Martin must have heard, Mariah realized. Perhaps Mr. Phelps had been too excited to keep the news to himself.
Mariah quickly excused herself. Martin’s low, plaintive “Susan. Miss Dixon . . .” followed Mariah into the drawing room.
“You would be a fool to forgo a future with Albert Phelps, with his sunny cottage, secure post, and easygoing ways. If he were not a good man, I wouldn’t say it, but he is. Much as I wish . . . Miss Dixon – ”
The ting and clang of pots and pans finally ceased. Dixon objected, “You were to call me Susan.”
“Perhaps the time for Christian names has passed,” he said, resigned. “I have little to offer you. I haven’t a proper job. Haven’t a home. I haven’t even two hands to offer you.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, I do. You deserve better.”
Poor Martin, Mariah thought, taking herself upstairs. Stoic, noble Martin. What would Dixon do?
Go therefore they must to that knoll,
and through that gate; but the gate was locked.
– Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
chapter 35
When they had not seen Maggie for three days in a row, Dixon became concerned. She had grown quite attached to the little girl over the past few months. And while laundry or kitchen duty sometimes kept Maggie away now and again, the girl always seemed to manage to come by every few days for a visit, a biscuit, or a brief flute lesson with Martin.
Dixon decided she would walk over to Honora House and check on the girl. Lizzy offered to accompany her, saying she knew all the places shy Maggie liked to hide and play. Mariah certainly hoped the little girl had not taken ill.
The thought of illness reminded her of Miss Amy, and Mariah asked the two to check on the Miss Merryweathers while they were there.
Half an hour later, Lizzy ran back through the front door of the gatehouse. Dixon came puffing across the road behind her, arm against her bosom. Mariah had never seen Susan Dixon run and certainly not in such an undignified manner.
“What is it?” Mariah asked Lizzy. “Is it Miss Amy?”
“No, miss.” Lizzy leaned over and rested her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
“Has Maggie taken ill?”
Lizzy shook her head.
Dixon trudged inside. Taking one look at her friend’s ashen face, Mariah’s voice rose in panic. “Dixon?”
Dixon bracketed her side with her hand. “It’s Maggie. . . .” She panted. “Gone.”
“Gone?” Mariah’s heart lurched. “Not . . . dead.”
Dixon shook her head, tears filling her prominent blue eyes. “They have sent her away.”
“What? Where?”
Again Dixon shook her head, still breathing hard. “Mrs. Pitt won’t say.”
“I shall go and speak with her.” Mariah turned and strode to the door.
Dixon caught her arm. “Don’t. For all her patronizing smiles, she is vexed with you.”
“Because I hired Lizzy away from her?”
“That and Captain Prince,” Lizzy said. “She was terrible upset when they found that rope. I heard her say it must have been you and your friends what done it.”
“You think she did this for revenge?” Mariah shook her head, and the realization coated her innards with dread. It was her fault. If only she had not stuck her nose into the welfare of the man on the roof. If only she had been satisfied to warn Lizzy.
“I am so sorry, Miss Dixon,” Mariah said. “So terribly sorry.”
“I don’t blame you, Mariah. I blame that vile woman.”
“Is there nothing to be done?”
A knock sounded on the front door, interrupting them. For a moment no one moved – they simply stared wide-eyed at one another. Then, taking a deep breath, Mariah opened the door.
Her stomach dropped to see Mrs. Pitt standing there, hands folded primly before her, the plume of her hat swaying in the breeze.
“Mrs. Pitt.” Mariah faltered, “We . . . were just speaking of you.”
The matron gave a tightlipped smile. “So I divined through your open window.”
Embarrassment and irritation warmed Mariah’s neck, but Dixon laid a warning hand on her arm.
Mariah stepped back and Mrs. Pitt crossed the threshold. “I shall not stay. I simply came to make a few facts plain to you, Miss Aubrey. I have not been matron for twenty years without learning a few things about controlling the insolent and disobedient.”
Mariah seethed. Only Dixon’s staying hand kept her from lashing out and telling the woman exactly what she thought of her.
“If you had only stolen Miss Barnes, poisoned her against us, I might have overlooked your interference.”
“I will come back, Mrs. Pitt,” Lizzy said, voice high and plaintive. “Just return poor Maggie to us.”
The woman silenced her with a forefinger and a glare. “And why should I want a disloyal chit like you?” She returned her cold eyes to Mariah. “But when you jeopardize my reputation as an effective matron, that I cannot ignore. Honora House is recompensed for the safekeeping of a certain unstable man. If he should have fallen to his death from that window during your friends’ rope stunt, or be seen gallivanting about the parish or even in this particular gatehouse, the board of guardians might very well conclude that I was failing in my duty.” She leaned forward, her gaunt face very near Mariah’s. “And, Miss Aubrey, I never fail in my duty.”
Mariah swallowed, barely resisting the urge to step back. “But Captain Prince returned of his own free will.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Pitt’s thin lips curled in a smug smile. “Which only demonstrates your disregard for the institution and the man’s well-being. He knows what is good for him. There is no other place for a man like that. And should any further attempts be made to . . . disturb him, I am afraid I shall have no choice but to retaliate further.”
