Where she could be placed became a subject of

most melancholy and momentous consultation.

—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

chapter 1

September 1813

T he end of the only life I’ve known, thought Mariah Aubrey, looking
back through the carriage window at the shrinking figures of
her mother and sister. Nineteen-year-old Julia stood in the foreground,
shoulders heaving as she wept. The sight seared Mariah’s heart. Their
mother stood behind, hand on Julia’s arm, in consolation, in empathy—
perhaps even in restraint. And there came their father, down the steps
of Attwood Park. He had not come out to bid her farewell. He would
not, he insisted, “sanction vice, nor seek to lessen its disgrace.” But now
he draped one arm around his wife and the other around his younger
daughter, turning and shepherding them back inside, back into the only
home Mariah had ever known. And might never see again.
Mariah turned back around. Miss Dixon, on the opposite bench,

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 Julie Klassen

quickly averted her gaze, feigning interest in the fringes of her reticule,
as if she had not noticed any tears.
Mariah bit the inside of her lip to control its trembling. She stared
out the side window, despite knowing it would make her ill. She barely
saw the passing countryside as events of the last month whirled through
her mind. She winced, but the life-rending scenes neither altered nor
disappeared.
“Long journey ahead, Miss Mariah,” Dixon said. “Why not try
to sleep? The miles shall pass more quickly.”
Mariah forced a smile, nodded, and obediently closed her eyes. She
doubted she would sleep, but at least with her eyes closed she would
not see the pity on the face of her last ally in the world.

They traveled for two days, stopping at various coaching inns

to change horses, stretch limbs, and take hurried meals. Late in the
second day, Mariah fell into exhausted sleep at last, only to be jostled
awake when the hired post-chaise careened, sending her slamming
into its side.
“What happened?” she asked, righting herself.
Dixon straightened her hat atop blond hair threaded with silver. “I
believe the driver swerved to avoid a lamb.” She surveyed the pasture
beyond the window. “We are definitely in sheep country.”
Mariah rubbed her offended shoulder and looked out the win-
dows on either side of the post-chaise. They were following a gentle,
­sparkling river on one side, and on the other, a rolling meadow dotted
with white-faced sheep and nearly grown lambs. The river curved
before them, and they crossed it on a stone bridge, passing a pair of
red-brick mills on its bank. They entered a village of blond-stone cot-
tages, with an inn, apothecary shop, stonemason’s, and steepled parish
church clustered around a triangular green.
“Is this Whitmore?” Mariah asked.
“I hope so.” Dixon sighed. “My bones have had more than enough

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

of these poorly sprung seats.” Her former nanny was barely fifty, but
she complained like a much older woman.
They left the small village behind, and only a few minutes later,
the carriage made a sharp turn. Mariah looked up in time to see
the imposing entrance to an estate—its high wall broken by an open
columned gate.
Dixon leaned toward the window, like a potted plant seeking light.
“Where is the gatehouse?”
“This must be the main entrance,” Mariah said, explaining what
she recalled from her aunt’s letter. “The gatehouse is at a second
entrance no longer in use.”
Mariah could still barely grasp that she was now expected to live
on her own, with only Miss Dixon as companion. Her father had
insisted that even had there been no other young lady in his house to
be endangered by Mariah’s character, still he would not so insult the
neighborhood by continuing to harbor her. How his words had cut,
and cut still.
The carriage passed through the gate and followed a drive encir­
cling acres of landscaped grounds—shaped hedges and a rose ­garden
around a reflecting pond. At the apex of the curved drive stood impres-
sive seventeenth-century Windrush Court. The manor house of golden
blond stone stood two-and-a-half-stories high with dormer windows
jutting from its slate roof. Banks of tall mullioned windows winked
from both ground and first floors.
The carriage halted before the manor and lurched as the groom
hopped down to lower the step. The front door of the house opened,
and from between the columned archway stepped not her aunt but
rather an odd figure. A man in his late fifties, in a plain dark suit of
clothes, without the livery or regal bearing of either footman or butler.
There was something unnatural about the way he held himself, as if
one shoulder hitched slightly higher than the other.
The groom opened the carriage door, but the approaching man
held up his palm to halt his progress. “Hold, there. One moment.”

