The Girl in the Gatehouse (47 page)

“Nonsense, Mariah. Eventually someone else would have seen him had you not. You were only trying to help.”

“No, I was trying to satisfy my horrid curiosity. Solve a mystery. I am so selfish!”

“Mariah. Hush. You are not to blame. We are all in this together now, and I shall do whatever I can to help.”

“Will you?”

“Of course,” he soothed, though he had no idea what he could do. He smoothed strands of hair from her face, damp with tears, and gently pushed them behind her ears. He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. And when she did not protest, another on her right temple, then her left, very near the little beauty mark beside her eyebrow.

She leaned into him, placing her hands against his chest, and he was lost. He wrapped one arm around her once more, and with the other hand stroked her face. He lowered his mouth and kissed her upturned nose as he had long been tempted to do, then her damp cheek, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin.

Cradling her chin, he angled her face and lowered his mouth until his lips were very near hers. Dare he? Everything within him longed to kiss her deeply and passionately. But would it be right with her so upset? He knew he ought not take advantage of her emotional state, her need for comfort.

He pulled his hand away in a clenched fist, needing every ounce of self-control to keep from pressing his mouth to hers. Drawing a ragged breath, he forced himself to take a step back. He grasped her hand and led her to her customary seat at the kitchen table. Matthew sat on the other side, not trusting himself to sit beside her just yet. He did not release her hand, however, allowing himself that physical connection across the small table, his fingers holding hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

“Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

Mariah took a deep breath and told him all that happened and all that Mrs. Pitt had said.

At one point, he muttered something unflattering about the matron under his breath, which somehow mollified Mariah, as if it justified her own uncharitable feelings toward the woman.

“In the morning, I shall go and speak with the vicar,” Captain Bryant said. “Who else is on the board of guardians?”

“I imagine Hugh Prin-Hallsey, in his father’s stead, but he is likely only a member in absentia. Then there is the undersheriff.”

“Who is more likely to arrest us than help us, if Mrs. Pitt is so vexed over the old captain’s so-called ‘escape.’ ”

Mariah nodded her agreement.

He would start with the vicar.

But late the next morning, Captain Bryant returned from his call at the vicarage, dejected. “He said the matron has every right to expel inmates who are causing problems for other residents, or the institution at large. He said he could ask for a review of her records or even an appeal of her decision by the board, but the next meeting isn’t for three weeks.”

“That is forever to a child!”

He nodded grimly. “And even then, there is no guarantee the board will rule against their matron over the word of a few meddling neighbors.”

“How bleak it sounds.”

He pressed her hand. “Don’t lose heart. I have not given up. Neither has Martin.”

You say the book is indecent. You say I am immodest.
But Sir in the depiction of love, modesty is the
fullness of truth; and decency frankness; and so I must
also be frank with you, and ask that you remove my name
from the title page in all future printings;
“A lady” will do well enough.

– Jane Austen, letter to publisher about
Pride & Prejudice

chapter 36

When a knock came to the gatehouse door in early September, Mariah opened it to find George Barnes and a stranger – a man with a messenger bag slung across one shoulder and behind him, a lathered horse.

“This is her,” George announced proudly. “He couldn’t find you, but I told him I’d show him where you lived.” George leaned close to her and whispered, “Captain Prince says hello. I told him about Maggie. Devilish vexed he was to hear it too.”

The courier eyed the direction printed on the parcel in his hand. “Miss M. Aubrey?”

“Yes.”

“Delivery for you.”

“One moment, please.” She turned to find her purse, but Dixon appeared at her elbow and handed the young man his due. In turn the courier flipped George a shilling for his trouble.

“Thank you, sir.” George beamed.

Mariah thanked the courier and waved good-bye to George. Her pleasure over receiving what must be her second book was dampened by confusion. “This is strange,” she said, brow puckering. “Last time Mr. Crosby gave the book to my brother, who in turn delivered it to me in person.”

“Well,” Dixon said, “I suppose a second book isn’t quite the event the first one is.”

“True. Still, he has never sent a messenger before.”

Mariah took the parcel to the drawing-room table and cut the strings with her penknife. While Dixon hovered beside her, Mariah peeled back the paper. The book within was bound in blue paper-covered boards. The spine bore a white label, which was lettered with the title only.
Daughters of Brighton
. Perfect. Then Mariah lifted the cover.

And froze.

For a moment, Mariah simply stared, shock pulsing through her veins, sweat trickling down her hairline and dampening her palms. She shut the book.

“What is it?” Dixon asked over Mariah’s shoulder. “They misspell something?”

Mariah blinked, unconsciously hoping to clear her vision, and looked again. It was still there.

There on the title page for the whole world to see.

Daughters of Brighton
by
Miss Mariah Aubrey
Author of A Winter in Bath

Not
by Lady A.
Not
by any other
nom de plume
. But by her, Mariah Aubrey, laid bare.

This had not been on the proofs she’d checked!

Dixon nudged her hand away so she could see. That same hand flew to her mouth to cover a gasp.

Emotions dueled for preeminence within Mariah. Betrayal – how could he when he knew how much she wished to remain anonymous? Sick dread – how would her parents react? And what of Captain Bryant?

