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.
Matthew spent several days visiting poorhouses and workhouses in neighboring parishes, as well as the house of industry in Oxford. All were adamant that they had not admitted any new inmates matching Maggie’s description. He would have to widen his search. But first he returned to Windrush Court.
Though he had no further answers about the missing girl, still Matthew longed to see Mariah again. How clear everything seemed to him now. He had loved her for some time and wished to tell her so. If he was not mistaken, she was fond of him as well.
At the back of his mind buzzed nagging questions about Crawford and Mariah, but he pushed them away. He would try to somehow forget it ever happened. He could not bear to think of the two of them together. Not when he hoped, once this crisis with Maggie had passed, that he might court Mariah himself.
But Mariah greeted him at the gatehouse door with none of the sweet smiles he had hoped for. Only a somber reserve. Had he misread her feelings?
She led him into the drawing room and pulled a chair from the table. She said formally, “Please sit down.”
Matthew sat, but snagged her hand as he did so. “Mariah . . .”
“Shh. Say nothing you may wish back after I show you what I need to show you.”
“That sounds dire.” He playfully brushed the toe of his boot against her dress hem. “Have you a peg leg under there?”
Her bleak expression sobered him and he pressed her fingers. “No more bad news about Maggie, I trust?”
She pulled her hand away. Turned to retrieve something from the bookshelf. “I didn’t want you to see or hear of it elsewhere.”
This does not sound good, Matthew thought, and braced himself for impact.
Mariah laid the book before him and opened it to the title page. Then she stepped back, holding her breath, and waited.
He stared for several moments but said nothing.
Driven to fill the tense silence, she said, “I never planned to use my real name, but there was a last-minute change and the publisher refuses to reprint.” She decided it would be futile to blame Hugh. She could not prove it, and even if she could, how the truth came out was really not the salient point.
&n
bsp; “I cannot believe it,” he finally said.
Her stomach dropped. “Is it so bad?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
He did not meet her gaze. “This from the woman who declared words were so important to her. I see how they might be, as you pay your rent by them. And when I think of how you let me go on, criticizing A Winter in Bath. I thought you were only defensive on behalf of your sex, or of novels in general, never dreaming . . .” He shook his head, and when he finally looked at her, hurt and irritation dulled his eyes. “You said you weighed and measured words. I thought that meant honesty was important to you. When all along you were not honest with me.”
He rose and pushed back his chair, his face grey and stiff. “First I discover one dark secret about you and now this. Another lie.”
Mariah’s voice shook. “That is not fair. I did not intend to lie. Only to keep it private. You know people consider it unladylike. My father would be furious.”
“You were never going to tell me, were you? Just as you would never have told me about Crawford. You only tell me now because your hand has been forced yet again.”
She winced. “Am I obligated to tell everyone? To disgorge my guilt on both counts at first meeting? Like a leper calling out ‘Unclean, unclean’ to all who approach? As my landlord had you some right to know?”
He turned fiery eyes on her. “Landlord be hanged. I thought we were friends.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “Have I even heard the worst of it? What other secrets are you keeping? Was there a child?”
She gasped. “No!”
“But you . . . you are not a maid?”
When she made no reply, his jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze as though he could not stand to look at her. “I knew as much, and yet . . . Now I see that what I have learned by painful experience is true after all. Women are forever casting an appealing image they cannot live up to.”
Daggers of remorse plunged deeper than ever before, puncturing Mariah’s chest until she could not speak or breathe. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She had never heard him speak in so cutting a tone, or with such injury in his eyes. His words hurt all the more because they were true.
From across the billiards table, William Hart glared at him, dumbfounded and angry. “You said what?”
“Are you not shocked?”
“About which part? Crawford being an imbecile, or you?”
“What have I done but been felled by an unexpected blow? First I learn her character is not all it should be, and now I learn she has a secret life she has been keeping from us.”
Even as he said the words, Matthew knew he had overreacted. He had known, or at least suspected, the truth about Mariah and Crawford for some time but had refused to face it. After all, there had been no reason to take it to heart when he had planned to marry Isabella. But this reasoning had not kept him from storing up disappointment and even resentment over Mariah having been with another man. News of her clandestine novel writing had only served to spark the powder horn already smoldering within him.
Hart scowled. “As far as her indiscretion with Crawford, she has paid a high price already. What would you have her do? Drag it about like an anchor all her days?”
“No. But I don’t like being made a fool of.”
“You are making yourself a fool. Is your past any better than hers?”
Anger sparked. “You forget yourself, Lieutenant.”
“No. You forget yourself, Captain. For I was there. I was there when you ignored the signal flag and took the ship anyway, for one more capture, one more prize, though it would not affect the outcome of the war. I was there when you held your head in your hands over those young men who might still be alive had you not done so. I was there in port too. And well I remember that pretty Spanish girl with eyes only for the rich capitan.”
“Don’t.” Matthew pressed a hand to his eyes to block out Hart’s words, and the wounded expression on Mariah’s face when he’d lashed out at her.
“Why not? You would have Miss Aubrey display her secrets, but I cannot breathe a word about yours?”
