The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 2

  “I shall have the chest put in the attic, shall I?” Mrs. Prin-Hallsey said. “The turret has attic space as I remember?”

  “Yes,” Mariah answered, though the question had clearly been rhetorical. She wondered how her aunt knew about the attic, and couldn’t imagine what might have possessed her to venture inside this long-abandoned gatehouse before now.

  The young footman bearing the chest started for the stairs.

  “Have you anything else you would like my men to carry up to the attic while we are here?”

  Mariah thought quickly. “We have two trunks, now all but empty, in the first-floor passage.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Prin-Hallsey nodded toward the second footman, and he followed the first.

  Mariah felt discomfited at strangers making free with what had so quickly become her home. Still, she smiled at Mrs. Prin-Hallsey.

  “Thank you, Aunt Fran.” The old name slipped out before Mariah could think the better of it.

  The woman’s eyes widened. “That is an address I have not heard in years, nor missed either. You may call me – ” she considered – “Aunt Francesca. Or Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, if you prefer.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.” Mariah felt chastised, yet her aunt had not minded the name before. “And thank you again for the gifts.”

  Once more, the elegant nod of acknowledgement. “Think nothing of it.”

  A few minutes later, her aunt was gone, her entourage with her.

  Mariah took herself back upstairs, glad to see how much space had been freed by the removal of the trunks. She found herself standing at the window, staring at the roof and chimneys visible above the autumn-gold trees.

  The floorboard squeaked behind her, announcing Dixon’s presence. “I asked one of those footmen about the building across the road.”

  “Oh?” Mariah glanced at Dixon over her shoulder. “And what did you find out?”

  Gaze fixed on the window, her companion said quietly, “That’s the parish poorhouse.”

  Mariah stared at the dark roof once more and shuddered. Poorhouse . . . Suddenly the gatehouse did not seem like such a bad fate.

  Work, Lady, Work, let writing books alone,

  for surely wiser women ne’re wrote one.

  – The Duchess of Newcastle, seventeenth-century author

  chapter 2

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  FEBRUARY 1814

  Late autumn and winter had been cold, lonely, and disheartening. Mrs. Prin-Hallsey had not once returned, nor had she invited her niece to the great house. Mariah had heard from the estate carpenter, Jack Strong, that the mistress had been ill during much of December and January. Miss Dixon, too, had fallen ill. She suffered from the ague for several endless weeks during which Mariah had used the greater portion of her strength – as well as her funds – to keep Dixon’s bedchamber warm and her every need met. Even so, how Dixon had shivered and wheezed. Mariah had walked to the village apothecary several times to purchase remedies as well as heavy wool socks and a muffler – made, she was told, by “inmates of Honora House,” the poorhouse so near her own abode.

  It soon became clear that the annual stipend her father had given her on going away would not last the year. They had been obliged to purchase window glass and fabric for the bedding that could not be salvaged, as well as coal and other necessities for the house. Then, the unexpected apothecary bills had eroded the remaining sum to precarious lows.

  But now spring showed every sign of arriving early. It was only February, and already the snow had melted. Wrinkled rhubarb and clumps of purple crocus had begun to push through the damp earth to join the modest snowdrops.

  While less frigid weather meant they would require less fuel for their fires, and could soon plant a vegetable garden, still their plight was desperate. Mariah pored over their household accounts and determined she would have to do something very soon. She recalled the words of Admiral Nelson, “Desperate affairs require desperate measures,” and knew it was time for her to take desperate measures as well.

  She dipped a quill into the inkpot and began a letter to her brother Henry. A few years her senior, Henry Aubrey was a struggling junior solicitor in Oxford. She had not seen him since last summer but was certain their father had apprised him of the situation and forbidden him to harbor her. But her request, Mariah reasoned, was of a professional rather than a personal nature.

  In her letter, Mariah described her “desperate” proposal and asked Henry to call at the Windrush gatehouse if he thought it feasible, or simply to write a reply in the negative if he thought it not. She hated to risk their father’s wrath, or to drag Henry away from his work, if he judged her plan a futile one.

