The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  “Time, like an ever rolling stream,

  bears all who breathe away. . . .”

  Mariah emerged from the tree-lined path, and there sat the two old sisters in their customary places before the poorhouse. And standing before them was a small girl with long, reddish-gold curls. In one hand she held a long twig with a gossamer ribbon tied to its tip, swirling it about, forming loops in the air as she sang. She focused on the whirling ribbon and not the sisters, as if she had no conscious awareness of an audience. But perhaps this was illusion, for her voice was pitch-perfect. Hauntingly beautiful.

  “They fly forgotten, as a dream

  dies at the opening day. . . .”

  Mariah’s slipper skimmed a rock and sent it skiffing across the path. At its small sound, the girl looked over her shoulder, then darted around the side of the poorhouse and out of view as quickly as a startled hare.

  “Oh! Forgive me,” Mariah said to the Miss Merryweathers as she approached. “I did not mean to interrupt. In fact I hoped to listen. I heard her singing from the gatehouse. What a voice she has!”

  “Sings like an angel but flighty as a bird,” Agnes said.

  Amy added, “Terribly shy, poor girl.”

  “I am sorry. I shall go, and perhaps she will return.”

  “Never mind, my dear,” Miss Amy said. “Now that you are here, do stay and chat. It is such a treat to have a caller.”

  “Very well.” Mariah sat on a wooden slat chair angled toward the bench. “Who is that girl, if I may ask?”

  Amy answered, “Her name is Maggie, but most of the children call her Magpie.”

  “Magpie?” Mariah chuckled. “How unjust. She sings like a nightingale.”

  Amy nodded. “She is an orphan, poor dear.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. I suppose there are no orphanages in the parish?”

  Agnes shook her head. “None that I know of. Not for girls her age, at any rate.”

  “Does she often sing for you?”

  “Most every Sunday. Have you never heard her before?”

  “No.”

  Amy eyed her speculatively. “Then perhaps you were not ready to listen before now.”

  Mariah felt her brow wrinkle at that odd statement. More likely she had simply not had her windows open before the weather turned warm.

  “Do you not attend church, Miss Mariah?” Amy asked.

  “I . . . used to. Do you?”

  “Not anymore. Some folks here walk to the village church, but my days of country walks are over, I’m afraid. Now and again, the vicar or an itinerant revivalist comes by, but otherwise, we are content to commune with our Maker here, and listen to sweet Maggie sing.”

  Miss Amy closed her eyes and continued the hymn in a high, reedy warble.

  “O God, our help in ages past,

  our hope for years to come . . .”

  Her voice was a stark contrast to the girl’s but still oddly beautiful. From somewhere out of sight, the girl joined in, her rich voice complementing and completing the old woman’s.

  “be thou our guide while life shall last,

  and our eternal home.”

  The final note held, shimmered on the air, and burned Mariah’s eyes. Home.

  A novel must be exceptionally good to live as long

  as the average cat.

  – Lord Chesterfield, eighteenth-century statesman

  chapter 12

  At dinnertime the following week, Mariah paused at the rain-streaked kitchen window. She saw Martin dash across the yard from the stable, hat pulled low against the spring shower. She had almost expected him not to bother, considering the weather and his obvious dislike of Dixon’s cooking.

  A whiff of rain and Martin’s odd herbal scent followed him inside.

  “Hello, Martin.”

  “Miss.”

  He wiped his boots, hung his hat on a peg, then eyed the sideboard with suspicion. There, a pork pie belched steam as well as a slightly off odor.

  “The day is wet, Martin,” Mariah began. “Will you not take your meal with us? We need not stand on formalities here.”

  Martin looked at Dixon, her back stiff as she attempted to pry an overcooked pudding from its mold.

  He glanced back outside at the rain.

  “We do not mind,” Mariah assured him. “Do we, Dixon?”

  Dixon turned and set the lopsided, scorched pudding on the table. “You are the mistress.”

  Sigh.

  Mariah set an extra place while Martin prodded a sleepy Chaucer off the usually unoccupied third chair.

