Listening to the lovers quarrel, the clouds parted in Matthew’s brain and the truth dawned upon him in a wave of relief. He took a deep breath. “Miss Forsythe, I am relieved to hear you are still engaged to Mr. Crawford, for you see, I have become quite attached to Miss Aubrey.”
She turned to him, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Miss Aubrey? After what she did? She is nothing but a – ”
Matthew held up a warning hand. “Careful, Isabella. I will not hear a word against her. Do I make myself clear?”
Crawford’s brows dipped low. “Bryant, I say. Must you – ”
Matthew ignored him. “How would you like it, Miss Forsythe, if I told the world what you did upon greeting me a few minutes ago behind closed doors? And you an engaged woman?”
Her neck and cheeks suffused scarlet. Her face was far less pretty when wearing a deep frown. “You would not do such an ungentlemanly thing.”
“Only if provoked. Only if I continue to hear whispers about Miss Aubrey.”
“But . . . you tried to convince me . . . And I . . .”
“You have already wasted four years, Belle.” Matthew spoke archly as relief began loosening his tongue. “Fortunately you were young then, and so you have not quite lost your bloom.” He nodded toward Crawford. “But lose this one and have to start all over, with your reputation . . . ? I shudder to think of your chances of marrying well.”
She slowly shook her head. “I was willing to defy my father to marry you. And bear the social taint of being called a jilt, and you have the nerve to throw it back in my face?”
He winced and said more formally, “I do apologize, Miss Forsythe. It was wrong of me to try to come between you and Crawford. But . . . you never even broke the engagement. I don’t think you have any right to be offended.”
Isabella’s voice shook. “I wanted to be certain you meant what you said, but I see I was wrong to believe you a man of honor. Perhaps my father was right about you all along.”
Matthew shrugged. “Perhaps he was. My wounded pride festered until I thought I would explode. I became fiercely determined to prove him and you, and everyone, wrong.”
The image of Mariah’s face filled his mind’s eye. “It blinded me to my growing feelings for another – a generous, talented, and beautiful woman.”
Isabella whispered, “You would choose her over me?”
Matthew nodded. “I am sorry if it hurts you, but yes. A thousand times over.” To himself he added, If she will have me.
For a moment Miss Forsythe stared at him. Then she drew herself up and managed a tremulous smile. “Well then, Captain, I wish you happy.” She turned on her heel. “Come, James. It is past time we took our leave.”
Matthew looked on from the portico as Miss Forsythe, Miss Hutchins, and a sheepish Mr. Crawford rode away together in the Forsythe carriage, Crawford’s horse tethered behind. He felt an empty lowness, but not the defeat he would have expected to feel even a fortnight ago.
He had been such a fool. Would Mariah even believe he loved her after he had so doggedly pursued another? He would need to wait; bide his time. Not launch from one proposal to the next. He would need to prove himself trustworthy, his intentions honorable. Especially after what she had gone through at the hands of another man. He shoved the thought – more painful than ever – to the back of his mind.
Hart appeared at his side, leaning against one of the portico columns as the carriage disappeared from view. He said nothing for a few moments, nothing to compete with the sounds of wheels and horse hooves. But when birdsong once again dominated the air, he asked, “Now what?”
Matthew sighed. “Now we relax and enjoy ourselves.” He glanced at his friend. “Fancy a horse race?”
Hart’s eyes searched his face, apparently relieved to find his spirits intact, and grinned like a lad. “Aye, aye, Captain!”
As they trudged toward the stables, Matthew realized he was glad it was over. He had prepared, entered battle, and fought hard. Victory had been in his sights and in his grasp, but he had read the warning signals and retreated just in time. He had not landed the prize, but at least there were few casualties, and he himself had survived remarkably unscathed.
I can no more forget [Sense and Sensibility]
than a mother can forget her sucking child;
I have had two sheets to correct . . . but
I have scarcely a hope of its being out in June.
