He broke off. For there she was. Over Isabella’s shoulder, he glimpsed Miss Aubrey. Face stricken. Mouth slack. Eyes . . . betrayed. Instantly, his gut filled with bile. Dash it. He had not seen her behind the laundry line stretched from stable to woodshed, and now she had disappeared once more.
“We should return,” he said abruptly. “The others will wonder what became of us. Crawford especially.”
“Oh, let him wonder.”
Had he not been wracked with guilt, he would have taken Isabella up on that enticing suggestion, would even have stopped to consider what she might be offering. But instead, he was consumed with regret and the need to take his leave from Isabella so he might return, explain, and apologize to Miss Aubrey.
Half an hour later, he found her on the old swing, as he had hoped he might. She swung idly, propelled by the toe of one slipper. She looked so young, so innocent. He could not really believe she had been involved with Crawford. In the twilight, he could see that she had been crying and felt like the cruelest stinging insect God ever created.
“Miss Aubrey, I am sorry you heard that.”
“I am not. Now I know what you really think of me.”
“No, you don’t. I spoke rashly. You know how I feel about her. I did not want her to think that you and I . . . That any impediment stood between us. At least on my side.”
She regarded him with those wounded amber eyes, and his heart constricted to see the pain he had caused.
“No, Captain. I heard what you said. The words you spoke. Though not so long ago you said to me, ‘I hope we shall be friends.’ Words are important to me. I listen to each one, weigh and measure it. If I cannot trust your words, how can I trust you?”
Right or wrong, Matthew realized he was fond of this woman and prized her friendship. “You can trust me, Mariah.” He gave her a lopsided grin and attempted to tease her into a lighter mood. “Will you forgive me for sacrificing our friendship on the altar of love?”
She stared at him, face puckered, and shook her head. “That is the problem, exactly.”
His grin faded. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But thank you for coming to apologize anyway.”
After Captain Bryant had bid her good-night, Mariah stayed on the swing, staring after him. She had been stilled by his odd words. He had said them lightly, jokingly, but they struck her as the crux of the problem between them. Matthew Bryant would sacrifice anything to win in love.
The word altar seemed chillingly apropos.
The voice of the woman with him had seemed familiar, but with her back turned and that deep coal-scuttle bonnet, Mariah had gotten only a glimpse of her profile. What was it about her that Captain Bryant found so irresistible?
Rising and threading her way through the shadowy garden, Mariah realized she needed to put thoughts of Captain Bryant from her mind. It would not be easy. But she believed a visit with Lydia Sorrow might help.
Lydia’s heart pounded painfully as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her gently down beside him.
“You know I would marry you tomorrow, if I could,” he said. “Tell me you know that.”
Lydia nodded.
He leaned forward, kissing her temple, her cheek, her ear.
She shivered.
“How I have dreamed of this. You and I. Man and wife. Free to live and love.”
His hand cupped her shoulder, then slowly slid down her arm, grazing the side of her body, the swell of her, as he did so.
Had she locked the door which separated her room from Miss Duckworth’s? What if the woman entered at this moment? She would be shocked. Would sound the alarm and awaken the whole house. Or would she? No . . . to save her position, her reputation as trustworthy chaperone of young ladies, she would quietly propel the trespasser from the room, all the while extracting promises of utter secrecy, and demanding immediate announcement of a betrothal.
He kissed her neck and collarbone. Again, she shivered.
“You are cold. Here.” He straightened and pulled off his coat, settling it around her shoulders. Then he proceeded to warm her with kisses and caresses until her body felt molten and her brain languorous. . . .
In the morning, Dixon set a basket of produce on the worktable and began untying her bonnet strings. “Mariah, if Mr. Phelps should happen to call, please tell him I am otherwise occupied.”
Mariah looked at her friend. “What don’t you like about Mr. Phelps?”
Arms crossed over her bosom, Dixon rubbed her hands up and down her forearms. “He looks at me as though he’d like me for pudding.”
Mariah grinned. “He likes you, Dixon. Nothing wrong with having an admirer.” She added to herself, as long as he isn’t bound to another.
Dixon frowned and began unloading her basket. “He prattles on endlessly about stamens and pollen, seeds and germination. And he always has dirt beneath his fingernails.”
“He is a gardener, Dixon.”
“Mr. Montgomery hasn’t such flaws.”
“Mr. Montgomery is a fictional character.”
“What about Captain Bryant? Surely he does not prattle on or have unsightly appendages.”
Appendages? Mariah thought. Were they speaking of Mr. Phelps or Martin?
Dixon added, “And he is very handsome.”
“True,” Mariah acknowledged. “But there is something not quite right there.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is so . . . driven. To a fault.”
Dixon inspected a cabbage from her basket. “It is good for men to have a sense of purpose. Better than some spineless male without a will.”
“True. But it seems he would do anything to get what he wants, regardless of the cost to himself or others.”
“To win a certain lady, you mean.”
Mariah nodded.
Sighing, Dixon said, “I shouldn’t mind being the object of such determined pursuit.”
Mariah glanced out the window. “I think you may be, for here comes Mr. Phelps now.”
