The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  Mariah smiled in return. “I am Miss Mariah Aubrey. I live in the gatehouse across the way.”

  “Ah, yes.” The cheerful woman nodded. “The children have mentioned you. You are as lovely as they said you were.”

  Her sister frowned. “They never said that.”

  “Well, not in words. They are boys after all. But they said as much with elbows to each other’s ribs and blushing faces.”

  Mariah grinned. “I know only a few of the children by name. George and Sam and George’s sister, Lizzy.”

  “George is such a dear. He brought back that pot of jam you gave him and shared it all round the table of a Sunday morning.”

  “Did he? I am glad to hear it.”

  “My portion would barely cover a crumb,” the dour sister said. “Though it was tasty.”

  “When Dixon and I make more, I shall bring you your own pot,” Mariah offered.

  “That is very kind, my dear. Is Dixon your maid?”

  Mariah shrugged. “I prefer companion. Miss Dixon was our former nursery-governess but stayed on with the family after my sister and I were grown.” She hurried to change the subject before they might ask about her family. “And might I know your names?”

  The cheerful white-haired woman smiled and gestured toward her sister. “This is Miss Agnes Merryweather and I am Miss Amy.”

  “How do you do?” Mariah curtsied to each sister in turn. Amy smiled beatifically while Agnes studied her with narrowed eyes.

  “I was hoping to speak to the matron here. Do you know if – ”

  “Out,” Agnes said, her mouth pressed in a thin line until her lips had nearly disappeared.

  “Mrs. Pitt has gone into the village,” Amy said. “Invited to dine with the vicar’s family and the undersheriff. Isn’t that nice?”

  Agnes snorted softly.

  “Perhaps I might wait inside?” Mariah suggested.

  “No visitors are allowed inside when Mrs. Pitt isn’t here,” Agnes said. “Afraid someone will see what it is really like.”

  Mariah felt her brows rise.

  Amy Merryweather said carefully, “The matron is naturally . . .”

  “Suspicious,” Agnes supplied.

  Her sister amended, “Cautious.”

  “Miserly.”

  “Officious.”

  Mariah felt like a spectator at a battledore and shuttlecock match, looking from sister to sister as each returned the other’s volley.

  Agnes scowled. “Miserly I said, and miserly I meant. You can’t tell me some of the parish funds didn’t end up in that ridiculous feather-stuck hat Mrs. Pitt wears, or on the private table of her overstuffed husband – God rest his soul. Why, I smelt roast goose on Christmas, when all we had – ”

  “You cannot know that, Agnes,” Miss Amy said patiently. “I saw no goose.”

  “I know roast goose when I smell it, Amy. Never say I don’t. I may not have tasted it in many years, but well do I remember that golden smell!”

  Miss Amy turned to Mariah. “Her nose has always been her best feature – it is true, Miss Aubrey.”

  “And what did we feast upon that holy of days? Boiled chicken. From an old cock what had been strutting the earth longer than the man on the roof.”

  Flashing her eyes at Mariah, Amy Merryweather laid a warning hand on her sister’s arm. Agnes darted a glance first at her sister, then Mariah, before looking away.

  “Man on the roof ?” Mariah echoed.

  Amy swallowed, the bony ball moving up and down her withered neck. Agnes sullenly refused to meet her gaze.

  “That is actually why I’ve come.” Mariah pointed to the roof. “About the man up there.”

  Agnes Merryweather clasped slender, veined hands in her lap and pinned Mariah with a meaningful gaze. “None of us knows about any man on the roof, Miss Aubrey. There is no man on the roof.”

  Mariah protested, “But – ”

  “Did one of the children say something?” Miss Amy whispered, face tense with worry. “You must tell me if they did, so I might warn them. The Pitts have been very pointed in their instructions.”

  Mariah shook her head. “They haven’t said a word, I assure you. But I have seen him myself from the gatehouse.”

  “Who else knows?” Agnes asked. “Has anybody else seen him?”

  “Only Dixon. I don’t know if she told anybody.”