A shiver went up Mariah’s spine. “How? What will you do to him?”
“To him? Nothing, so long as the annual stipend is paid. But George Barnes might very well find himself sent to, shall we say, a less hospitable institution, regardless of my son’s misguided affections for his sister. And I should hate to think what a cold winter in the workhouse would do to young George’s cheery plump cheeks.”
Lizzy’s voice was hoarse with tears. “Don’t, missus. Please, I beg of you.”
She ignored Lizzy, her muddy eyes pinning Mariah with venom. “I do hope, Miss Aubrey, that I make myself perfectly clear?”
Not trusting her voice, Mariah merely nodded.
Mrs. Pitt turned on her heel and strode out of the gatehouse.
As soon as Dixon closed the door behind her, Lizzy gave a keening wail, pressing her temples as though to keep her head intact. “Did I not tell you the Pitts were not to be crossed?”
“I am sorry, Lizzy.”
“Why did I listen to you? I should have stayed. Put up with John Pitt’s rovin’ eyes and hands. I must go back. Beg John to persuade her. I’ll do anything to protect George. Anything.”
“Lizzy, don’t. You mustn’t sacrifice yourself. We’ll think of another way.”
Dixon said, “Perhaps someone of influence, like Mr. Prin-Hallsey, might persuade her to tell us where Maggie is.”
Mariah shook her head. “Do you think Hugh Prin-Hallsey would help me after I exposed him as a fraud?”
Dixon frowned in thought. “Perhaps the vicar?”
“You are better acquainted with him than I, but I was under the impression he and Mrs. Pitt were closely allied.”
Dixon blinked rapidly, trying unsuccessfully to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks. “That poor angel. She has already lost so much, everybody who ever loved her. And now to be abandoned again . . . How lonely and confused she must feel.”
Tentatively, Mariah put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and, when Dixon didn’t stiffen, embraced her gently. By now tears were falling down Mariah’s cheeks as well, and Lizzy was sniffling like a child
.
Martin shuffled in from plucking their dinner, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked from one tear-streaked face to another. “What’s all this, then?”
Mariah looked at him over Dixon’s shoulder. “It’s Maggie. They’ve sent her away.”
“What?” His face clouded in shock and grief.
“She may have been sent to another poorhouse,” Lizzy said. “Or worse, a workhouse.”
“She wouldn’t!” Dixon exclaimed, pulling away from Mariah. “Not a defenseless little girl like that.”
Lizzy nodded grimly. “She would.”
“Which workhouse? Did she say?” Martin asked.
“No.” Dixon threw up her hands. “And she refuses to tell us!”
Mariah knew better than to assure Dixon all would be well. For everyone knew what a dire fate the workhouse was. Not only were they hard dismal places more like a prison than a poorhouse, but workhouses were infamous for selling children to textile mills as “pauper apprentices” – cheap labor that basically enslaved a child until she was twenty-one years old. If she lived that long.
Martin strode forward and somehow managed to catch both of Dixon’s flailing hands in his single grasp. “Susan, listen to me. We shall find her. Somehow we shall. Do you hear me?”
Dixon looked at him through her tears, her chin trembling. There were answering tears in his eyes as well. “But how?”
After visiting his parents and his old friend Captain McCulloch, Matthew returned to Windrush Court. He felt like a new man, released from the driving quest to prove himself to Miss Forsythe, her father, his father, and society at large. He had an inkling that Mariah Aubrey thought him worthy just as he was and was eager to see her again. He’d had enough of biding his time.
After a bath and a change of clothes, he went directly to the gatehouse. Mariah met him at the kitchen door, tears streaming down her face. His pulse raced in alarm. How forlorn, how tortured she looked. Instinctively, he opened his arms as he might to his sister. Mariah flew into them, like an exhausted bird coming home to roost, and buried her face against his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her trembling body and held her close. “Mariah, what is it? What has happened?”
She lifted her face. “It’s Maggie. Mrs. Pitt has sent her away, and it is all my fault.”
Matthew started. “But why?”
“Because of Lizzy, and Captain Prince.”
Matthew reeled. The woman had sent away that little girl to punish Mariah? Unthinkable! “Did she say as much?”
Mariah nodded and buried her face once more. Gently, he took her shoulders and held her a little from him so he could look at her. Tears pooled in her amber eyes and coursed down her cheeks. His chest ached to see it. He raised his arms and cradled her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped the tears from her cheeks, but they were quickly replaced.
“Dixon cried herself to sleep. You’ve never heard such a desolate sound. My heart broke to hear it. Why did I have to interfere? Why did I not guess what Mrs. Pitt might do? Even Martin wept to hear the news. Martin!”
Matthew knew the man was fond of the child but had not realized how deep the attachment ran. “It is not your fault, Mariah. If anyone is to blame for that stunt, it is my comrades and me. We were the ones who left that rope as evidence for the woman to find.”
“But none of you would ever have known about Captain Prince if I hadn’t seen him, hadn’t told you and Martin, hadn’t asked Mrs. Pitt about him. . . .”
“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.