In one hand the gardener carried a flowerpot; with the other he removed his hat as he neared. His bristly grey hair, Mariah noticed, was slicked down.
Dixon retreated to the larder, gesturing wildly to send the man away.
Mariah shook her head, whispering, “He’s already seen you through the window.”
Dixon groaned, narrowed her eyes at Mariah, and dragged herself to the door. When she opened it, Mariah saw that Mr. Phelps wore a tweed coat over a clean white shirt and dark trousers. Only his shoes were not as well polished as they might be. She could not see his fingernails.
Mr. Phelps handed Dixon a potted tea rose. “Miss Dixon. I wonder. Would you be so kind as to accompany me for a stroll about the gardens? The new dahlias are in bloom, as are my bachelor’s buttons, and I should very much like to show you.”
His bachelor’s buttons? Mariah wondered at the significance of his mentioning that particular plant.
When Dixon hesitated, Mariah parroted the words Dixon had used to prod her into going riding with Captain Bryant. “She would be most delighted to accompany you, Mr. Phelps. Just let me fetch her shawl.”
Shame on his coward soul! He knelt to her, wooed her,
vowed eternal love, honor and truth; won her,
– and then cast her, like a loathsome weed away!
– The Village Coquette, 1822 (anonymous)
chapter 30
Mariah walked across the gatehouse lawn and bent to retrieve a crumple of biscuit-stained brown paper one of the children had discarded. She was wearing her ivory day dress again, this time with a modest lace fichu tucked into the neckline.
A man on horseback came trotting down the road. She ducked her head, but it was too late. He had seen her.
“Mariah? Excuse me – Miss Aubrey. I . . .”
That voice. His voice. She would know it anywhere. Instantly, her pulse quickened.
She looked up, but as soon as her eyes met his, she self
-consciously ducked her head once more. Squeezing the wad of paper into a tiny ball, she forced her chin up and feigned nonchalance. “Hello, Mr. Crawford. What brings you here?” She wished the words back as soon as she uttered them.
“I am visiting Windrush Court. A Captain Bryant invited us.”
Us. The word was an arrow.
He looked over his shoulder. “In fact, he and I were out riding together, but he stopped to greet a neighbor. He should be along directly.” James Crawford looked around, and seeing no one, added, “I must say . . . I did not expect to find you here.”
Did he think her a latecomer to the party? She had been certain Mr. Browne or someone else would have alerted him and his wife to her presence. Or had they not, wishing to shield the couple from that uncomfortable knowledge? “I am not one of the guests, Mr. Crawford. You need not fear.”
He expelled a rush of breath. “Oh. Right. Of course not. That would be devilish awkward. Are you – ”
She cut him off. “I fare well, Mr. Crawford. Thank you for asking.” If he was about to ask a more personal question, she did not want to hear it. “And you? Are you well?”
“Um . . . yes. Quite well, thank you.”
“Excellent. I hope you and your wife have a lovely time here.” Mariah turned toward the gatehouse.
“Wife? Ah. Yes. We are engaged, but not yet married.”
She spun back around, mouth ajar. “But . . . you said she was your betrothed. And that was . . . nearly a year ago now.”
It was Crawford’s turn to duck his head. “I know. We were about to be engaged at the time, but after the, uh, row, at the Parkers’, she called things off. But she has forgiven me, I am happy to say, and we are officially engaged – announcement puffed off in the Gazette, banns read, all that.”
Mariah stared at him. He had been free. He could have come to her. Married her. Rescued her. But he had not. Her father might have worked on him, had she not assured him the man involved was already attached. But it was all too late. Now that there had been a formal announcement, a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw from an engagement.
“You lied to me.”
He winced. “Not exactly. She is my betrothed and soon to be my wife. My father is most adamant.”
Mariah’s heart sank anew, but her ire rose. “Have you any idea what you have done to me? The price I have paid? I was stunned that I had not seen your supposed ‘engagement’ in the papers, but then, you had been out of the country for several months.”
“It was my feeble plan. I thought if you believed me already engaged, I could remain resolved. You wouldn’t be able to tempt me, to sway me from my course.”
“I, tempt you?” She stepped nearer his horse. “You came to my room that night.”
The words he had spoken – words she had committed to memory – replayed in her mind, mocking her. “I thought we had time. That I could court you. But my father wants to see me married. Settled. . . . You know I would marry you tomorrow, if I could. . . .”
He nodded, face grim. “I came to your room to tell you I could not marry you.”
“Your chosen method was most ineffectual.” Her words scorched with sarcasm.
He winced again. “I know. Once I was alone with you, I could not help myself.”
Mariah slowly shook her head, over and over again. Why had she ever loved him? He was no gentleman, no man of honor. She had wasted herself. Her heart, her life, on a selfish, lying, manipulative man.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for setting my mind at ease.”
“Oh?” His eyes were wary, clearly anticipating another verbal blow.
“I feared you were about to renew your addresses to me. How relieved I am to find I was mistaken.”
At that moment, Captain Bryant galloped up the road, and James Crawford, suddenly self-conscious, turned his horse’s head. “I had better head back.” He rode past Captain Bryant, a few words were exchanged which Mariah did not hear, and the captain looked inquiringly in her direction.
