will come to me. Now, please excuse me. I must go in and make certain the old bat is not hoarding any more of my mother’s things. Good day.”
“Good day,” she murmured, but he had already mounted the stairs.
Mariah watched him disappear into the house, not knowing which she feared more. What he might do when he learned of her free rent, or what he might remember about her.
I wish I were a scholar
And could handle the pen
I would write to my lover
And to all roving men
– “The Cuckoo,” traditional English folk song
Mariah set her quill in its holder and rose.
Ting
.
There was the sound again, at her window pane. She stepped to the window and peered down through the wavy glass. There below her, as she had anticipated, was the round, expectant face of George Barnes. While the other poorhouse children Mariah had seen were thin, George managed to remain stout. He had fair cheeks that blushed easily, small pale blue eyes, and light brown hair. He wore a snug tweed jacket and riding breeches, stained and worn thin at the knees.
She pried up the lever and pushed open the window. She could already hear Dixon at the front door below.
“You there. Cease and desist this instant. Do you mean to break the windows? Have you any idea the price of glass these days, young man?”
“Sorry, mum. I only meant to get ’er attention.”
“Then why not knock at the door like a decent person?”
Mariah knew the answer to this but noticed with approval that the eleven-year-old was clever enough not to reply. He was no doubt afraid Miss Dixon would box his ears.
“Here I am, Mr. Barnes,” Mariah called down. “Ball thrown over the gate again, was it?”
“That’s it, miss. Sorry, miss.”
“No trouble. I shall be down directly.”
She met Dixon at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Her former nanny scowled. “You’ve spoilt him, Miss Mariah. He’ll run you ragged if you let him.”
“I don’t mind. I have been sitting too long as it is.” Mariah eyed Dixon’s bonnet and shawl. “Where are you off to?”
A flicker of apology creased her friend’s narrow face. “Mrs. Watford’s. You know, for tea and whist.”
“Of course. Have a nice time.”
Since her recovery, Dixon had returned to visiting her new friends on the estate and in the village, while Mariah limited her own society to Dixon, her cat, Chaucer, and a few poorhouse children.
Dixon tilted her head. “Will you come, Miss Mariah? You would be most welcome.” Her prominent, hooded blue eyes were gentle. And radiated pity.
“Thank you, no, Dixon. Do you need me to finish the jam?”
“If you would not mind. The pots are cooling now. And I have left a nice fish stew for your dinner.”
Mariah forced a smile. “Thank you.”
Dixon pulled on gloves and hooked a covered basket over her arm. Mariah wondered what offering Dixon was bearing to poor Mrs. Watford. Hopefully not fish stew.
After Dixon left, Mariah walked to the kitchen door. Outside, she crossed the damp grass and looked this way and that for the ball.
George Barnes stood on the other side of the gate, looking for all the world like a young convict behind bars, though she was the one inside.