– Jane Austen, a letter to her sister, 1811
chapter 34
Sitting in the drawing room, Dixon reviewed what Mariah had written so far in The Tale of Lydia Sorrow. Her finger traced each line as she silently read – Mariah had no wish to read this particular novel aloud. Anxious for her friend’s reaction, Mariah paced behind the chair, too nervous to sit.
At one point Dixon turned to give Mariah a significant look over her spectacles. She then lifted her drawing pencil to cross something out. Mariah glanced over her shoulder as Dixon ran a line through:
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.
Mariah blushed, glad her brother Henry was not on hand for this reading.
Reaching the end, Dixon lowered the page, removed her spectacles, and rubbed her eyes.
Mariah gave an anticipatory wince. “What do you think?”
“Well . . .” Dixon paused. “It is certainly . . . painful to read.”
Mariah huffed. “Try living it.”
“Do you really want to go through with this?” Dixon’s eyes were wide with concern. “I can certainly see that young women might find such a cautionary tale edifying, but . . .”
“I know.” Mariah sighed. “I don’t like it either. I grow weary of regret and misery.”
“But did you not promise Mr. Crosby a third manuscript?”
“I did. And he assures me cautionary tales are all the crack in London. He named several that have sold quite briskly. The Reformed Coquette, The Unfortunate Magdalen . . .”
Dixon frowned. “Lydia Sorrow is not a Magdalen, and neither are you.”
“I know. But I cannot help thinking that perhaps enough cautionary tales have already been written.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “And why did I not heed a one of them?”
Dixon laid a hand on her arm, expression earnest. “Mariah. God is far more forgiving than people are, or than we are to ourselves. Society may never forgive and certainly never lets anyone forget. But God will forgive you if you ask Him. Better yet, He will forget it ever happened.”
Mariah thought it sounded too good to be true. She certainly believed God forgave others. Why was it so hard to believe He would forgive her?
She and Dixon laid aside Lydia Sorrow for the time being and retired to the kitchen for tea.
Martin already had the table set and the tea steeping. As the ladies sat, he handed Mariah a letter.
“From Captain Bryant. He stopped by while you two were, em, occupied.”
“We wouldn’t have minded the interruption, Martin. Not for Captain Bryant.”
“I offered to let you know he was here, but he said not to disturb you. Just asked me to give you the note.”
That gave Mariah pause. Had Captain Bryant foreseen or even hoped he would not meet with her in person? She unfolded the letter. In the few hastily written lines, he explained that he was going to visit his parents and an old friend. Mariah wondered if the old friend was Miss Forsythe. But that was odd terminology to use for the woman he hoped to marry. Perhaps it was a fellow officer, she told herself, wishing he had specified.
She wondered if Captain Bryant had gotten the second chance with Miss Forsythe he so desired. He must have, she reasoned. Otherwise, would she not have seen him? She wondered, too, what might have happened between Matthew and herself had things gone differently.
He does admire me, she thought. Or at least he had, before he learned about Mr. Crawford. Even so, they were friends, and she was quite sure he found her attrac
tive as well.
But they had known one another only a few months – one sunlit summer – whereas Matthew had pined for Isabella Forsythe for years. She would win, Mariah knew. She hoped Isabella truly loved him, would be good and faithful to him, endeavor to deserve him. Mariah wanted Matthew to be happy – truly she did. And now, it appeared he would be.
She was glad for him. She was. At the same time, she was perfectly miserable.
Now that Windrush Court was free of “interlopers,” as Martin described them, the inhabitants of the gatehouse, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Strong, Mr. Phelps, and no doubt the other servants, exhaled a unified sigh of relief. The grounds were once again theirs to roam and more leisure time theirs to enjoy, now that the extra work of entertaining a houseful of guests had abated.
But Mariah felt deflated. Like one of Dixon’s bread loaves which had failed to rise. After all the highs and lows of the preceding months, now all was quiet. It was like the letdown after Epiphany, staring down the long dark throat of winter with nothing to look forward to, nothing on the horizon.
