The Girl in the Gatehouse (14 page)

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.

“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.”