Was Mr. Crosby really so convinced it would increase sales that he had gone against her wishes? If so he might very soon regret that decision when those who knew of her fall refused to buy anything she wrote.

What could she do? She could write to Henry. Ask him to confront Mr. Crosby on her behalf and demand a reprint.

She thought of her new manuscript,
The Tale of Lydia Sorrow
. Fear washed over her – fear tinged with a hint of ugly revenge. If she published it, now that people would know who she was, readers might very well guess James Crawford’s identity and know what he had done. But no. Any small revenge she might achieve would be far outweighed by the greater pain it would cause her family. Not only because she had published, but because of
what
she had published.

Yet staring at the title page before her, Mariah realized that even if she never finished another book, it was only a matter of time until repercussions from her publisher, her family, perhaps even from Captain Bryant, made themselves felt.

After conferring with Martin and Dixon, Mariah decided they would travel down to Oxford the following day, in case there was still time to recall the books before they were distributed to booksellers. But before they could go anywhere, Mr. Crosby arrived in a private carriage hired for the occasion. Seeing him from the window, Mariah’s blood began to pound in her ears.

Then Henry descended from the equipage behind him. Had Crosby brought her brother along to protect himself from a scene? Mariah wondered why he had bothered to send the first volume ahead if he planned to come in person. Was it to allow her to vent the worst of her anger in private, and spare himself the first crush of her wrath or the embarrassment of her tears?

Dixon looked heavenward, shaking her head. Martin opened the door and stepped aside. Nerves quaking, Mariah stood in the threshold to await her guests.

Henry rushed forward and grasped her hands. His concerned eyes probed hers. “How are you, Rye?”

“In a panic,” she said. “How should I be?”

Behind them, Mr. Crosby cleared his throat. Henry released her, and she stepped back, gesturing the men inside.

“Miss Aubrey,” Mr. Crosby began, hat in hand. “I know you must be angry, but please grant me a fair hearing.” He glanced at Martin and Dixon. “In private.”

Mariah took a deep breath. “Very well.”

She nodded to her friends and they left the room. Mariah sat down and Henry stood behind her chair. With a glance at Mr. Crosby, she jerked her hand toward the settee.

He sat awkwardly, arranging his coattails while she clasped her hands in her lap.

“I promise you I had no part in it,” Mr. Crosby began. “The printer swears I sent a man with express written orders to add your name to the title page. Even produced an order written on Crosby and Company stationery. Someone must have filched it from my office.”

Mariah doubted him. Guessed he was lying to appease her by laying the blame on some hapless printer’s door, or some nameless, faceless messenger. How could she credit either, when he had long made it clear he would prefer to use her real name?

He studied her warily. “I see in your eyes what you are thinking, Miss Aubrey, but I tell you I did not knowingly do this. Even though I had wished it and must seem suspect, I would never so break the trust of any Crosby and Company author. I promise you – on the grave of my father, Anthony King Crosby Senior – I am telling you the truth.”

His voice shook with such veracity that Mariah had no choice but to believe him sincere. She forced a stiff nod.

Henry stepped forward and, sounding very like the solicitor he was, asked, “May I see the order?”

Mr. Crosby extracted a letter from his pocket and began to unfold and smooth it. “I really cannot blame the printer,” he said. “Nor hold him financially responsible. He’s never had reason to doubt any instructions that have been given him before.”

He handed Henry the paper. Grimly her brother read it, then passed it to Mariah.

“But . . . ” Even before the question
Who would do such a thing?
had fully formed in her mind, Mariah knew the answer.

Hugh Prin-Hallsey.

She glanced at the proffered note on the engraved Crosby and Company stationery:

The authoress, faced with a dying parent, has decided to give
said parent the pleasure of seeing his daughter’s name in print before
he dies. Therefore, please set in type the author’s name, so that the
title page reads:

[title]
by
Miss Mariah Aubrey
Author of A Winter in Bath

Mariah realized stationery was not the only thing Hugh had filched from Mr. Crosby’s office. Apparently he had taken the opportunity to verify his suspicions about Lady A’s identity as well.

Mr. Crosby asked tentatively, “I hope that bit about your parent is not true?”

Henry shook his head, answering for them both. But Mariah wondered what this would do to their father. For by this stroke, Hugh had not only revealed Mariah as the author of this book, but of her first novel as well.

Hugh had done to her what she had done to him. Unmasked the real author and the fraud all in one blow. Mariah felt the irony wash over her.
He should be the one penning books about regret and revenge,
she thought. He had bested her.

“Can you not reprint?” Henry asked.

Mr. Crosby grimaced. “In all truth, I cannot afford to do so. I must sell this inventory or end in bankruptcy.”

“But I thought Crosby and Company very successful,” Mariah said.

“Things are running a bit tight at present, but I hope the situation will soon improve.” He smiled bravely. “Look on the bright side, Miss Aubrey. Have I not said all along that sales would be helped by the use of your name? Frances Burney published her first novel anonymously without the knowledge or permission of her father. But she then switched to her real name, with no detriment to her person. And I think you may rest assured that no catastrophic fate shall befall you either.”

Had he not overheard Hugh’s “woman with
your
reputation” comment after all? Or did he truly not care?

Mariah could only pray he was right.