The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  As they sat at the little kitchen table together, Mariah could not resist mentioning that she had again seen the man on the roof. Remembering the warnings of the Miss Merryweathers, she did not press them. But while George studied the plate of biscuits and carefully selected the largest, he offered, “I hear him sometimes but never see him. He is kept apart from the rest of us.”

  “Is he a criminal or something?” Mariah asked before she could stop herself.

  Brother and sister exchanged harassed looks.

  Lizzy said, “No, miss. I am certain he’s not. All we have been given to believe is that if he were to be found out, it would not go well for him. That we are protecting him to keep him secret-like.”

  “But why?”

  “Don’t know, miss,” George said as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

  Lizzy pulled his arm down with a frowning shake of her head. “Could be just a rumor. Lots of tales are whispered when Mrs. Pitt isn’t around.”

  Mariah slid the plate of biscuits closer to George. “You said you sometimes hear him, George. Hear what?”

  Again George stole a look at his sister. He shrugged. “Shouts a lot of nonsense, he does. Can’t make out most of it.”

  “Shouts?” Mariah echoed. “Is he hurt, in pain?”

  “No. Not that sort of shouting.” George leaned forward. “His favorite is, ‘Hands to the braces!’ or something like it. Old loon.”

  “That’s enough, George,” Lizzy gently reprimanded. “Now, head on back. See if Cook needs help peeling potatoes or some such. Be useful.”

  He groaned under his breath but rose, thanked Mariah, and trudged across the room.

  When he had gone, Mariah smiled apologetically at Lizzy. “I am sorry if I pry too much.”

  Lizzy’s smile was tight. “It’s all right. We just need to be careful about the Pitts.”

  “Mrs. Pitt?”

  Lizzy nodded, her focus distant, distracted. “And her son, John.”

  Something about the look discomfited Mariah. She asked, “How old is John Pitt?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Mariah bit her lip, treading cautiously. “And what manner of man is he?”

  The girl shrugged. “Not a bad sort, exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lizzy frowned. “It just means that the Pitts are people to be kept on the good side of. To please or pay the consequence.”

  Mariah’s stomach knotted. “Lizzy, have either of them threatened you?”

  The girl’s expression buckled with incredulity. “No, miss! Nothing like that.”

  Still, there was something in the girl’s guarded expression that made Mariah ill at ease.

  In the poorhouse office the next day, Mariah sat in the begrudgingly offered chair. She reached into her basket and handed Mrs. Pitt a jar of jam. The woman was in her late forties or perhaps fifty, with a bony chest, sharp clavicle bones, prim lips, and stiffly curled dark hair.

  Mrs. Pitt eyed the jar skeptically with muddy brown eyes. “Rhubarb? How . . . healthful. That was very good of you, Miss Aubrey. Not that I am in need, but – ”

  “No, of course not. A small gift, that is all.”

  “Then, I thank you.”

  “I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Pitt . . . You see, from the gatehouse, we have seen a man on your roof. Which is no problem to us, I only wanted to make sure you knew he was there and that he is safe.”

  The woman’s smile was wooden. “All our inmates are quite safe, Miss Aubrey, I assure you. Most are in their right minds too – though not quite all of them, I’m afraid. If there is any risk, we do what we can to keep the potential miscreant apart from those he might harm, even unintentionally. We are a small parish after all, and there is no asylum for such poor souls elsewhere.”

  “You are very good, Mrs. Pitt, to shelter him here.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “It was my late husband’s goodness, God rest his soul. I was not privy to the details of the arrangement, but – ”

  A knock sounded on the threshold, and Mrs. Pitt’s face instantly brightened into a genuine smile, which shed ten years from her visage. “Mr. Lumley!” She glanced back at Mariah. “Miss Aubrey, are you acquainted with our vicar?”

  Mariah turned to look up at the man in black suit and tabbed white collar. “I have seen him in church, but we have not been formally introduced.”

  The man gave a perfunctory dip of his head. “Miss Aubrey.”