  The meal passed in awkward silence, Mariah now and again attempting conversation.

  “Do you find it difficult to climb into the loft?”

  Martin took a sip of water. “I manage.”

  “And have you everything you need?”

  Martin nodded, eyes on his plate. “Jack Strong helped move my things up there. Even offered to build a few bookcases and the like.”

  “How kind.”

  Mariah paused to take a bite and conversation lagged. Martin seemed to be concentrating on arduously chewing and swallowing each mouthful. Finally, he set his fork down, his plate still half full.

  “Miss Mariah,” he began. “I wonder if I might make myself useful in the kitchen. I served the Royal Navy as seaman, cook, and steward in their turn.”

  Dixon’s mouth became a prim line. “Do you think we want your ship’s biscuit and salt beef here?”

  Mariah privately thought it might make for a nice change.

  “Spoken by the chef who produced this pottage?” Martin lifted a gelatinous piece of . . . something . . . from his plate.

  Mariah winced, realizing the situation could quickly become hostile.

  “There is nothing wrong with my cooking.” Dixon bristled. “It is basic, I admit, but perfectly nourishing. Is it not, Miss Mariah?”

  She forced a smile. “Of course, Dixon. But you do not enjoy the task. How often I have heard you lament it. And if Martin wishes to try his hand – er, sorry – then I don’t see the harm. Perhaps just for a week to start?”

  Dixon sat back, lips puckering.

  Martin dipped his head. “I am much obliged to you, miss.” Seeing Dixon’s sour expression, he placated, “Now, Miss Dixon. I have a hankering to be back among the pans and kettles, I do. Perhaps I might prepare dinner, and you might continue with breakfast?”

  “An excellent suggestion, Martin.” Mariah glanced hopefully at Dixon.

  But she refused to look at either of them. “Very well.”

  Martin tried again. “And you are right, Miss Dixon. Shipboard fare was monotonous indeed: boiled beef or pork, dried peas, cheese, duff, lemon juice, and weevil-infested ship’s biscuit. But now and again, the captain would allow us to fish from the deck. Then what delights we would have – shark, swordfish, even turtles. How the captain enjoyed my turtle soup. But what he liked most of all was my figgy dowdy, which I made on Sundays when we had the stores for it: biscuit, pork fat, plums, figs, rum, and currants all baked together.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Mariah said.

  “It was indeed. Shall I prepare one tomorrow?”

  “That would be excellent,” Mariah enthused. “My brother Henry is due to call again tomorrow.”

  He was coming to finish the read-through of Daughters of Brighton with her and Dixon before delivering it to Mr. Crosby. In fact, Mariah added to herself, perhaps Henry would visit more often if someone else were doing the cooking.

  The next morning after Martin had done the washing up of the breakfast things, he began pottering about the kitchen, apron folded over and tied around his thick waist. At first Dixon fastidiously stayed away, as if allowing him to sink on his own. She settled herself before the drawing-room fire with mending basket and spectacles, wincing every time pots clanged or a cupboard door slammed.

  Martin emerged once or twice to ask where some utensil or staple might be found, and eventually she got up with a long-suffering sigh an
d followed him into the kitchen, muttering about how his cooking was supposed to save her time.

  Mariah followed as far as the door and pressed her ear to it, her anxiety increasing as she listened.

  “You will have lumps, adding flour like that!” Then, “Is something burning? Oh, it’s you. What is that pungent odor of yours, by the way?”

  “An ointment for my arm,” Martin replied. “And thank you for noticing.”

  “Ah . . . Well,” she faltered. “Better use a larger pot or that will boil over.”

  A lid clanged, followed by a rapid chopping sound.

  “Miss Mariah does not like leeks.”

  Finally, Martin’s voice rose. “Hush, woman, and taste this.”

  Mariah peeked through the crack in the door in time to see Martin all but shove a spoon past Dixon’s lips.

  Waiting for her reaction, he tasted the sauce himself. “Hmm?” he asked, brows tented high.

