“An honor, madam,” he said warmly, and Mariah felt pleasure at the earnestness of his words.
“Please, let us sit and be comfortable,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She made a mental note to offer him seconds of everything when refreshments were served. Tea, Mr. Crosby? Muffins? Biscuits, butter?
Dixon, she saw, had failed to take his hat. Smiling apologetically, she gestured toward the end table. He laid his hat there and sat down, pulling his coattails around himself as he did so. She sat as well, smoothing down the skirt of her gown. She hoped it was not conspicuously out of fashion.
She glanced up and found him watching her, eyes alight and a smile playing about his lips. Self-conscious, she glanced down at her bodice to assure herself all was as it should be. Why had she not worn a fichu?
He began, “I hope you do not mind my saying that you are younger and . . . um, more . . . graceful than I expected.”
Graceful? Was that what he meant to say? His eyes said pretty, but she supposed it would be unprofessional to say something so personal and pedestrian.
“Are most of your authors older?” she asked, hoping to appear composed.
“Yes. I would say most are in their middling years, though some are quite old indeed.”
“And how do they respond to having such a young publisher?”
She had not meant to ask that, but if the man was even thirty, she would have been very much surprised.
He looked down modestly and chuckled. “Touché, Miss . . . Do you mind if I call you by your real name?”
“No, I suppose not.”
He tucked his chin apologetically. “Then . . . you shall have to tell me what it is.”
Mariah felt her cheeks grow warm. “Oh, forgive me. I thought my . . . Henry might have told you.”
“He is very protective of you, your Mr. Aubrey.” He crossed one leg over the other and picked a piece of lint from his trousers. “He will be taking his fee from your earnings, I suppose?”
She shook her head. “He refuses to take any.”
One dark brow rose. “No agent fee nor even allowance for expenses? A most generous man, your Mr. Aubrey.”
Mr. Crosby is fishing, she realized. What was worse, having the man think Henry her lover, or admitting he was her brother and risk their father finding out Henry was helping her?
Tentatively, she asked, “Henry did not explain the nature of our relationship?”
The man looked taken aback, and if she was not mistaken, the hint of a blush tainted his pale cheeks.
This will never do. She made her decision. How likely was her father to meet this young Oxford publisher in any case? She said, “Henry is my brother, Mr. Crosby. He acts as my man of business out of the goodness of his heart.”
His expression was, she thought, incredulous and perhaps relieved. “If he is your brother, then why not tell me? Why all the secrecy?”
She bit her lip. “It is our father, you see. He would not approve of Henry having any part in my new life.”
Fortunately, he misunderstood. “Your father does not approve of novel writing?”
That is an understatement, Mariah thought. Her father had lamented ever allowing the volumes into his house, blaming them in part for the “romantic fancies” that had led to her fall. She said only, “He does not. And so, Mr. Crosby, if I could ask you to refrain from mentioning Henry Aubrey’s connection to Lady A, or mentioning him at all for that matter, we would both be very grateful. And of course I wish to remain anonymous as well.”
His brown eyes sparkled. “And as I have yet to learn your name, your anonymity is assured.”
“I am Miss Aubrey.”
“Miss?”
She nodded.
“And might I learn your Christian name, though, of course, I would not presume to use it?”
“I don’t know, A.K.” She grinned. “Might I learn yours?”
He smiled appreciatively. “Anthony King. But as it was my father’s name as well, I prefer to go by A.K.”
“I see. My given name is Mariah.”
“Miss Mariah Aubrey. A lovely name.”
She felt her cheeks warm once more. “Thank you.”
He leaned back. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Miss Aubrey. I believe I understand, at least in part, your reluctance – ”
A single knock sounded, and Mr. Crosby glanced toward the kitchen door. Martin opened it for Dixon, who came in bearing a tray of tea things. Martin followed a few moments later with the teapot itself.
“Will you take some refreshment, Mr. Crosby?” Mariah asked. “I am sure you must be hungry after your journey.”
“Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”
With pleasingly steady hands, she poured a cup, which he accepted with a distracted smile. But when she offered him sugar, milk, or lemon, he declined them all. Likewise, he declined her offer of muffins or cheese biscuits. Inwardly, Mariah sighed. Abstemious people were such a trial. She could not eat if he did not. It would be quite unladylike – an impression she wished to avoid this of all days.
She sipped her tea, missing the sugar immediately.
When Dixon and Martin closed the door behind them, Mr. Crosby continued. “I hope Henry told you how much I admire your novel.”
“It pleases me to hear it. Though I suppose I assumed some level of approbation, considering your interest in publishing it.”
He nodded. “And allow me to say that you are not the first lady to shy away from the public eye, for fear of exposing herself to scrutiny and perhaps censure.”
Mariah felt her smile tremble. She had already exposed herself to both. Need she tell him?
Instead she asked, “Are you meeting with all of the authors you publish?”
He sipped politely before setting his cup in the saucer. “The new ones, yes. Many have been with Crosby and Company for years – long before I took over the firm in my father’s stead.”
“And what is it you hope to ascertain in meeting new authors?”
“Primarily, that they are who they say they are.”