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 Julie K lassen

He gave Mariah a stiff bow. “Jeremiah Martin.” He lifted his balding

head, wreathed in silvery grey hair. “Are you Miss Aubrey?”
“Yes. Is my aunt not expecting me?”
“She is. But I am to direct you to the gatehouse.”
“Thank you.” Mariah hesitated. “May I quickly greet Mrs.
­Prin-Hallsey first?”
“No, madam. I am to take you to the gatehouse straightaway.”
Her aunt had offered her a place to live but refused to receive
her in person? Mariah glanced at Dixon to see how the opinionated
woman would react, but Dixon was not looking at her. She was staring
at the man, or rather at the hook that protruded where his left hand
should be.
“I see.” Mariah hoped her disappointment and embarrassment
were concealed behind a stiff smile.
The man’s blue eyes held hers a moment before flitting away. “I shall
climb up and direct the coachman. Big place, Windrush Court.”
A moment later, the carriage again lurched to life and rounded
the other side of the curved drive.
Mariah glanced back at the house. The curtains on one of the
first-floor windows parted and then closed. Then the carriage turned
right, away from the manor house, and entered a copse of redwood
and horse chestnut trees.
As they bounced along, Mariah swallowed back the hurt that her
aunt had not at least greeted her. When the woman had been mar-
ried to Mariah’s uncle, “Aunt Fran” had shown an interest in her, even
invited her to visit on several occasions. Though never an overly warm
person, her aunt had been kind to Mariah in her youth, which only
made this rejection more painful.
Impulsively, Mariah reached over and squeezed her companion’s
hand. “Thank you for coming with me.”
Dixon pressed her hand in return, her blue eyes bright with unshed
tears. “And what else would I have done?”
The carriage passed a gardener’s cottage, with a wheelbarrow of

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

potted autumn mums before it and a glass hothouse beside it. Then a
carpenter’s workshop, evidenced by long planks suspended between
sawhorses. Over these hunched a thin middle-aged man who paused
to tip his hat as they passed.
The trees thickened and the lane narrowed where grass and
weeds had been allowed to breach a formerly well-maintained drive.
Mariah craned her neck, looking through the trees for a glimpse of
the gatehouse.
There it was.
Tall and narrow, built of caramel-colored Cotswold stone. Not so
bad, Mariah thought. The gatehouse looked like a miniature two-story
castle attached to an arched gate, with a turreted tower on either side
of the gate, a story taller than the house itself. From the far turret and
the opposite side of the gatehouse, the high wall that enclosed the entire
estate curved away and disappeared within the wood.
The carriage halted, and the groom again hopped down and
opened the door. This time, Mr. Martin did not protest their exit.
In fact, descending from the equipage seemed to consume his full
attention.
Mariah stepped down and regarded the large gate with ornamental
filigrees atop sturdy iron bars. It had clearly been a major thoroughfare
in and out of the estate at some point. Now it wore a thick chain and
rusted padlock.
At closer inspection, the gatehouse itself appeared forlorn. The
stone walls were cankered, the window glass cloudy, and several panes
cracked. The small garden was overgrown and leggy. The adjacent
pair of outbuildings—a small stable and woodshed—in a slumping
state of disrepair. A rope swing hung from a tree, its wooden seat
broken in two.
Mariah glanced at Dixon, but she was once again staring at Mr.
Martin. The man paused near them to fish jingling keys from his
pocket, and Dixon lifted a scented handkerchief to her nose without
subtlety. The man did have a pungent odor. Not of uncleanliness,