  If he had heard of her, or remembered her from Easter Sunday, he gave no indication.

  He looked back at Mrs. Pitt. “Forgive me – I have only come to discuss accounts. But if you are busy . . .”

  Mariah rose. “I was just leaving, Mr. Lumley.” She conjured a smile. “Good day to you, Mrs. Pitt.” The woman began to rise, but Mariah gestured her to stay. “No, no. You go on and have your meeting. I shall see myself out.”

  But outside the office door, Mariah hesitated. Instead of turning toward the front door, she turned farther into the main entry hall. From her brief visit and conversations with George and Lizzy, she knew that the kitchen, larders, and laundry rooms were in the basement below and that a schoolroom, sickrooms, offices, and the entry hall comprised the main level. At the end of the hall was a large stairway which led up to two floors of bedchambers. Mariah walked quietly over to it. At the base of the stairway, she paused. Hearing no objection from the office, and believing herself unnoticed, she gingerly mounted the stairs, reached the first landing four or five stairs up, and then turned sharply to climb the longer staircase to the first floor above. She stepped lightly, and her slippers made barely a sound.

  Suddenly a stair creaked a protest and she froze. But as she listened in silence she heard only the faintest sound of Mrs. Pitt’s obliging laughter at something the vicar had said.

  She rounded the stair rail of the first floor, glancing through doors left standing ajar into small tidy bedchambers. Empty. She guessed the majority of residents were busy at their chores in the laundry, kitchens, or gardens outside. She continued on.

  Seeing a narrower set of stairs to the next floor, she climbed these as well. Here, more doors stood open. From one of these, she heard muffled voices. One male and one female, but so low she could barely make out the words. She tiptoed closer and heard the man’s voice rise. “Lizzy . . .”

  Mariah slipped though one of the open thresholds and peered around the door, just as Lizzy Barnes strode into the corridor from a few doors down. In her arms, she carried a basket of linens. “Let me go about my work, John,” she hissed.

  “But, Lizzy . . .” A barrel-chested young man appeared in the threshold, paused long enough to shut the door behind him, then followed Lizzy down the stairs.

  Mariah looked at the closed door. Could that be his room?

  Tiptoeing forward, Mariah tried the knob, fearing it would be locked. It turned easily, and she peered inside. Seeing no one, she stepped in, closing the door behind her. She found herself inside a small antechamber, like a dressing room separate from a larger bedchamber. But instead of clothing, there was only a small table and chair on one side and an old stuffed chair with several books and magazines piled beside it on the other. A candle lamp glowed weakly from the table.

  She crossed the narrow antechamber and pressed her ear to the inner door. At first she heard nothing, but then she made out a few words of an old ditty she’d heard somewhere before, sung in a low masculine voice:

  “My father’s got an acre of land,

  Blow, blow, blow, ye winds, blow,

  You must dig it with a goose quill,

  Blow, ye winds that arise. . . .”

  Mariah knocked very softly. Inside the singing stopped. She knocked again.

  “Hello?” she whispered. “Are you all right in there?”

  A shuffling sound. Then a melodic baritone replied, “I am as I am. But who do you be, madam? I recognize not your fair voice.”

  “I am your neighbor. I have seen you on
the roof. That was you, was it not?”

  His voice lilted in discovery. “Ah . . . the girl in the gatehouse. A pleasure. How kind of you to call.” The door rattled but did not open. “I am afraid I am not to have the pleasure of inviting you in, nor of meeting you in person. That is to be regretted.”

  Mariah hesitated, not sure how to address a potentially feebleminded or even dangerous man. “Are you . . . in distress?”

  “Distress? Corporeally, no.” His tone grew philosophical. “When you have lived the life I have, such circumstances are the most minor of inconveniences. All I lack is . . .”

  “Yes?” Mariah wished she might somehow give him the bread in her basket.

  “There is a certain lady here, you see. If I could but speak with her, my island of solitude would be paradise.”

  “Who is the lady, if I may ask?”