  Dixon, much improved, posted the letter for her.

  For the remainder of that week, Mariah spent a great deal of time pacing back and forth across the drawing room, while Dixon calmly attended to their mending.

  “Do you think he will come?” Mariah asked for the twentieth time.

  Dixon pulled a long thread through a torn shift. “Did you not write and ask him to come?”

  “Yes, but perhaps he has spoken with Father. Thought the better of it.”

  “He will come,” Dixon insisted. “You must trust your brother, and trust God.”

  Mariah did trust Henry. She was not as sure about God. Not anymore.

  In the midst of her worry, the good-natured estate gardener, Albert Phelps, came over with a basket of flower bulbs. Both he and Jack Strong had proved helpful neighbors over the long fall and winter. Mr. Phelps was stout and had closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a clear glint in his eye whenever he looked at Dixon. This amused Mariah but seemed to make the older woman wary.

  “They don’t look like much now,” Mr. Phelps said. “But before you know it, these gladioli and freesias will burst forth and brighten your back garden.”

  Dixon was stiff and silent, so Mariah thanked the man in her stead.

  “I’d be happy to plant them for ya, if you like.” He was looking at Dixon as he made his offer, so this time Mariah awaited her friend’s reply.

  Dixon lifted her chin and said coolly, “We are both grateful for your help, Mr. Phelps.”

  A broad smile lit his ruddy face. “And in a few weeks, I shall bring a crate of seedlings I started in the hothouse. Bit early yet. But just right for bulbs.”

  Mariah wondered if a man had ever brought flowers – even flower bulbs – to Miss Dixon. For a moment, Mariah set aside her worries and smiled.

  It was about time.

  On Saturday afternoon a knock sounded at the front door of the gatehouse – a rarity indeed – and Dixon rose to answer it. When Mariah saw Henry standing in the threshold, her heart and throat constricted. She longed to run to him and throw her arms around his neck, but she hesitated as she had never done before in his presence. Would he be cold toward her now? Distant? Disapproving?

  “Mariah.” His eyes lit with warmth and compassion, and he strode forward to greet her.

  Her reserve fell away and she relished his embrace. “Oh, Henry, thank you for coming. I was afraid you would not. I would not have blamed you, but – ”

  “Of course I came, Rye. As soon as I could.”

  Mariah studied her brother as he kindly greeted Dixon. He appeared much the same as ever – still handsome, though perhaps his waistline had thickened a bit and his brown hair, the same shade as her own, had thinned.

  After Dixon excused herself, Mariah looked up into Henry’s hazel eyes, so like their mother’s. “Do you think it a ridiculous idea? Please tell me if you do.”

  “I do not. I think it a marvelous notion. Perhaps a way to bring some good out of this muddle.” He lowered himself onto the settee. “Which one, do you think?”

  “I was thinking of The Brambles of Bath.” She sat beside him. “Anonymously of course. I have revised and edited it over the winter. But Daughters is nearly finished as well, if you think that one better.”

  “I enjoyed them both.
Julia did as well, I remember. Hmm . . .” He stroked his chin. “You may wish to change the titles, if you don’t want Father to recognize them.”

  Their father loathed novels, denouncing them as a poor influence on impressionable young women. “Excellent point,” she said. “No need to give Father more to disapprove of.”

  Henry’s eyes turned plaintive. “Rye . . .”

  But Mariah cut him off. She didn’t want his pity or to discuss the past. “Do you think that publisher you know might be interested?”

  He inhaled. “No idea. I can but ask.”

  “Are you sure you do not mind doing so? Should Father find out . . .”

  “I think the chances of that happening are rather slim.” He took her hand. “I am happy to do it. I wish there were more I could do, but – ”

  “Hush, Henry. I know. I am grateful you came at all. I would not take money from you even if you had it to give. This way you can honestly say you have not harbored me.”

  Henry crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I know they cannot have you at home with Julia, but not to provide for his own daughter . . .”