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 Julie K lassen

Mariah surmised, but something else. Whatever it was, Dixon clearly

disapproved.
He glanced over at Mariah and said sternly, “That gate is to remain
locked, unless in case of fire or other dire emergency.”
Curiosity pricked Mariah. “May I ask why?”
He lifted his normal right shoulder so that both were raised in a
shrug. “Hasn’t been used in years. Not since the road outside the main
gate was widened into a turnpike.”
His answer did not fully explain the locked gate, but Mariah did
not press him.
Mr. Martin unlocked and pushed open the gatehouse door. He
handed her the keys, and Mariah eagerly entered her new home.
The cloying odor of musty dampness and stale air met them inside
a small kitchen. Dust covered the table and work counter. Dixon lifted
an old basket upturned on the sideboard, only to discover a scattering
of fennel-seed mouse droppings beneath. Her small nose wrinkled.
Mariah stepped from the kitchen into the drawing room at the front
of the gatehouse. Something scurried out of sight as she entered. Dust-
cloths shrouded a saggy settee and a wing chair. Water stains marked
the wall beneath the front bow window, but at least the roof seemed
sound. The moth-eaten draperies deserved to be burned and replaced,
but perhaps they could wash and mend them instead. Mariah sighed.
So very much to do, and such limited funds with which to do it.
Mr. Martin bade the coachman and groom to haul down their
trunks and valises from the carriage boot and roof and carry them
inside, but he departed without offering to help. Perhaps he could not,
with a hook for a hand. Or perhaps he did not think this strange young
woman, this distant relation of his mistress, worth the effort.
Dixon directed the transfer of two crates of foodstuffs and utensils
into the dim kitchen, a crate of books and linens into the drawing room,
and the trunks abovestairs.
Following the men, Dixon and Mariah climbed the narrow staircase
to the first floor up, the banister shaking in their hands. There, they

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

found one bedchamber on either end of a narrow passageway, with a

small sitting room between them.
“Which would you like, Dixon?” Mariah asked, relieved to find
the rooms habitable.
“You should have the larger, of course.” Dixon hesitated at the
window of the larger bedchamber, which overlooked the road and
wood beyond. Above the treetops appeared the roof of a stark, boxlike
building. Three black chimneys jutted from its ramparts, loosing coal
smoke in triune columns of sooty grey.
“Not much of a view, I am afraid. If you’d prefer the other room,
I don’t mind.”
“This is fine, Dixon. Thank you. What do you suppose that build-
ing is?”
“Don’t know. But one strong wind and we’ll be sweeping its soot
from our floors.” She turned. “Well, we had best get busy. This place
won’t scrub itself.”

For several days, Mariah and Dixon undertook the cleaning and
airing of the gatehouse from ceiling to floorboard, from attic to cellar.
They had to evict several creatures that had taken up residence in the
chimneys and sweep up heaps of droppings. This was the only reason
Dixon did not object when Mariah suggested adopting the cat that
began shadowing their every move as they went in and out carrying
filthy draperies to scald and refuse to burn.
On their fourth day there, Dixon called, “Miss Mariah! There’s a
carriage coming up the lane.”
Mariah’s heart lurched. A carriage from within the gated estate.
Who could it be? She raced to the kitchen window and looked out
at a grand coach pulled by a pair of matched bays. A liveried foot-
man stepped down, opened its door, and offered his hand to the
occupant.

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There she was. Her aunt, the former Francesca Norris, now Mrs.
Prin-Hallsey.
Her hair was different than Mariah remembered—rabbit-fur grey,
curled and piled high in an elegant coif, with long corkscrew curls cas-
cading over one shoulder. A wig, certainly. Aunt Norris had never had
such thick hair, and what she’d had was reddish brown. Her aunt’s face
was powdered very light, but her brows and lashes were dark, making
her brown eyes large and doelike. She wore a burgundy day dress with
threads of silver and a high-necked lace collar. She held her head erect
and walked regally toward the door. Mariah hurried to open it, but
Dixon stayed her with a firm hand.
“Allow me, miss,” she said in her most respectful voice, whipping
the cap from Mariah’s head. Mariah quickly untied her apron.
Dixon opened the door before Mariah could retreat into the draw-
ing room. She was left standing there as her aunt strode into the humble
kitchen as though she owned the place. And, in a sense, Mariah sup-
posed she did.
“Aunt . . . That is, Mrs. Prin-Hallsey. How good to see you again.”
Mariah tossed the apron onto the table and curtsied.
“Is it?”
“Of course. Perhaps not . . . under such circumstances, but yes, I
am happy to see you.”
A smile compressed the woman’s small, thin mouth. She dipped
her head in graceful acknowledgement and followed Mariah into the
drawing room.
She ignored Mariah’s offer of a chair. “I shan’t stay.” Her large eyes
studied her face. “How old are you now, Mariah? One and twenty?”
“Four and twenty.”
The dark brows rose. “Really. Well. I shan’t go on about how much
older you are since last we met, for I don’t wish you to return the favor.
I will own you look well.”
“Thank you. As do you.”
Her aunt nodded. “And how are you settling in?”