As Mr. Crawford rode away, Captain Bryant trotted Storm over to her. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
Did she look as shaken as she felt? She must, but she nodded affirmation anyway.
He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating horseman before returning his speculative gaze to her. “I take it you know Mr. Crawford.”
Mariah shrank back as if pricked by a hidden needle. Had Captain Bryant learnt of the scandal? How exposed and sullied she felt at the thought.
“We are acquainted, yes.” Then before he could inquire further, she asked, “And how are you acquainted with him?”
He dismounted. “I am not. Never met him before the party.”
She frowned in surprise. “Then why invite him?”
He seemed to study his riding gloves. “It is always wise, Miss Aubrey, to get the opposing ship in one’s sights, to size up the enemy, before determining the best battle plan.”
She cocked her head to one side. “How came Mr. Crawford to be your enemy when you have never met him?”
“Quite easily.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Has this something to do with a certain lady?”
“It has everything to do with a certain lady – Miss Isabella Forsythe. I believe the two of you are acquainted?”
She stared at him. Isabella Forsythe? It couldn’t be. She was the woman Captain Bryant longed to win? The woman she had believed married to her former love this twelvemonth gone? Isabella must have been the woman she had seen riding with Captain Bryant. Mariah had not recognized her from such a distance – would never have paired the two of them in her mind.
“We . . . have met,” she murmured. “Briefly.”
Captain Bryant patted the horse’s damp withers. “If you wish to tell me your version of the tale, I promise to believe you.”
She gave a dry laugh and looked away. “And why should you?”
He grimaced. “I am some acquainted with Mr. Crawford’s reputation.”
She turned. “Are you? Or are you merely willing to believe anything against the man engaged to the woman you want for yourself ?” She was suddenly irritated with the captain. Must every man she admired fall for Miss Forsythe?
“Touché, Miss Aubrey. But there is another reason as well.”
“Oh?” She waited, brows high.
“Will you keep what I tell you in confidence?”
She met his somber gaze and nodded.
“My own sister, who is, I am thankful to say, safely and happily married, had an unfortunate acquaintance with someone very like Mr. Crawford in her youth.”
“Oh . . .” Mariah breathed.
“You see why I am keen on keeping it quiet.”
She nodded.
The captain’s confidence about his sister was kindly meant but did little to soothe Mariah’s pain. Seeing James Crawford again had poured salt into a raw, freshly reopened wound. The salty tears burned her eyes, and she quickly excused herself to shed them in private.
When Miss Aubrey had retreated into the gatehouse, Matthew rode back around to the main entrance of Windrush Court. Trotting up the drive toward the stable, he saw Miss Forsythe wave to him from the portico and descend the stairs to meet him. His pleasure at seeing her was dimmed by his troubling encounter with Mariah. No wonder Isabella had warned him against associating with her.
Miss Forsythe smiled warmly up at him. “James returned ten minutes ago and has already gone inside. What kept you? I was afraid you had met with some calamity.”
“I stopped to speak with Miss Aubrey.” He dismounted, realizing he probably should not have mentioned her.
Isabella winced. “Captain Bryant . . .” She hesitated. “I know it is not my place, but . . . must she be allowed to roam the estate?”
“Miss Aubrey is a tenant here.” Keeping hold of Storm’s reins, he looked about for the groom, then realized he must still be busy with Crawford’s horse.
<
br /> “I find the timing most . . . troubling,” Isabella said. “That she should be here, at the very same time James is.”
“Miss Aubrey has lived here for nearly a year.”
She pondered his words. “So, she must have come here almost directly after . . .”
He decided to feign ignorance. “After what?”
“Surely you heard? The Parkers’ house party last summer?” She shuddered, cheeks flushed. “I am mortified even to think of it.”
Matthew faltered. “I . . . may have heard . . . something.”
Miss Forsythe continued. “I suppose she told you she and James had an understanding? It is not true, no matter how much she wanted to believe it, or imagined it. James admits he may have allowed her to believe him fonder of her than he was, because he hated to injure her feelings.”
Matthew considered this. “If he is not attached to her, why should you care if she is here? Are you not secure in his attachment to you now?”
“Of course I am. I do not doubt him, but nor do I trust her.”
“You think she may try to ensnare him, and he shall be helpless to resist?”
She apparently missed his sarcasm. “It happened once before.”
“Miss Forsythe. A gentleman would not – ”
She huffed and wrinkled her elegant nose. “Oh, don’t tell me what a gentleman would and would not do. I have eyes, haven’t I? And a father and brother besides. I know James means to marry me. But that does not mean he shall be chaste in the meantime, nor faithful to me after the wedding. It is too much to expect of mortal men, or so Mamma has always said.”
He shook his head. “You are wrong, Miss Forsythe. You have every right to expect fidelity from the man you marry. There are men who take their vows before God seriously. Who would love and cherish you and only you forever.”
She glanced up at him from beneath golden lashes. “You know such men, Captain?”
“I do.” He took a half step closer and lowered his voice. “And so do you.”
For a moment she looked into his eyes, and hope flared. Might she relent? If he leaned forward, might she allow him to kiss her?