The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 3

  With a dismissive wave, he led the way through an echoing entry hall adorned with a massive stone fireplace. Glancing up, Mariah saw a magnificent ceiling with carved and painted medallions of fruit, flowers, angels, and birds.

  They reached the grand staircase. At the landing were displayed two large formal portraits lit by a glittering chandelier above. The first was of a man in middling years, with thick gray hair and long side-whiskers, his green eyes downturned and nearly sad. Beside it was a portrait of an arrogantly handsome young man, with black hair and dark eyes, and a jewel in his cravat. “Who are they, Martin?”

  “The older gentleman is the mistress’s late husband, Mr. Frederick Prin-Hallsey. And the younger man is his son, Master Hugh.”

  Mariah nodded and followed Martin up the remaining stairs and down an echoing corridor. At its end, he opened a paneled door and gestured her inside, closing the door behind her.

  While the rooms Mariah had passed had struck her as being stark, this room was crowded with furnishings – paintings, clocks, candelabra, and statuary. At the center of it all, Francesca Prin-Hallsey sat upright in a neatly made canopied bed. She was fully dressed in black crepe and lace and her curled wig. A lap rug over her legs was the only concession to her invalid status.

  “Mariah. Thank you for coming. Does black suit me? I think not, but Dr. Gaston assures me I shall go any day, so I wish to be prepared. You see Miss Jones here in black as well.” She lifted a lace-wreathed hand toward a plain but kind-looking woman sitting on the far side of the bed. “She does not like it, but I say why wait for all the fuss and ceremony until after I am dead and buried and cannot enjoy it?”

  Miss Jones shook her head, sharing a wry smile with Mariah. She wore an unadorned bombazine day dress and was sewing what appeared to be black funeral arm bands. Mariah hoped they would not be needed for a long while.

  Mariah sat in a hard-backed chair near the bed. “You look well to me, Aunt.”

  “Do I? Dr. Ghastly will not like to hear it. Hugh either, I daresay.”

  Mariah did not know how to respond.

  Mrs. Prin-Hallsey straightened her lace cuffs. “How is life in the gatehouse?”

  “Fine. Quiet.”

  “You still have my chest?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you looked inside?”

  Mariah hesitated. “I . . . no . . .”

  Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. “Aha. You tried, but found it locked, did you not?” She pulled at the chain around her neck, and from her bodice emerged an ornate old key.

  “And nor shall you, until I am dead and buried.” She tucked the key back into its hiding place. “After that, you may sift through my things all you like. You never know. You may find something valuable, or at least interesting.”

  Before Mariah could thank her, her aunt continued, “Whatever you do, do not tell Hugh. Some of my things have gone missing already, and I suspect he is selling whatever he can to pay down his gambling debts. Wicked boy.”

  Her aunt cocked her head to one side, and for a moment, Mariah feared the heavy wig would topple.

  “I remember you as a child, my dear.” She regarded Mariah levelly. “You and I have more in common than you might guess.”

  “How so?”

  Mrs. Prin-Hallsey smiled cryptically and then leaned forward. “If Hugh throws you out after I die, take the chest with you. Promise me that.”

  Would he? Mariah swallowed. “I promise.”

  “Good. That is settled.” Francesca Prin-Hallsey leaned back against her cushions and closed her eyes. Mariah realized she had been dismissed.

  On her way down the portico stairs, Mariah saw a man striding toward the house from the stable. She recognized him from the portrait hanging inside. Hugh Prin-Hallsey, only son and heir of Frederick Prin-Hallsey, by his first wife. Both now deceased. Though still handsome – tall, with straight black hair, thick dark brows and side-whiskers – Hugh appeared a decade older than the portrait and was somewhere in his mid to late thirties. He wore a well-made riding coat and walked with an easy, long-legged stride and elegant bearing. As he neared, she noticed a few lines between his brows and alongside a smirking mouth.

  His dark eyes lit with interest. “Hello there. How do you do? Hugh Prin-Hallsey.” He bowed. “And you are?”