Mariah took a sip to wet suddenly dry lips. “But clearly, many women and even some men publish under pseudonyms. Few of us are who we say we are. Even Walter Scott fools almost no one with his books by Captain Clutterbuck or Crystal Croftangry.”
He nodded. “Though I am not speaking of appellation alone, Miss Aubrey, but rather of a genuineness of character. There was quite a furor when Miss Pinkley, author of Advice to Rosina and All English Ladies fame, turned out to be none other than Mr. Eugene Fowler, lately of debtor’s prison.”
“I am not a man, Mr. Crosby, I assure you.”
His expression did not change as he regarded her. He blinked, then blinked once more. “Of that I have no doubt, Miss Aubrey.” Leaning forward, he said, “In fact, now that I have met you and spoken with you, my mind is relieved on that score. You are clearly an educated woman of quality.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling like a fraud.
He set down his teacup. “I confess I would prefer to use your real name instead of Lady A, which is so impersonal, so similar to the standard by a lady. It is one thing for authors with several books to their credit. Then we simply print by the author of such and such on the title page of the latest novel. But as this is your first book . . .”
She felt her jaw tighten. “I publish anonymously or not at all.”
He studied her for a moment, as if gauging her resolve. “Very well.” He reached into his pocket and extracted several bank notes, which he set upon the table without comment. Then he took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. “Now, tell me about this second novel your brother mentioned.”
Half an hour later, Mariah saw Mr. Crosby out and paused on the front doorstep to bid him farewell. She was startled to see Captain Bryant tethering his horse to the gate.
“Captain Bryant,” she acknowledged dully, chagrined to be seen during her “secret” meeting.
“Miss Aubrey.” Captain Bryant glanced quickly at her but then trained his gaze on the slight, well-dressed man beside her.
Mariah looked from Mr. Crosby to Captain Bryant, trying to decide what best to say. “Mr. Crosby, may I present Captain Bryant, my neighbor and landlord of sorts. And this is Mr. Crosby, my . . .” She faltered as she took in the captain’s expectant, searching look. “A family friend.”
Captain Bryant’s eyes narrowed, clearly unsatisfied with her answer. “How do you do, Mr. Crosby?”
“Well, I thank you. But I had better take my leave.” Mr. Crosby consulted his pocket watch. “The Oxford coach departs from the Mill Inn at four, I understand.”
“Are you walking, sir?” Captain Bryant asked.
“I am.”
“Then allow me to offer my horse. Leave it with the hostler at the inn and tell him I shall call round for him in an hour or so.”
“That is very generous of you, Captain. But I shall have no trouble arriving on schedule. I timed myself on the walk here, you see. I shall have four minutes to spare if I leave now.”
“As you wish.”
Mr. Crosby bowed, smiled at Mariah, and then turned smartly on his heel.
Mariah and the captain watched him depart in silence, the tension of unasked and unanswered questions pulsing between them.
Suddenly a ball bounced across the lawn and rolled up Captain Bryant’s boot. He bent to retrieve it just as George Barnes ran into view from the poorhouse lane.
Eyeing the strange man, George stopped where he was.
Captain Bryant raised the ball and, seeing the lad ready, threw it true. George caught it easily.
Mariah waved the boy over, glad for the distraction. “Come and meet our new neighbor.” When George stood before them, Mariah turned to the captain. “Captain Bryant, may I present George Barnes. He and his sister live in Honora House, there across the road.”
“Hello, George.”
“Hello, sir. What sort of captain are you?”
“Royal Navy.”
George scratched his ear. “You are a long way from the sea, sir.”
The captain grinned. “As I am daily aware.”
Once George had run off again, Captain Bryant asked, “What is Honora House?”
“The parish poorhouse.”
Relieved he had not persisted in asking about Mr. Crosby, Mariah explained the little she had learned from Jack Strong and Mr. Phelps.
Honora House was not a workhouse, where able-bodied persons were required to labor strenuously to earn their keep – breaking stones or picking oakum – or carted off for factory work. This poorhouse took in only the elderly, the lame, the simple, and children. They were not forced into hard labor, but all who were able were required to complete chores to keep the place running and as self-sustaining as possible. One might be assigned duties in the gardens, the kitchen, the laundry, or the knitting room, where hands young and old, male and female, were kept busy knitting socks, stockings, and mufflers to sell in the village. The institution also received funding from the church and wealthy benefactors – the Prin-Hallsey family primary among them.
Mariah wondered if Hugh Prin-Hallsey still managed to contribute.
“An odd location for a poorhouse,” the captain said. “So close to the estate, I mean.”
“Yes,” Mariah agreed. “I thought so too.”
And now that she had received payment for her first novel, she would not have to go there. At least, not yet.
Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house;
as your pearl in a foul oyster.
– William Shakespeare, As You Like It
chapter 10
From her bedchamber and sitting room windows, Mariah glimpsed the man on the poorhouse roof several times over the next two weeks. She wondered if he was employed by the institution, or was one of its residents. If the former, the roof must be in poor condition indeed to require such regular attention.