  “The less said the better, my dear,” cautioned Miss Amy. “If the Pitts hear talk, they are sure to suspect one of us.”

  “And they will line us up and not feed us until one of us confesses.”

  Mariah felt her mouth slacken. “But that is preposterous. You may tell her I saw him. Or send her to me and I shall tell her myself.”

  “Us, send Mrs. Pitt somewhere?” Agnes nearly grinned. “That I should love to see.”

  Miss Amy chewed her lip in thought. “Does it not wonder you, Sister? For years, nothing. The gate locked, the house abandoned. But now that the gatehouse is inhabited . . . ?”

  Agnes nodded. “It does wonder me.”

  “Why did they lock the gate? Do you know?” Mariah asked.

  Agnes Merryweather’s lip curled. “We know the reason given. They said some of us were stealing. Which was not true.”

  “You mustn’t forget, Agnes,” Amy said gently, “there was Harry Cooper and those strawberries.”

  “Three strawberries! Poor lad had never seen strawberries before. Had one in his mouth and two in his hand for his sisters before I could say a word. If they locked the gate for that, well, I don’t know what that says about Christian charity.”

  Miss Amy looked at Mariah. “You see, my dear, at first they left the gate open and we could stroll about the grounds. Not near the house, mind. Such lovely gardens. That young Mr. Phelps took such pleasure in showing us his prized specimens. Even gave Sister a posy on more than one occasion.”

  Even now Agnes’s wrinkled cheek pinkened.

  “The family hosted a harvest festival our first year here and invited us all to join in. What dainties! What music. They brought in fiddlers from the village. We danced right there on the lawns. Such a happy time.”

  “But then they said we were stealing from the kitchen garden and the henhouse.”

  Timidly, Mariah added, “I heard poaching mentioned as well.”

  “Poaching! Never say so. I think we would know if anything of that sort was going on, sitting here all day as we do.”

  “But, Sister, we only sit out when the weather is fine.”

  “Do you think the old men here have fowling pieces? Or are spry enough to go traipsing about the wood setting traps? We would know. I’d not miss that biting gamey smell.”

  Amy shook her head. “She would not. It is true.”

  “It seems a pity the gate remains locked,” Mariah mused.

  Both sisters nodded.

  “Well.” Amy sighed. “I am relieved it was not one of the children. If word gets round, there isn’t much they can do to two old crones like us.”

  “Except forget to purchase coal for the fires,” Agnes said. “Take our shawls to launder and never return them. Like last time.”

  “Hush, Sister. Miss Aubrey has not come to hear our troubles – the worst of which are long past in any case.”

  Mariah was indignant at the thought of these two old women facing deprivation. Punishment. “But that is not fair.”

  Amy Merryweather eyed her knowingly. “Life is not fair, Miss Aubrey. Who ever said it was?”

  O nature’s noblest gift – my grey goose-quill!

  Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,

  Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,

  That mighty instrument of little men!

  – Lord Byron

  chapter 11

  Words seemed to flow more slowly now that the rent was paid. Feeling stymied about the last scene in her second novel, Mariah set down her quill, wiped ineffectually at the ink stains on her fingers, and slipped her arms into a long-sleeved
pelisse. She decided an evening stroll around the grounds was in order. Motion always seemed to spur creativity, and she was in definite need of that ability at present.

  She was halfway around the rose garden when Captain Bryant’s voice startled her. “Miss Aubrey. Was that you I heard talking to yourself ?”

  “Oh. Was I?” She felt her face flush and was grateful for the veil of dusky twilight. “Dreadful habit.”

  Captain Bryant was dressed casually in trousers and coat over an unadorned shirt. No waistcoat, no cravat. No doubt he had not expected to encounter anyone out-of-doors after sunset. He said, “You were saying something about a Mr. Montgomery.”

  Oh dear. “You mustn’t pay any attention to me, Captain,” she said hurriedly. “At Miss Littlewart’s seminary I was forever being reprimanded for distracting the other pupils, when I had no idea I had made a sound. I fear it is a habit deeply ingrained. I hope I did not disturb you.”