  “Miss Amy Merryweather. A dear friend. How I miss her.”

  Miss Amy! How had he met her? “Shall I pass on a greeting to her? I shall likely be seeing her soon.”

  “Then how fortunate you are! Yes, please give her my fond felicitations and best regards.”

  “And . . . whom shall I tell her the greeting is from?”

  “Why, Captain Prince, of course.”

  Mariah was taken aback. The mythical, or at best dead, captain?

  “Captain Prince . . .” she repeated dubiously.

  “Yes. Is it not an apt name for a man who roams the ramparts of his castle, looking down with benevolence upon his domain below?”

  Mrs. Pitt was right. The old man was not in his right mind. Poor soul.

  “I shall tell her,” Mariah whispered.

  She stepped back into the corridor and closed the door behind her. Suddenly John Pitt loomed above her. “Oh! Mr. Pitt.”

  “What are you doing up here?” he asked, expression thunderous.

  “I . . . I was looking for you, of course.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Me. Why?”

  “I have a small gift for you – that is all.” She reached into her basket with trembling fingers and drew out the wrapped loaf of cardamom bread she had hoped to give to the man on the roof.

  “I have given your mother jam and thought you might like the bread. I made it myself.”

  He made no move to accept it. “You are not to be up here, miss.”

  “Am I not? I wonder why?”

  His eyes were mere slits now. “How did you know to look for me here?” His gaze flicked to the closed door before returning to search her face.

  His superior glare put starch in her backbone. She was not the only person doing what he ought not. “Why, I followed your voice, Mr. Pitt. Yours and Lizzy Barnes’s. You two were conversing. Dare I say, disagreeing. I shouldn’t wonder if the whole house heard.”

  His brows rose, and for a moment he looked ill at ease. Caught.

  Good, she thought. Perhaps he’ll leave Lizzy alone in future, though she doubted it. More likely, he would just be more careful. At least he might think twice before telling his mother he had discovered Miss Aubrey abovestairs. And how his voice had led her to that particular room.

  I shall conclude with exhorting all young women

  not to be drawn from the paths of virtue and

  innocence thro’ pleasure, or believing what

  designing men will say to gain their own ends.

  – The History of Miss Sally Johnson, a Magdalen (anonymous)

  chapter 16

  The Frenchmen kept coming. One after another, like stinging ants from their hill. One after another he cut them down, his cutlass swinging red, his arm so tired, so heavy, so numb with death. And still they came. Some barely more than boys.

  “S’il vous plaît, non!”

  “Please, sir. Let me go home.”

  Frenchman, Spanish, Dutch. Appendages piled up on the deck, blood flowed over the tops of his boots, and still they came. Lord almighty, will it never end? And there, another young man fell to his knees before him, begging for mercy. He raised his cutlass once more. At the last second, Matthew recoiled, shocked to recognize the young man’s face. It was his own brother. Peter. But the cutlass was in the air, the blade flying in its silver and red arc, ready to deliver the deathblow.

  “Noooooo!” Horrified, Matthew shot up in bed, hearing the echo of his own cry. He was drenched in sweat, bedclothes tangled around his limbs, his right arm in numb needle pricks from lying on it. His chest heaved, his heart raced.

  Footsteps drummed down the corridor and, after a quiet knock, his bedchamber door creaked open. “Matthew? Are you all right?”

  He inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to regain his breath. “Sorry to wake you, William.”

  Hart stepped tentatively inside, candle lamp high. “Another nightmare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to tell me?”

  Matthew shuddered. “Not really. Same old thing. Killing, bodies, regret.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as though to erase the lingering images.

  “It was war, Matthew. You are not a killer – you are a decorated captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  “Then why do I feel guilty?”

  “You have done nothing wrong.”

  “Tell my conscience that.” Matthew expelled a harsh breath. “Look, Hart. Go back to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Hart chuckled, trying to lighten the moment. “The nightmares don’t bother me, Matthew. It is the snoring I can’t abide. I should have chosen a room farther down the passage.”