  Dixon hesitated, and then defeat crossed her features. “I own it is very good.” She dipped the spoon into the pot and sampled it once more. “What did you say you called it?”

  He was drawn, he supposed, like a hound to the scent of fox, or a cat to cream. Once more, Matthew’s evening stroll took him to the gatehouse, with its padlocked gate and candlelight glowing from the windows. Not to mention its attractive occupant.

  As he approached, he again heard voices – Miss Aubrey’s, as well as the low, deep-pitched tones of a man.

  A man . . . in the gatehouse at night? It must be their manservant. The odd man with the stooped shoulder and hook hand.

  But the deep voice he heard did not agree with his supposition. It seemed younger than that man would possess, and more cultured.

  “Can you be so barbarous to dismiss the man who lives but in your smiles? Oh, my dear! Do not break my heart. If I must leave you, let me bear with me your forgiveness. Let me hear you say you do not hate me.”

  “Hate you!” repeated Miss Aubrey. “Hate you! Oh no! I never hated anyone; but you know too well that I – ”

  “Proceed,” said the man. “Proceed, dear one. What is it I know? That you love me?”

  Who was this man? Matthew wondered, alarmed. Was it that Mr. Crosby he had met by chance? Was he forcing his attentions on Miss Aubrey?

  After a pause, the man added, “That look speaks yes; then why refuse to make me happy?”

  Should he intervene? It was none of his business, of course. Except . . . he was master of the estate, at least temporarily. And as such, was not Miss Aubrey entitled to his protection? His sister’s face flashed in his mind. If only he might have protected her. He doubted Miss Aubrey would welcome his interference. And yet, in good conscience he could not walk away until he was certain.

  He knocked sharply on the door.

  The raised voices within fell instantly silent.

  He knocked again, less sharply this time. He was tempted to peer in through the windows, but the knell of approaching footsteps kept him where he was. The door creaked open a few inches, and the servant woman’s face appeared, wearing a jaundiced cast in the golden light of a candle. Her eyes were wary but softened fractionally upon seeing him.

  “Captain Bryant. We did not expect you.”

  “I was just walking by and heard a man raising his voice. Is everything all right?”

  “A man? No, sir, you are mistaken.”

  Matthew hesitated. “I distinctly heard voices. Miss Aubrey’s and a man’s.”

  “There is no man here, unless you count Martin. And I don’t.”

  “If Miss Aubrey wishes to entertain male callers in her home, at night, well, that is her prerogative, but – ”

  “Male callers? Good heavens. What an imagination you have! She hasn’t any male callers, Captain. If you heard a man, then it must have been Martin. Old fool is always fussing and complaining about something. It was him, no doubt, giving us all a bellyful of woe.”

  “But Miss Aubrey sounded upset. If the man frightens her, she ought – ”

  “She wasn’t frightened. Not really. Mostly bluster, Martin is.” She began to edge the door closed. “You are very kind to worry, Captain, but there is no need.”

  Miss Aubrey appeared at her maid’s side. “What is it, Dixon?”

  “It’s Captain Bryant. He thought he heard voices – you arguing with a male caller of all things. I told him it was only Martin.”

  “Oh . . . Martin. Yes.”

  Matthew felt his ire rising. Why the subterfuge? “But the man spoke of love.”

  “Oh!” Miss Aubrey sputtered. “That was not . . . We were not speaking, we were reciting.”

  “Reciting?”

  “Lines from a . . . play. A theatrical. Our family has always enjoyed performing theatricals, especially at Christmas and Epiphany.”

  “It is May.”

  “I know, I know. You must think us very foolish.”

  He studied her face. “Are you well, Miss Aubrey? You look pale.”

  “Do I?” She brushed a tendril of dark hair from her face. “I assure you I am perfectly well, Captain.”

  He hesitated. “Well, if you are certain you are all right.”

  “I am. But thank you for your concern.” She formed an unconvincing smile.

  He bowed and turned to go, disheartened to conclude that Miss Aubrey had not been honest with him.