Her second book would be printed soon. That was something, she reminded herself. Henry had hand-delivered proof sheets of Daughters of Brighton, and Martin had offered to return them to Oxford as soon as she was finished with them. Certainly Mr. Crosby wouldn’t cancel the printing so close to the book’s release, not over one disparaging remark from a fraud like Hugh Prin-Hallsey. Besides, she and her publisher were protected by her nom de plume. As long as society did not know she was Lady A, her reputation should not affect the book. How could it? She did wonder whether he would want a third book from her. A third book she had yet to finish, in any case.
Most deflating of all, she admitted to herself, was the absence of Captain Bryant. Had he decided to sever ties with her after Mr. Crawford’s confession?
Mariah was surprised to learn that Mr. Hart had not gone with him, until she recalled seeing Lizzy and Mr. Hart out walking several times recently, as well as Hart’s wish to introduce Lizzy to his mother. Mariah wondered if he had proposed the journey yet. And if Mrs. Pitt would even allow Lizzy the time off to go with him.
At all events, Captain Bryant was gone, and she had not even told him about Hugh Prin-Hallsey’s latest scheme to raise money. Even after the confrontation with Mr. Crosby, Hugh had remained adamant that he had every right to publish and profit from Euphemia’s Return. Mr. Crosby said he would forgo legal action if Hugh would rescind all claim to the copyright and return the advance. Mariah imagined that money was long spent. How would Hugh repay it? Or would he refuse and risk legal trouble? She doubted Mr. Crosby would really take him to court and allow the public to learn that he had been fooled. Mariah did not know how it would turn out and was glad to leave it to the Crosby and Company solicitors.
Little Maggie sat perched on a stool at the worktable while Martin showed her how to make ginger biscuits. Maggie wore Mariah’s apron and a smear of flour on her cheek and another on her chin. She looked utterly adorable, as did Martin as he doted on her.
Mariah sat at the kitchen table, correcting the proof sheets of Daughters of Brighton. In all truth, she was making very little progress, distracted as she was by the others. If she really wanted to be productive, she would take herself up to her solitary sitting room. But what her soul craved was the warm companionship of the kitchen.
Dixon sat at the table across from her, reading aloud from an old volume of The Golden Prince Adventures. Attempting it, at any rate.
“The young stowaway thought the ship would keel right over, so hard did the wind push at her sails. The deck took on the steep pitch of an icy sledding hill and was just as slippery. Would his life never be even-keeled again?
“ ‘Hard-a-starboard!’ the one-armed captain bellowed to the quartermaster at the wheel. ‘Steer small, blast you!’
“At the captain’s signal, the second lieutenant shouted, ‘Fire as you will, boys!’
“The ship shuddered, thundered, and pulsed as the nine-pounders went off, one after another blasting the looming pirate ship. Answering fire was returned – musket balls falling like deadly hail upon the deck until Tom was certain he was about to meet his Maker.
“Why had he thought life at sea would be all fun and adventure? Why had he found his father’s workshop so stifling, so boring? What Tom would give to be home again.
“The bosun towering above him looked up as an eighteen-pounder arced down in their direction. He muttered, ‘For what we are about to receive . . .’ before he was – ”
Dixon paused.
“ ‘ – blown to bloody bits.’ ”
She swallowed.
“ ‘As the mizzenmast behind him gave way, the captain scowled and shouted – ’ ”
With a glance at innocent little Maggie, Dixon amended, “ ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ ”
Martin chuckled. “You needn’t read it, Miss Susan. I realize it is not the customary fare of ladies.”
Maggie grinned up at Dixon. “The first biscuits are ready. Will you taste one?”
Dixon set aside the book and rose. “I shall, though my appetite has suddenly deserted me for some reason.” She gave Martin a telling look.
“Well, then leave off reading and help us cut the next batch.” He smiled at her across the worktable. “Though I must say you have a lovely reading voice, Miss Susan. I could listen to you forever.”
Dixon glanced up sharply, clearly stunned by the compliment. But Martin looked down, busily helping Maggie roll the biscuit dough. Was that a faint blush in the man’s cheeks, or merely the heat from the oven?