  “Not at all. Shall we take a turn together?”

  She nodded and fell into step beside him as they strolled the perimeter of the reflecting pond. Mariah looked up and saw Venus among the first stars of evening. She said, “I find I do my best thinking while I walk.”

  “And what do you think of ?”

  “Oh . . .” She hesitated, realizing she had asked for that. “Whatever my mind is working on at the time, I suppose. A solution to a problem, new ideas . . .”

  Gravel crunched beneath his boots. “You are not afraid to walk in the dark?”

  Relieved for the change of topic, Mariah shook her head. “One of the advantages of living within a walled estate. One feels unreasonably safe.”

  “My being here does not hinder you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  They walked for several more minutes in easy silence. He bent and picked up a stone and skipped it across the surface of the pond, disrupting the reflection of the moon on the silver plane of water. One bounce, two, three. He started to walk on but turned back when she sank to her haunches on the bank, sorting through the rocks until she found two smooth, flat stones. She stood and gave the first a side-armed toss. Plunk. It sank directly. She bent her knees and tried again. One bounce, two, three.

  “Bravo,” he said. “I never knew a girl who could skip rocks.”

  She smiled and moved on, deciding not to mention that her brothers had taught her.

  “May I ask about your family?” he said, as though reading her thoughts. “Are your parents not living?”

  It was a natural question. Why else would a single woman be living out from under her father’s roof ?

  “On the contrary, they are both alive and well,” she answered brightly, hoping to avoid more questions. “Mother is no doubt enjoying spring. It is her favorite season. And yours?”

  “My parents, or my favorite season?”

  She chuckled. “Both, if you like.”

  “I suppose I prefer summer. And my parents are both living. In Swindon.”

  He paused before a bench and gestured toward it. She sat down while he remained standing, arms crossed.

  “Have you no brothers or sisters, Miss Aubrey?”

  “I do. Two brothers and one sister.” To steer the conversation to less painful ground, she added, “My elder brother is stationed in India.”

  “That must be quite an adventure.”

  “For him, yes. I don’t think his wife quite agrees. And have you brothers and sisters?”

  He grimaced. “My mother had six children who did not survive infancy and one who lived to see the ripe old age of seventeen. All I have living is one younger sister. Recently married and quite happy in her choice.”

  “I am glad for her.”

  “Is your sister married?” he asked.

  How polite he is, Mariah thought. To dance around her family situation carefully, to avoid stepping on her toes.

  “No. She is only nineteen. But my father hopes for news of an advantageous match by the hour. And she is a sweet-natured girl who will no doubt oblige him.”

  He stiffened and looked away. What had she said to offend him? Surveying his profile by moonlight, Mariah saw him nod.

  “Yes, fathers can be quite persuasive when it comes to daughters. They wield great influence, and overpower her true feelings with arguments of ‘not rich enough, not well-connected enough, no decent prospects.’ ”

  He sat down heavily on the other end of the bench.

  “You know this from experience?” she asked gently.

  He nodded, resting his elbows on his knees. “Painful experience.”

  For a moment, they sat without speaking. An unseen insect landed on her arm and she swatted it away. A turtle dove cooed a gentle turr, turr, while a wood pigeon warbled mournfully.

  She said quietly, “It is not only young men who are scrutinized by fathers and found lacking. Young women are also rejected for not being rich enough nor well connected enough. And no matter how fervently the young man professes his love, in the end, he obeys his parent.”

  He looked over at her, likely hearing the wistful catch in her voice and having no need to ask if she spoke from painful experience of her own. “I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Aubrey.”

  Disconcerted to realize what she had revealed, she looked away, staring out at the pond once more.

  As if trying to cheer her, he said, “We have that in common, at least.” He paused. “Is there no hope your young man might change his father’s mind?”

  She uttered a bleak laugh. “None. He is married.”

  He winced. “Ah.”

  “And you, Captain. Is there any hope your ladylove will change her mind, or her father’s?”

  He nodded. “I have great hope. In fact, Miss Aubrey, that is precisely why I am here.”