  She hesitated, fearing his reaction when he learned who she was. “I am Miss Aubrey. And I know who you are.”

  “Do you indeed? Have we met? I should think I would remember such a lovely creature.”

  “We have not met. But I have seen your portrait in the house.”

  “Have you? And what do you think?” He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. “Does it do me justice?”

  She grinned at his comical swagger. “Whatever the artist was paid, the sum was too little.”

  He quirked one heavy black brow. “I think the lady replies in riddles.”

  She changed the subject. “I have just been to see Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, who is not in the best of health, as you know.”

  She noticed him wince, and wondered if the news distressed him as much as it appeared to.

  He quickly righted this misapprehension. “How I dislike hearing that name used for anyone but my dear mamma – God rest her soul.” He sighed.

  “I am sorry.” For his mother’s death or for using her appellation, Mariah did not clarify.

  His wince deepened into a grimace. “Do not tell me you are the supposed niece.”

  She smiled apologetically. “I am afraid so. I live in the gatehouse.”

  “So I have recently learned. Pity.”

  She wanted to ask which aspect of these circumstances inspired the word, but refrained.

  He folded his arms behind his back. “You say your aunt is not in good health?”

  “No. The physician told her it will not be long.”

  “Excellent. First good news I have had all month.”

  Mariah gaped. “Mr. Prin-Hallsey, that is unkind in you.”

  “No doubt. But I’ll not feign a regret I do not feel. How she would scoff if I did. She is well aware of my opinion of her, and I daresay her opinion of me is little better.”

  Mariah could not contradict him. “Still, she looked well to me.”

  “That’s too bad. Say – ” He gave her a sharp look. “How much are you paying for the gatehouse?”

  She stared at him, stunned at the bold question. The truth was she paid nothing. “I . . . That is, your . . . my aunt was very generous in allowing me – ”

  “Never mind – I shall speak with my steward on the matter. And now I must bid you good day, Miss . . . ?”

  “Aubrey.”

  He frowned. “Aubrey . . . I have heard that name before. But you say we have not met?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well. It will come to me. Now, please excuse me. I must go in and make certain the old bat is not hoarding any more of my mother’s things. Good day.”

  “Good day,” she murmured, but he had already mounted the stairs.

  Mariah watched him disappear into the house, not knowing which she feared more. What he might do when he learned of her free rent, or what he might remember about her.

  I wish I were a scholar

  And could handle the pen

  I would write to my lover

  And to all roving men

  – “The Cuckoo,” traditional English folk song

  chapter 4

  Mariah set her quill in its holder and rose.

  Ting.

  There was the sound again, at her window pane. She stepped to the window and peered down through the wavy glass. There below her, as she had anticipated, was the round, expectant face of George Barnes. While the other poorhouse children Mariah had seen were thin, George managed to remain stout. He had fair cheeks that blushed easily, small pale blue eyes, and light brown hair. He wore a snug tweed jacket and riding breeches, stained and worn thin at the knees.

  She pried up the lever and pushed open t
he window. She could already hear Dixon at the front door below.

  “You there. Cease and desist this instant. Do you mean to break the windows? Have you any idea the price of glass these days, young man?”

  “Sorry, mum. I only meant to get ’er attention.”

  “Then why not knock at the door like a decent person?”

  Mariah knew the answer to this but noticed with approval that the eleven-year-old was clever enough not to reply. He was no doubt afraid Miss Dixon would box his ears.

  “Here I am, Mr. Barnes,” Mariah called down. “Ball thrown over the gate again, was it?”

  “That’s it, miss. Sorry, miss.”

  “No trouble. I shall be down directly.”

  She met Dixon at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Her former nanny scowled. “You’ve spoilt him, Miss Mariah. He’ll run you ragged if you let him.”

  “I don’t mind. I have been sitting too long as it is.” Mariah eyed Dixon’s bonnet and shawl. “Where are you off to?”

  A flicker of apology creased her friend’s narrow face. “Mrs. Watford’s. You know, for tea and whist.”

  “Of course. Have a nice time.”