  “Do not judge him harshly,” Mariah soothed. “He no doubt thought the amount he gave me would last a full year. You know Mamma and Weston handle all the financial affairs and have done so for years.”

  “Could you not write and ask for more?”

  She gave him a pointed look. “Would you?”

  He shuddered. “Never.”

  “I no doubt could have managed more efficiently, but . . .”

  Dixon came in carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. “You do an amazing job, Miss Mariah. Never doubt it. Bricks without straw, I’d say.”

  Henry’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He smiled at Mariah and squeezed her hand. “I am proud of you.”

  “Proud? I . . . Thank you, Henry.” Tears stung her eyes.

  He looked flustered at her reaction. “There now, don’t go spoiling your complexion over me.” He stood. “Thank you, Dixon, but I cannot stay. Now, where is this masterpiece?”

  Mariah rose and stepped to the drawing room table. There, she rewrote the cover page with a revised title, A Winter in Bath, and wrapped the manuscript in brown paper and twine. Dixon, meanwhile, handed her brother a bundle of biscuits for the journey home.

  Henry thanked her, and then turned expectant eyes toward Mariah.

  She hesitated, cradling the thick rectangle in her arms. What if the publisher thought it awful? He very well might. Still, she had to try. She handed over the heavy parcel.

  Henry weighed it in his hand. “I thought you said a novel, not a dictionary!” He winked.

  Mariah tried to smile but failed. “Be careful with it, Henry. It is my only copy of the final draft.”

  “Never fear. I shall guard it as though it were your firstborn.” He placed his free hand on Mariah’s shoulder. “Now, take care, my dear, and go and finish the second!”

  On a Friday morning in late February, Mariah took a respite from writing. She stood at her bedchamber window, watching as two boys from the poorhouse stretched a length of rope across the seldom-traveled road. Curiosity rising, she unlatched and pushed open her window.

  “Good morning, boys,” she called down. “What are you doing with that rope?”

  “Hello, miss!” Stout eleven-year-old George waved his jaunty newsboy cap. “We’re charging a toll for any girl what wants to cross.”

  Mariah felt her brows rise. “A toll on this road? How much?”

  George and his chum Sam exchanged grins. “Just one.”

  Mariah cocked her head to the side. “One what?”

  “One kiss.”

  Scrawny Sam broke out laughing and covered his mouth with a grimy hand. George looked at him as though he were an idiot.

  “It is Kissing Friday, is it not?” George defended.

  Is it? Mariah had completely forgotten. “I suppose it is. But I don’t think you shall have much business there.”

  George shrugged. “We’ve already kissed every girl in the poorhouse.”

  Sam nodded vigorously.

  George dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. “I don’t suppose you have any need to cross this way, miss?”

  Mariah smiled. “I am afraid not, George. Perhaps some other lucky lady will come along.”

  “Could be.”

  “And when she does,” Sam shouted, “we’ll be ready for her!”

  Shaking her head, Mariah waved and shut the window. Kissing Friday. How long it had been since she’d thought of it. The one day schoolboys could buss any girl they chose without fear of retribution.

  Mariah took herself downstairs to see what she might find to eat. She was feeling peckish, for she had eaten little at breakfast. Dixon had scorched the porridge again.

  The kitchen was empty, but through the open window she heard voices outside in the back garden.

  “Do you know what day it is, Miss Dixon?” the gardener asked, a grin on his ruddy face and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Friday?”

  “Not just any Friday. It’s Kissing Friday – and you know what that means.”

  Dixon planted a fist on her hip. “Mr. Phelps. You are no schoolboy. I hope you are not thinking of stealing a kiss.”

  “Aww, Miss Dixon, don’t make me pinch yer backside.”

  Outrage stretched Dixon’s features. “My – ! You would not dare.”

  He shrugged easily. “That is the traditional penalty.”

  “Albert Phelps, if you dare pinch my . . . anything, you shall find this trowel upside your head forthwith!”

  “Miss Dixonnnn . . .” He pouted, looking very like an overgrown little boy. Like George or Sam, only less adorable.