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

“Very well, I think,” Mariah said. “I appreciate your offer of

lodgings.”
Mrs. Prin-Hallsey waved her thanks away. “I am sorry I could
not greet you upon your arrival. Hugh . . . That is, I was indisposed.”
She gestured through the open kitchen door to two footmen waiting
outside. “I have brought a few things.”
The liveried young men stepped inside, the first hefting an ornate
square chest.
“This is a chest I brought with me to Windrush Court. It contains
only a few personal belongings. I would feel more at ease if it were
under your roof for now. My relationship with my late husband’s son,
Hugh, is difficult at best. You understand.”
Mariah didn’t understand but simply nodded.
With a delicate gloved hand, Mrs. Prin-Hallsey gestured the second
footman forward.
“And here are a few things for you.” Her aunt began lifting items
from the basket the young man held. “This candle lamp was my grand-
mother’s.” She held up a twine-wrapped bundle of candles. “And a
dozen tapers to go with it. And here is a tin of coffee and another of
tea. Cook sent along a variety of baked goods as well.” With a wave of
her hand, she directed the footman to hand the basket to Mariah.
“I shall have the chest put in the attic, shall I?” Mrs. Prin-Hallsey
said. “The turret has attic space as I remember?”
“Yes,” Mariah answered, though the question had clearly been
rhetorical. She wondered how her aunt knew about the attic, and
couldn’t imagine what might have possessed her to venture inside this
long-abandoned gatehouse before now.
The young footman bearing the chest started for the stairs.
“Have you anything else you would like my men to carry up to
the attic while we are here?”
Mariah thought quickly. “We have two trunks, now all but empty,
in the first-floor passage.”

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“Very well.” Mrs. Prin-Hallsey nodded toward the second footman,

and he followed the first.
Mariah felt discomfited at strangers making free with what had
so quickly become her home. Still, she smiled at Mrs. Prin-Hallsey.
“Thank you, Aunt Fran.” The old name slipped out before Mariah
could think the better of it.
The woman’s eyes widened. “That is an address I have not heard
in years, nor missed either. You may call me—” she considered—“Aunt
Francesca. Or Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, if you prefer.”
“Of course. Forgive me.” Mariah felt chastised, yet her aunt had
not minded the name before. “And thank you again for the gifts.”
Once more, the elegant nod of acknowledgement. “Think noth-
ing of it.”
A few minutes later, her aunt was gone, her entourage with her.
Mariah took herself back upstairs, glad to see how much space
had been freed by the removal of the trunks. She found herself stand-
ing at the window, staring at the roof and chimneys visible above the
autumn-gold trees.
The floorboard squeaked behind her, announcing Dixon’s ­presence.
“I asked one of those footmen about the building across the road.”
“Oh?” Mariah glanced at Dixon over her shoulder. “And what
did you find out?”
Gaze fixed on the window, her companion said quietly, “That’s
the parish poorhouse.”
Mariah stared at the dark roof once more and shuddered.
­Poorhouse . . . Suddenly the gatehouse did not seem like such a bad
fate.