  Since her recovery, Dixon had returned to visiting her new friends on the estate and in the village, while Mariah limited her own society to Dixon, her cat, Chaucer, and a few poorhouse children.

  Dixon tilted her head. “Will you come, Miss Mariah? You would be most welcome.” Her prominent, hooded blue eyes were gentle. And radiated pity.

  “Thank you, no, Dixon. Do you need me to finish the jam?”

  “If you would not mind. The pots are cooling now. And I have left a nice fish stew for your dinner.”

  Mariah forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  Dixon pulled on gloves and hooked a covered basket over her arm. Mariah wondered what offering Dixon was bearing to poor Mrs. Watford. Hopefully not fish stew.

  After Dixon left, Mariah walked to the kitchen door. Outside, she crossed the damp grass and looked this way and that for the ball.

  George Barnes stood on the other side of the gate, looking for all the world like a young convict behind bars, though she was the one inside.

  “There it is.” He pointed. “Under that shrub with the white flowers.”

  She bent and plucked the ball from beneath the blackthorn already blooming on this early March day. Noticing the torn seam and threadbare state of the old hide ball, she wished she had the money to buy him a new one.

  “There you are, Mr. Barnes.” She tossed the ball easily over the gate.

  He caught it in one hand. “Good throw!” he said. “Thanks.”

  She ought to be a good throw. A good catch too. She had grown up with two older brothers, after all. Henry, as well as Richard, whom she had not seen since he and his wife sailed for India two years ago.

  George turned and scampered across the yard to the poorhouse lane, where he rejoined a group of stringy boys awaiting him.

  Mariah returned to the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the smell of Dixon’s fish stew. A loaf of bread which had failed to rise properly sat on the sideboard. Miss Dixon had many sterling qualities. She was loyal, intelligent, hardworking, and forthright. But the woman simply could not cook a palatable meal. Which, Mariah supposed, was not surprising, considering she’d been hired into the Aubrey household years ago as nursery-governess, and not a cook. She had been Nanny Dixon to Mariah and Julia when the girls were young. The thought brought pain. How Mariah missed her sister.

  She sighed and dipped a modest serving of stew into a chipped bowl. With effort, she sawed off a shingle of bread, then sat alone at the kitchen table. Briefly bowing her head, she said quietly, “For your provision of food and shelter, and Dixon, I am truly thankful.” She felt awkward and uncomfortable as she prayed, as if talking with an estranged friend – one she had wronged very badly.

  Her six-fingered cat, Chaucer, came and curled around her ankles. The stray with the extra digit had earned his keep by catching many a gatehouse mouse over the fall and winter. But now that spring was in the air, he spent his time hunting out of doors and often left his small victims on her doorstep.

  Mariah set her bowl, with the remaining morsels of stew, onto the floor at her feet. “There you are, you little beggar. Don’t tell Dixon, or neither of us shall hear the end of it.”

  The silver and grey cat sniffed at the bowl, then walked away, leaving the scraps of fish and potato untouched.

  Rising, Mariah donned her work apron and did the washing up. Then, not wanting any stray hairs to end up in the jam, she donned a white cap. She cut tissue, brushed oil and beaten egg whites onto each side of the thin paper, and then covered each pot with the oiled and egged papers.

  Not everyone liked rhubarb, Mariah knew. It was viewed as primarily medicinal by many. Considering Dixon’s recent malady, Mariah thought it wise to preserve all they could from the patch that had sprung up beside the stable. She preferred strawberry or raspberry jam herself, but those fruits would not be in season until June and July respectively. Last week, Dixon had gone to the village market and purchased at discount a basket of past-peak imported oranges. These, plus several exorbitantly priced lemons, they had boiled with sugar into marmalade, pots of which stood proudly on their larder shelves.

  The last jar covered, Mariah glanced up through the kitchen window and noticed how dark it already was, although the March days were becoming longer. A storm was brewing. Had Dixon taken an umbrella?

  A crack of thunder rent the air, and Mariah jumped. She wiped her hands on her apron and stared out at the roiling sky, feeling her emotions roil in tandem.