  Mariah bit back a grin at the man’s antics. She had to admire his courage.

  “Just a kiss on the cheek, then?” He pinched the air. “A small one?”

  From the window, Mariah had a clear view of Dixon in her gardening gloves and apron, an old bonnet framing her thin face and prominent blue eyes. She looked irritated and . . . something else. What was it?

  “Oh, very well,” Dixon said in a longsuffering manner, tilting her head and offering her cheek like a patient preparing to be lanced. But Mr. Phelps did not swoop down. Instead, he leaned in carefully and pressed a slow, gentle kiss on Miss Dixon’s cheek. For a moment, Dixon did not move, just stood there, face tilted, eyes . . . filling with tears.

  “Th-thank you, Mr. Phelps,” she murmured distractedly.

  “Thank you, Miss Dixon.” The gardener beamed, seemingly unaware of the sheen in her eyes. He slapped his hat against his leg, set it jauntily upon his head, and strode away.

  He met the tall, thin carpenter, Jack Strong, coming up the lane.

  “She thanked me for kissin’ ’er!” he called, pleased as could be.

  Mariah expected Dixon to shout some rejoinder or at least to grumble about lips that kiss and tell, but instead she peeled off her gloves and drifted, dazed, into the kitchen.

  Concerned, Mariah asked, “Dixon, what is it?”

  Tears again shimmered in Dixon’s blue eyes. “Who would have guessed? To have my first kiss like that . . .”

  Mariah pressed her friend’s hand. “Plenty of girls have their first kiss on Kissing Friday. I know I did.”

  Dixon expelled a dry puff of air. “My first kiss, and no doubt my last.”

  Mariah grinned. “Not if Mr. Phelps has anything to say about it.”

  Dixon squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head. “Old fool.”

  But whether referring to Mr. Phelps or herself, Mariah wasn’t certain.

  She stepped outside to thank Jack Strong for coming to repair the rope swing and to ask after his wife, who was housekeeper up at the great house. Then, taking a piece of cheese with her, Mariah went upstairs to continue revising Daughters of Brighton, a story of two cousins – one vivacious, the other timid and chaste – both in love with the same man. She paused once more at the window, nibbling
her cheddar. George and Sam had given up or moved on, for the road was empty. Mariah thought dully that perhaps she ought to have obliged the boys with a kiss. It might have been her last as well.

  My dear aunt, my reputation is perfectly safe;

  though I cannot but be wonderfully indebted to you,

  for the prodigious fuss you make about it.

  – The Village Coquette, 1822 (anonymous)

  chapter 3

  When a knock shook the gatehouse the next morning, Mariah laid aside her quill, rose from the little writing table in the sitting room, and hurried downstairs, expecting to find Jack Strong or Mr. Phelps.

  But neither man stood on her back doorstep. Instead it was Jeremiah Martin, her aunt’s manservant.

  Mariah shivered. Perhaps it was his icy blue eyes. The strange high shoulder. The hook. Or the sudden fear at what his unexpected call might bode. He had not come to the gatehouse since the day Mariah and Dixon arrived last autumn.

  “Hello. Mr. Martin, is it?”

  “Just Martin, if you please.” He gave the barest bow, black suit straining. “The mistress bids you come to the great house.”

  Dread filled her. “Is Mrs. Prin-Hallsey unwell?”

  “That is it exactly, miss. At the strike of eleven and not before.” He turned and walked away, his gait awkward as he swung the one hand but held the hook tightly to his side.

  Dixon appeared at her elbow. “I am surprised a woman like your aunt can abide having that man about the place.”

  “It is surprising,” Mariah agreed. She shook her head, lips pursed. “What can she want?”

  At the appointed hour, Mariah walked over to the great house, dressed in one of her finer frocks of Clarence blue. She climbed the stairs and crossed the covered portico to the imposing front door. She had knocked only once when the door swung open. Martin, brushing past the footman, gestured her inside. “Two minutes late.”

  Mariah bristled. “The walk took longer than I expected.”