The Girl in the Gatehouse Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 the 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