  Matthew did not intend to spy. Not really. Yet he returned to the gatehouse the next morning before heading to church, compelled to test his suspicions and make certain the occupants of the gatehouse were all right after last night’s odd encounter. After he had left them, he had imagined some masked bandit within, threatening violence should they reveal his presence. A bandit speaking of love? Foolish notion, he knew, yet he could not rest easy until he assured himself Miss Aubrey was well.

  As he neared the back garden, he once again heard voices and, through the bars of the gate, saw two figures on its other side – Miss Mariah and a well-dressed man a few years younger than himself. This was no disembodied voice. No ghostly man. Not that Mr. Crosby he had met and certainly not old Martin. She could not make this man disappear with explanations and excuses. A man who stayed the whole night in the gatehouse?

  As Matthew stood there, unnoticed, the man enfolded Miss Aubrey in a quick embrace. An unexpected, nauseous dread filled Matthew’s gut at the sight. Illogical jealousy? Distaste at having the rumors he’d dismissed confirmed?

  Miss Aubrey handed the man a parcel wrapped in brown paper, which he tucked under his arm. He smiled at her and gave the parcel a reassuring pat. A gift perhaps, or something to sell. He knew Miss Aubrey struggled to pay her rent. He had even talked with Hammersmith, trying to persuade the steward to extend a bit of grace. But the man had only grumbled that he need not concern himself. She must have managed this quarter’s rent, at least, to still be living in the place.

  Miss Aubrey stood where she was, watching the man as he walked to the road, turned toward the village, and disappeared from view. Whatever Matthew’s initial feelings, anger now filtered in to replace them. She had lied to him. She and her servant both. No doubt they thought they had fooled him with their little performance last night.

  Before he had consciously chosen to do so, Matthew stepped close to the gate and said archly, “Hello, Miss Aubrey.”

  Mariah whirled, eyes wide. “Oh! Captain Bryant. You startled me.”

  He leaned his shoulder against the gate. “And why is that?”

  “I . . . was not expecting to see you.”

  “I imagine not. Not when your gentleman caller had his arms about you in broad daylight.”

  She frowned. “Would you prefer a nighttime tryst?”

  “What? No. I was not suggesting . . .” Why did the woman always put him off balance? He was a wobbly-legged midshipman all over again in her presence.

  She lifted her chin. “And he was not a gentleman caller, per se.”

  “No? Then who was he?”

  She hesitated.
“My . . . friend, who . . . assists me in matters of business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Is it not? If it takes place on this estate?”

  “Nothing took place anywhere. He spent the night at the inn and only called this morning to bid us farewell. I assure you I have been the picture of propriety since I came to Windrush Court.”

  “Have you? And before?”

  She stared at him, apparently taken aback. Her discomfort, her evident grief and embarrassment, smote his conscience. “Please forgive me, Miss Aubrey. I ought not have implied anything untoward.”

  She swallowed, but the tart reply he expected did not come.

  Within my Aunt’s pockets this morning I found

  A Purse that I’m sure weighed at least twenty pound . . .

  A Pincushion, Thimble, and a red Pocketbook

  Where none but herself are per mitted to look.

  – Miss Augusta Smith, niece of Jane Austen’s neighbor

  chapter 13

  On his way inside to shoot billiards – to shoot something – a frustrated Matthew spied Hugh Prin-Hallsey in the dim gunroom. The man was on his knees, digging through the contents of a dusty old cabinet. Behind him was a stack of antique guns, some in and some out of a large packing crate. Hugh, leaning halfway into the cabinet, peeled down the cloth covering from an ornately framed oil painting. Matthew caught only the quickest glimpse of the portrait – a man’s face – before Hugh rewrapped the frame. Had Hugh now stooped to selling his family history as well as heirlooms?

  It unnerved Matthew to have the man underfoot. How could he make Windrush Court his home if the owner was forever loitering about? He hoped the man would return to London before Lieutenant Hart arrived. And stay there.

  Matthew leaned against the doorjamb. “Hello, Prin-Hallsey. Lose something?”