  Perhaps it was the approaching storm that made her give in. Or the fact that Dixon was out for the evening, leaving her alone in the gatehouse. There was no one to witness her weakness.

  Or perhaps it was because her mood had sunk as low as Venus in the morning sky, as it sometimes did when the past revisited her, each memory like a sharp hailstone pinging, pecking against her brain. How could I have been so stupid? Foolish, foolish girl! And doubts and despondency would rise like waves in the North Sea, threatening to crumble her stoic façade. Had she conjured up, imagined the whole affair? Surely not. Had he not given her every assurance of his love? Of their future together? Was he really as innocent of misleading her as he later insisted?

  She needed, once more, to reassure herself their courtship had not been merely the fancy of a desperate young woman.

  The proof was tucked away in the attic, at the bottom of her trunk, where Dixon was not apt to stumble upon it whilst tidying the rooms. Where Mariah would not be tempted to look too often, to while away her days, her life, on futile regrets. She had gone for months without venturing up the steep turret stairs and would have resisted longer had curiosity over her aunt’s chest not gotten the better of her one gloomy midwinter afternoon. She had gone up and attempted to peek inside – to no avail. Even then she had not looked into her own trunk, or reread her own letters. Most days she was strong enough without them.

  Not today. Not tonight in an empty house – an old ramshackle gatehouse – far from home, far from family, with the wind howling and the rain lashing the windowpanes and her soul heaving with loneliness and loss.

  She lit her brightest candle lamp, the stout, heavy one her aunt had given her, and carried it upstairs.

  The flame guttered and swayed, casting flickering shadows on the narrow staircase rising from the passage outside Dixon’s bedchamber to the attic above. The old wooden stairs creaked beneath her slippered feet, and the attic door whined when she pushed it open. Inside, the wind shook the turret and whistled through the cracks around the solitary narrow window. Beyond it, lightning flashed, momentarily brightening the small musty room nearly filled by her and Dixon’s trunks, her aunt’s ornate chest, and a few odds and ends of broken furniture.

  She pulled an old cloth from her apron pocket to wipe the floor, then sank to her knees before her own trunk and lifted the heavy lid. She slid as
ide a layer of crinkled paper and a tissue-wrapped parcel, which contained her grandmother’s lace shawl – too delicate to wear, too dear to part with. Beneath this were two bandboxes, stacked. In the first was a hat, as one would expect of a bandbox, a confection of flowers and ribbons and springtime, as youthful and flirtatious as she had once been. If she but opened the lid and peeked inside, she would be transported back to that day. The last day she had worn it. And likely ever would.

  She set this box aside and lifted forth the second hat box, leaning back and settling it on her legs. She raised its lid and placed it next to her, as well as a thin children’s reader, which she’d kept as a reminder of happier days. And to disguise what lay beneath.

  Her fingers no longer trembled as they once had when she lifted the ribbon-bound bundle of letters, but her heart still pounded. A sickly feeling descended upon her, as if she were a child having eaten too many sweets, and anticipating the stomachache and nausea ahead.

  She slipped the first letter from the ribbon and unfolded it, emotions pumping. Would the reassurance she sought be there? Or had she tried too hard to read between the lines, to find the meaning she desired, when it simply wasn’t there? She picked up the candle lamp in one hand, while the letter fluttered in the other.

  My dear girl,

  How sorry I am to tell you that it is not within my power to return in time for the Westons’ ball as I had hoped. My father insists my European tour shall not be complete without a fortnight in Rome. As he is paying for the trip, I feel duty bound to honor his wishes. But soon we shall be together, and neither duty nor distance shall keep us apart.

  For now, the lock of your hair, and thoughts of you, bring both peace and torment to my lonely heart. . . .

  A sharp pounding shook the gatehouse, loud enough to be heard over the wind and rain. Mariah’s heart started. She dropped the letter, like a thief, caught. Who could be knocking? Dixon had the key.

  She quickly folded the letter and stuck it with the rest of the bundle back inside the bandbox and, fingers belatedly trembling, returned everything into its hiding place and hurriedly shut the trunk.