Could Hart not understand his struggle? Even though Matthew had given up his quest to prove himself to society, any man would be upset to have his fears confirmed – to learn that the woman he loved was not a maid. Did it make him an archaic sapskull to wish she were? Her reputation would not be helped by this latest revelation, once news of her novel writing circulated.
But with what had befallen his own dear sister – and with all God had forgiven him – how could he join those condemning her?
He could not.
“Dash it, Hart.” Matthew rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Must you always be right?”
What a hypocrite he had been, Matthew realized, to judge Miss Aubrey for her deeds, when his own huge failings ever loomed before him. Forgive me, he breathed. Forgive me. He directed that silent plea both to the woman he loved and to the God who loved him.
Overwhelmed with remorse, Matthew resisted the urge to run directly to the gatehouse and plead his case. Instead he sat at the library desk to ponder the best way to communicate his sincerest apologies and hopes to Miss Mariah Aubrey, authoress.
Hitting on an idea, he took up paper, quill, and ink. With a prayer for smooth sailing on his lips, he began to write.
My dear Miss Aubrey,
Since you are a person who values words, I have decided to write you a story. A poor attempt, no doubt, but here is my version of an Aesopian fable I call “The Foolish Fox and the Two Birds. . . .”
I am the gate; whoever enters
through me will be saved.
– Jesus Christ (niv)
chapter 37
Worried when she saw neither of the Miss Merryweathers outside, Mariah stepped cautiously into the poorhouse. There, Agnes crossed the entry hall, hot-water bottle in her hands.
“Miss Merryweather,” Mariah whispered. “How is Miss Amy?”
Colorless lips tight, Agnes grimly shook her head. “Not good. But she’ll want to see you. Come along.”
Mariah fell into step with the slight woman, glancing back nervously over her shoulder, fearing Mrs. Pitt might see her and order her from the premises.
“They’ve got her in the infirmary now. Right through here.”
Mariah followed Agnes past the office used by the visiting apothecary and the occasional surgeon, past the glass-plated and locked cupboard where the day-to-day remedies were stored, and past a series of small sickrooms. At the last door in the passageway, Agnes gestured Mariah in before her.
“I’ve brought you a visitor, Amy. But don’t let her tire you,” Agnes said.
“Can’t get any more tired,” Amy said with a weak grin. “Hello, Miss Mariah.”
She and Mariah exchanged tender smiles.
Agnes bustled over and tucked the hot-water bottle under the bedclothes. “There, that should stop your shivering.”
For though the room was perfectly warm, Amy was covered in blankets and even wore a red muffler around her neck.
Amy fingered the muffler and said wistfully, “I never made you one, Miss Mariah.”
How small, how frail the dear woman looked. Mariah blinked back tears just to see so little of her remaining. “Never mind, Miss Amy. I don’t. You are all loveliness with that splash of red round your neck.”
Amy tugged ineffectually at the muffler. “You take it.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Amy gave a wisp of a chuckle. “I shall not need it where I am bound. No damp rooms in my Father’s house.”
Agnes mumbled something under her breath that sounded like father indeed.
Mariah said, “Perhaps Agnes would like it.”
Amy gave a dismissive flutter of her hand. “Oh, I made her a red one long ago. She refuses to wear it. This one should be yours.”
Agnes thought red a color for a Jezebel, Mariah recalled. She could understand the woman wanting no reminder of a
life anyone would wish to forget.
She glanced at Agnes, and the woman nodded her approval. “Then I will treasure it. Thank you.”
Mariah helped Amy unwind the soft muffler from around her neck.
With bent, trembling fingers, Amy pressed it into Mariah’s hands. “You wear it, my dear. And you remember.”
Mariah’s throat tightened. “I shall never forget you.”
Amy gave a little snort. “Pfff. Forget me all you like, but don’t forget what it means.” Amy kept hold of Mariah’s hand, expression earnest. “None of us gets through this life without a tangle or two. Accept His mercy and move forward. Don’t hold on to the knots and forget the life ahead.”
Tears blurring her vision, Mariah gently squeezed Amy’s hand and whispered, “Thank you.”
She would remember.
Mariah glanced across the bed, and her heart clenched to see tears streaming down the weathered cheeks of stoic Agnes Merryweather.
Agnes took her sister’s other hand. “Please don’t leave me, Amy. Not again.”
“Promise me you’ll follow after me, Aggie. Promise me you’ll pass through the gate.”
The gate? Mariah wondered.
Miss Amy must have seen Mariah’s confusion, for she pointed one finger straight up. “Not your gate, my dear. His gate.”
The door creaked open behind them, and there stood Captain Prince. He looked upon Amy Merryweather, diminished by time and illness, and his face seemed to cave in on itself. “Oh, my dear girl. My old friend.”
Amy smiled, lovely still. “Captain. How good of you to come.”
He stumbled to her bed. Kneeling beside it, he grasped one of her small bird-claw hands in his and wept.
“There, there,” Miss Amy soothed. “It is not farewell, my dear captain, but au revoir. Until we meet again.”
Mariah and Agnes silently moved to the door to allow the two to share a rare, and likely final, moment alone.
In the corridor, Agnes Merryweather looked weary and shaken. Lost. Mariah took her hand gingerly, anticipating it being thrown off. Instead, Agnes gripped hard, the metal of her thin ring biting into Mariah’s flesh.