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 Work, Lady, Work, let writing books alone,
for surely wiser women ne’re wrote one.
—The Duchess of Newcastle, seventeenth-century author

chapter 2

F i v e m o n t h s l at e r
F e b rua ry 1 8 1 4

L ate autumn and winter had been cold, lonely, and disheartening. Mrs.
Prin-Hallsey had not once returned, nor had she invited her
niece to the great house. Mariah had heard from the estate carpenter,
Jack Strong, that the mistress had been ill during much of December
and January. Miss Dixon, too, had fallen ill. She suffered from the
ague for several endless weeks during which Mariah had used the
greater portion of her strength—as well as her funds—to keep Dixon’s
bedchamber warm and her every need met. Even so, how Dixon had
shivered and wheezed. Mariah had walked to the village apothecary
several times to purchase remedies as well as heavy wool socks and
a muffler—made, she was told, by “inmates of Honora House,” the
poorhouse so near her own abode.

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It soon became clear that the annual stipend her father had given
her on going away would not last the year. They had been obliged to
purchase window glass and fabric for the bedding that could not be
salvaged, as well as coal and other necessities for the house. Then,
the unexpected apothecary bills had eroded the remaining sum to
precarious lows.
But now spring showed every sign of arriving early. It was only
February, and already the snow had melted. Wrinkled rhubarb and
clumps of purple crocus had begun to push through the damp earth
to join the modest snowdrops.
While less frigid weather meant they would require less fuel for
their fires, and could soon plant a vegetable garden, still their plight was
desperate. Mariah pored over their household accounts and determined
she would have to do something very soon. She recalled the words of
Admiral Nelson, “Desperate affairs require desperate measures,” and knew it
was time for her to take desperate measures as well.
She dipped a quill into the inkpot and began a letter to her brother
Henry. A few years her senior, Henry Aubrey was a struggling junior
solicitor in Oxford. She had not seen him since last summer but was
certain their father had apprised him of the situation and forbidden
him to harbor her. But her request, Mariah reasoned, was of a profes-
sional rather than a personal nature.
In her letter, Mariah described her “desperate” proposal and asked
Henry to call at the Windrush gatehouse if he thought it feasible, or
simply to write a reply in the negative if he thought it not. She hated
to risk their father’s wrath, or to drag Henry away from his work, if
he judged her plan a futile one.
Dixon, much improved, posted the letter for her.
For the remainder of that week, Mariah spent a great deal of time
pacing back and forth across the drawing room, while Dixon calmly
attended to their mending.
“Do you think he will come?” Mariah asked for the twentieth
time.

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

Dixon pulled a long thread through a torn shift. “Did you not
write and ask him to come?”
“Yes, but perhaps he has spoken with Father. Thought the better
of it.”
“He will come,” Dixon insisted. “You must trust your brother,
and trust God.”
Mariah did trust Henry. She was not as sure about God. Not
anymore.
In the midst of her worry, the good-natured estate gardener, Albert
Phelps, came over with a basket of flower bulbs. Both he and Jack
Strong had proved helpful neighbors over the long fall and winter.
Mr. Phelps was stout and had closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair
and a clear glint in his eye whenever he looked at Dixon. This amused
Mariah but seemed to make the older woman wary.
“They don’t look like much now,” Mr. Phelps said. “But before
you know it, these gladioli and freesias will burst forth and brighten
your back garden.”
Dixon was stiff and silent, so Mariah thanked the man in her
stead.
“I’d be happy to plant them for ya, if you like.” He was looking at
Dixon as he made his offer, so this time Mariah awaited her friend’s
reply.
Dixon lifted her chin and said coolly, “We are both grateful for
your help, Mr. Phelps.”
A broad smile lit his ruddy face. “And in a few weeks, I shall bring
a crate of seedlings I started in the hothouse. Bit early yet. But just
right for bulbs.”
Mariah wondered if a man had ever brought flowers—even flower
bulbs—to Miss Dixon. For a moment, Mariah set aside her worries
and smiled.
It was about time.

