The Girl in the Gatehouse Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 aside 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.
    Bang, bang, bang .
    Her heart leapt to her throat.
    Who in the world would be out in this? Whoever it was could not bear good tidings. Lord, let Dixon be well. Please, not a relapse . And let nothing have happened to Henry. . . .
    Bang, bang, bang .
    “All right! All right!”
    Wiping her hands on her stained apron, Mariah huffed down the stairs and across the drawing room, carrying the candle lamp as she went. She hesitated before opening the front door. The Strongs and Mr. Phelps always came to the