After one of these sightings, Mariah saw George and Lizzy Barnes walking along the road, coming from the direction of the village. Their father, George had told her, had once owned one of the mills in Whitmore. But three mills in one village had proved one too many, and the mill had gone under. Mariah could imagine George grown, a spotless apron over his ample belly, fine white powder in his hair and in the creases of his hands, cheerfully serving customers at the mill that would have been his one day, had his father not lost it.
Their mother now lived as companion to an elderly woman in Bourton. Mariah had asked George once why their mother did not come to live with them at Honora House. George shook his head. “Says it would kill ’er to enter a poorhouse. Her a gentleman’s daughter and all. Nearly killed her to send me and Lizzy. But after Papa died, she couldn’t afford to feed us, could she? And the ol’ tabby she works for hasn’t room for us and can’t abide children either.”
George’s sister, Lizzy, was a girl of seventeen with golden-brown hair a shade lighter than her brother’s and blue eyes a shade darker. She was a slender girl, not much taller than her brother, though six years his senior. George would no doubt soon surpass her in height, as he had already done in girth. As the daughter of a miller and a gentlewoman, Lizzy would likely have married well, thanks to a generous dowry or at least an endless supply of bread and other good things to eat. Instead, she whiled away her youth in the poorhouse, her bloom radiant, though few had opportunity to see it.
Mariah wondered at the liberty George Barnes seemed to enjoy. She had heard that poorhouse children were required to attend three hours of school each weekday, when the old village schoolmaster came out to teach basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. And each child had chores to attend to, depending on age and ability. But George seemed to roam about the countryside at will.
Mariah saw Lizzy less often. By rights, Lizzy should no longer have been in the poorhouse. When boys turned thirteen, and girls sixteen, they were considered able-bodied adults and were sent off to the workhouses in Cirencester or Stroud, or the “house of industry” in Oxford. Grim fates indeed compared to the life of relative ease afforded by Honora House.
But Lizzy had been kept on, employed by the poorhouse matron, and so was allowed to remain with her brother.
Mariah unlatched her window and pushed it open. “George?” she called down.
He smiled, altering his course toward the gatehouse. “Yes, miss?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course, miss. You know I’ll do anything for a biscuit.”
“Greedy boy,” she teased. “I haven’t any biscuits today. But come back tomorrow.”
His small eyes lit in anticipation.
She asked, “Who is the man who walks about the poorhouse roof ?”
George’s smile instantly faded. “Couldn’t say, miss.”
“You don’t know his name?”
He ducked his head in uncharacteristic unease. “No, miss.”
Lizzy walked over and put her arm around George. “Please don’t ask him. We are not meant to know about any man on the roof, and definitely not to speak about him.”
“But why?”
Lizzy’s brow furrowed, her normally sweet expression sparking with irritation.
Mariah winced. “Sorry. But I cannot help wondering. I cannot abide a mystery.” Unless I am the one writing it, she added to herself.
Mariah bid farewell to the Barneses and closed the window. She heard Dixon’s half boots in the passage and called out to her. “That man is up on the roof again.”
Dixon stepped into the room and joined her at the window. Watching the distant man, she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “If he isn’t careful, he’ll fall to his death. Crazy fool.”
Mariah grew alarmed. “Do you really think he is in danger? Perhaps I should walk over and make sure the matron knows he’s up there.”
Mariah knew the poorhouse was overseen by a board of guardians, but left the day-to-day running of things
to its matron, a Mrs. Pitt.
She added, “I’d hate for him to be hurt when we might have prevented it.”
Dixon turned on her heel. “Take Martin with you. Perhaps he’ll oblige me and fall off instead.”
A few minutes later, Mariah walked up the path to the poorhouse. The building rose three stories high, topped by the flat roof and myriad chimneys she could see from the gatehouse. But this was the first time she had viewed the poorhouse at close range. While Windrush Court and most of the buildings in the village were constructed of the honey-colored limestone typical of the Cotswolds, Honora House was built of stark grey stone. Tall rectangular windows lined all levels on each side. A pair of spindly yew trees flanked its otherwise unadorned entrance.
Several yards to the left of this entrance sat two women on a bench. How small they appeared against the backdrop of the tall box of a building. As Mariah drew closer, she saw the ladies were older, perhaps about sixty years of age. The dark-haired one was knitting, while the white-haired woman simply sat with her face raised to the spring sunshine.
“Good day, ladies,” Mariah greeted them. “A lovely day to be out of doors.”
“Indeed it is,” the white-haired woman replied.
“Clouds rolling in,” her dark-haired companion amended.
Mariah looked from one woman to the other. And even as she formed her next sentence, she knew it to be only partly true. Feature to feature the resemblance between them was remarkable, yet beyond the hair color, there were striking differences. “You two are so alike,” she said. “You must be sisters.”
“And you must be a genius.” This from the woman with dark hair mixed with strands of steel grey, whose mouth and eyes were framed by the deep grooves carved by hard times and bitterness.
The white-haired woman smiled. “We are indeed. Twins. I am the younger, but my hair is white while Sister’s is still dark. Where is the justice in that, I ask you?” Her eyes twinkled.
The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 8