  Before she could ask him to elucidate, he rose, offering his arm. “It grows late. May I walk you back to the gatehouse?”

  She hesitated. Now that he had declared his intentions toward another woman, she felt there was nothing improper in his gesture, nor in her accepting it. She did not fear he would misunderstand or take advantage. Rising, she tentatively placed her hand on his. “Thank you.”

  He tucked her hand beneath his arm, and the two walked companionably along the curved drive. She relished the warmth and friendly affection the connection delivered. It had been too long since someone had touched her, except for Henry’s brotherly embrace, or the practical touch Dixon might bestow while dressing her hair or fastening her frocks.

  Dixon was not the demonstrative person Mariah’s sister was. Julia was forever throwing her arms around Mariah in some triumph or dramatic woe. How she missed her. Their mother was mildly affectionate as well. Enjoyed brushing her daughters’ hair and having her own brushed in turn. And the kiss on the brow before bedtime. Her father, however, had never been openly affectionate. Like many men, he was reserved and conscious of decorum. Mariah had not once seen him kiss his wife or any of his four children.

  The gatehouse came into view, a candle left glowing in the kitchen window. How thoughtful Dixon was.

  She pressed Captain Bryant’s arm. “I wish you every success in your endeavors here, Captain.”

  For a moment, he kept hold of her hand, squeezing it gently. “And I wish your heart might one day heal.”

  She quirked a brow. “Would yours?”

  “Ah. I have yet to acknowledge defeat, so I cannot allow myself even to contemplate the need to heal. For now, it is one step, one day at a time. Ever keeping my eye on the prize.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “Then I bid you good-night, Captain. And sweet dreams of her.”

  As soon as she stepped inside, Dixon lurched from the kitchen table and released an airy whoosh of relief.

  “Miss Mariah, are you all right? I have been fretting and praying for the better part of an hour. What can you be thinking, out all hours with him?”

  “There is no need to fear, Dixon. He has made it perfectly plain he
has his heart set on another woman.” Mariah slipped off her pelisse. “In fact, that is why he is here. To prove to the world that he has come up in its ranks. And to convince the girl’s father he is now good enough for her.”

  “Is that what he’s about? I wondered.”

  “Well, we need wonder no more.”

  “Just be careful,” Dixon warned. “I would hate to see you break your heart all over again.”

  Mariah blinked back sudden, unexpected tears. “I know, Dixon. I know.”

  On a Sunday in mid-May, Mariah wrote a letter to Henry, thanking him again for his help with Mr. Crosby, and inviting him to visit at his next opportunity. Noticing the nib of her quill was fraying, she paused and laid it aside. She would need to cut a new one.

  While the goose feather soaked in hot water, she sharpened her penknife. Dixon had offered to mend pens for her, but it was a task Mariah liked to do herself. She was admittedly picky about her writing implements.

  First she stripped away the barb where the quill would rest against her forefinger. Then she cut away the tip at a steep angle and removed the membrane from inside. She made a slit in the center of the barrel, sliced a U from its underside, and angled off the nib on each side of the slit. Her last step was to “nib” the pen, thinning the tip by scraping it with her penknife.

  After the tedious operation, Mariah rose and stretched her stiff neck muscles. The house was quiet with Dixon gone to church. Too quiet.

  Church . . . Why did Mariah suddenly feel as though she were in the hallowed place herself ? She had gone only once since her arrival – last month on Easter.

  Mariah cocked her head to one side, listening. What had she heard?

  She stepped to the partially opened window and pushed it wide. There it was, more clearly now. A distant melody, sung by a voice so sweet, so pure, it stilled Mariah’s soul. For a moment, she simply closed her eyes and savored.

  Curiosity rising, Mariah skipped downstairs and stepped outside. She followed the sound of the voice across the road, toward the poorhouse.

  The crunch of her feet on the gravel path disrupted the sound, and she was torn between wanting to stop and listen, and wanting to discover its source. She stepped from the gravel to the spongy moss verge and, in the resulting quiet, could make out a few words.