  In the morning the two men went riding together, Matthew handling Storm with relative ease now. They rode across the estate, and then through the front gate and out onto the open road, startling birds into flight and dogs to barking as they went.

  Matthew gave his friend a sidelong glance. “You really don’t regret any of it?”

  Hart shrugged. “I regret getting in the way of that French bullet, and squandering my prize money, but otherwise, no.”

  As captain, Matthew received the greatest share of each prize. The scheme of percentages had grown increasingly complex, but on average, Matthew knew he received eight or nine times what Hart had for the same captures. And then of course Hart had been injured and sent to the naval hospital, while Matthew had gone on to capture several more ships, including a Spanish frigate loaded with gold specie.

  “Can you really say it was all for the sake of winning the war, for king and country?” Matthew asked. “I cannot. Warships are one thing. But what about those merchantmen?”

  “It was all for the good of our cause.”

  “No, it was unmitagated greed. I killed for prize money. What does that make me?”

  Hart pursed his lips. “Rich? In line for promotion?”

  Matthew argued, “Our prime directive was to destroy enemy warships, not to capture rich merchantmen, no matter how profitable.”

  Hart shook his head. “I disagree. The Admiralty knows the lure of prize money is its best recruiting tactic. Heaven knows it is not the regular wages.”

  Matthew knew this. Knew that most captains, at least of fast frigates like his, keenly sought such prizes, for the value of a captured ship was often more than a year’s pay for the crew, and earned by only a few hours of fighting. The capture and eventual sale of a seaworthy or at least repairable ship increased the size of the prize. It was the reason boarding and hand-to-hand combat remained the attack of choice, even though cannons could be used to sink the enemy from afar.

  “I do not lose sleep over the warships, their officers and crew. What wakes me at night are the thoughts of all those young men pressed or in trade, whose mothers, whose wives and children, still cry because they are not coming home.”

  “Even that shortened the war, Matthew,” Hart insisted. “Anything that hindered France’s ability to trade served to weaken the country and Napoleon’s supply routes. You must believe that.”

  “I do. Usually.” Matthew grinned weakly. “At least
, by the light of day.”

  But inwardly, he wondered for the hundredth time if it had all really been worth it. It might be, he told himself, if it allowed him to finally win Miss Forsythe.

  Mariah did not see the Miss Merryweathers after her encounter with the man from the roof, so she returned to Honora House the next day hoping to deliver his message.

  She walked up the lane in time to see Agnes and Amy stepping gingerly from the house toward their customary place outside. As Mariah approached, Amy’s legs seemed to give way and she crumpled into her sister, who grabbed hold of her arm and tried to keep her upright. Mariah ran forward and took Miss Amy’s other arm, and together she and Agnes helped her onto the bench.

  “Are you all right?” Mariah asked in concern. “Shall I fetch Mrs. Pitt, or run into the village for the apothecary?”

  Miss Amy put a hand to her chest to catch her breath and still managed a smile. “Thank you, my dear, but there is nothing either of them can do. My old body is just giving out – that is all.”

  Mariah did not think the woman past sixty. Had she always been sickly?

  “She will be right as a trivet in no time, out here in the sunshine,” Agnes said, the hollow look in her eyes belying her bravado.

  “Nonsense, Sister. It is only a matter of time. After all, we have already outlived most of our friends and relatives.” She looked at Mariah. “How do you think we ended here?”

  Agnes explained, “We managed on our own for many years after Father died. Sold our house and moved into a small pair of rooms together. Our few friends did what they could, but Amy’s health began to fail and eventually . . .” She shrugged to punctuate the inevitable.

  “That is what happens to women who don’t marry,” Miss Amy added. “Unless you have family to provide for you, of course.” Her concerned blue eyes fastened on Mariah’s. “You do have family, I trust, my dear?”

  Mariah hesitated, not wishing to add to Miss Amy’s worries. “I have family,” she said, sounding unconvinced in her own ears. Well, she did have Henry.