Mariah bit back a grin. She asked, “Why did you stop writing, Martin?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I ran out of ideas. I had only that one voyage with Captain Prince, after all. Fran said I should write my own stories and I meant to, but for some reason, I found it difficult to write once she married Prin-Hallsey and we moved to Windrush Court. Oppressive place. Hammersmith always breathing down my neck. I lost the ‘muse,’ as they say. Not sure I shall ever find it again.”
Wistfully, Mariah said, “I hope you shall.”
A knock on the open kitchen door brought all their heads around. There stood Albert Phelps, bucket in hand.
“Oh . . . hello,” Mr. Phelps began, taking in the homey scene, glancing from Dixon to Martin and back again. “Miss Dixon, I was come to help you pick your beans, but I see you are . . . otherwise engaged.”
Mariah felt awkward tension rise on the fragrances of warm bread and ginger. Was, perhaps, the gardener aware for the first time of the competition he had in the form of Jeremiah Martin?
Two days later, after Martin had gone to Oxford and back with Mariah’s proof sheets, Mr. Phelps returned to the gatehouse to claim Dixon for a stroll. Mariah took herself out onto the front lawn, to sit under her favorite tree and enjoy the fading warmth of the late August day.
Lizzy Barnes came striding across the road, flushed and agitated, a shabby valise in one hand and a twine-wrapped bundle in the other. “I have done it.”
“Done what?”
“Told Mrs. Pitt I won’t stay and work for her anymore – not when her son is threatening me.”
“Threatening you?” Mariah stood and opened the door, shepherding Lizzy inside.
“Oh, he doesn’t mean it. John’s not violent, really. But he’s seen me out walking with Mr. Hart, and he’s devilish vexed. I tried to explain gentle-like that I like him as a friend and all, but not the way he likes me. And not the way I like Mr. Hart. But John wouldn’t listen. He kept trying to kiss me, until I finally had no choice but to slap him. Hard.” Lizzy sighed. “Poor John. He’s jealous and desperate-sad and angry all at once. Mrs. Pitt is just plain angry.”
“Oh, Lizzy. I am very sorry to hear it. You did the right thing though. I only wish I had a place for George too. Perhaps I could ask Captain Bryant if Windrush Court needs another groom or hall boy.”
“Thank you, miss. George says he can take care of himself, but I do worr
y.”
“Of course you do.”
Several minutes later, she left Lizzy to settle herself in the narrow pantry off the kitchen that would be hers – she had refused the upstairs sitting room as too fine. But in a month or two, when the weather turned chill, Mariah would have to insist that Lizzy move abovestairs so Martin could have the pantry.
Dixon returned from her walk with Mr. Phelps just as Mariah set a teapot and four cups on the small table. “Lizzy has come at last,” Mariah whispered, wondering if the girl had fallen asleep already, so quiet was her room.
But Dixon did not smile. In fact she looked quite troubled as she tied on her apron and began wiping down the worktable, although it was already perfectly clean.
Mariah watched her friend’s distracted, jerky movements, then stepped to her side. Touching her arm, she asked quietly, “What is it?”
Dixon inhaled deeply and released a shuddering breath. “Albert Phelps has asked me to marry him.”
Mariah should not have been surprised, but somehow she was. She had thought, perhaps, that Dixon had come to prefer Martin.
“He is a widower, you know,” Dixon continued. “And from what Mrs. Strong says, the first Mrs. Phelps was a happy woman indeed. I don’t doubt he would make a good husband, but . . .”
“But?”
“I . . . I don’t want to leave you, Mariah.”
“Dixon! We’ve talked about this. You mustn’t forgo happiness on my account. You would be very near in the gardener’s cottage, and we have Lizzy now, so we could make do. Though, of course, I should be loath to lose you. . . .” Mariah’s words trailed off as she studied her friend’s wan expression. “That is not the real reason you hesitate, is it?”
Susan Dixon shook her head.
A few moments later, Martin came into the kitchen, face grim. Dixon stiffened and began noisily rearranging pots and kettles.