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On Saturday afternoon a knock sounded at the front door of

the gatehouse—a rarity indeed—and Dixon rose to answer it. When
Mariah saw Henry standing in the threshold, her heart and throat
constricted. She longed to run to him and throw her arms around his
neck, but she hesitated as she had never done before in his presence.
Would he be cold toward her now? Distant? Disapproving?
“Mariah.” His eyes lit with warmth and compassion, and he strode
forward to greet her.
Her reserve fell away and she relished his embrace. “Oh, Henry,
thank you for coming. I was afraid you would not. I would not have
blamed you, but—”
“Of course I came, Rye. As soon as I could.”
Mariah studied her brother as he kindly greeted Dixon. He
appeared much the same as ever—still handsome, though perhaps
his waistline had thickened a bit and his brown hair, the same shade
as her own, had thinned.
After Dixon excused herself, Mariah looked up into Henry’s hazel
eyes, so like their mother’s. “Do you think it a ridiculous idea? Please
tell me if you do.”
“I do not. I think it a marvelous notion. Perhaps a way to bring
some good out of this muddle.” He lowered himself onto the settee.
“Which one, do you think?”
“I was thinking of The Brambles of Bath.” She sat beside him. “Anon-
ymously of course. I have revised and edited it over the winter. But
Daughters is nearly finished as well, if you think that one better.”
“I enjoyed them both. Julia did as well, I remember. Hmm . . .”
He stroked his chin. “You may wish to change the titles, if you don’t
want Father to recognize them.”
Their father loathed novels, denouncing them as a poor influence
on impressionable young women. “Excellent point,” she said. “No need
to give Father more to disapprove of.”
Henry’s eyes turned plaintive. “Rye . . .”

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

But Mariah cut him off. She didn’t want his pity or to discuss the
past. “Do you think that publisher you know might be interested?”
He inhaled. “No idea. I can but ask.”
“Are you sure you do not mind doing so? Should Father find
out . . .”
“I think the chances of that happening are rather slim.” He took
her hand. “I am happy to do it. I wish there were more I could do,
but—”
“Hush, Henry. I know. I am grateful you came at all. I would not
take money from you even if you had it to give. This way you can
honestly say you have not harbored me.”
Henry crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I know they
cannot have you at home with Julia, but not to provide for his own
daughter . . .”
“Do not judge him harshly,” Mariah soothed. “He no doubt thought
the amount he gave me would last a full year. You know Mamma and
Weston handle all the financial affairs and have done so for years.”
“Could you not write and ask for more?”
She gave him a pointed look. “Would you?”
He shuddered. “Never.”
“I no doubt could have managed more efficiently, but . . .”
Dixon came in carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. “You do an
amazing job, Miss Mariah. Never doubt it. Bricks without straw, I’d
say.”
Henry’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He smiled at Mariah and squeezed
her hand. “I am proud of you.”
“Proud? I . . . Thank you, Henry.” Tears stung her eyes.
He looked flustered at her reaction. “There now, don’t go spoiling
your complexion over me.” He stood. “Thank you, Dixon, but I cannot
stay. Now, where is this masterpiece?”
Mariah rose and stepped to the drawing room table. There, she
rewrote the cover page with a revised title, A Winter in Bath, and wrapped

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 Julie K lassen

the manuscript in brown paper and twine. Dixon, meanwhile, handed

her brother a bundle of biscuits for the journey home.
Henry thanked her, and then turned expectant eyes toward
Mariah.
She hesitated, cradling the thick rectangle in her arms. What if
the publisher thought it awful? He very well might. Still, she had to
try. She handed over the heavy parcel.
Henry weighed it in his hand. “I thought you said a novel, not a
dictionary!” He winked.
Mariah tried to smile but failed. “Be careful with it, Henry. It is
my only copy of the final draft.”
“Never fear. I shall guard it as though it were your firstborn.” He
placed his free hand on Mariah’s shoulder. “Now, take care, my dear,
and go and finish the second!”

On a Friday morning in late February, Mariah took a respite from

writing. She stood at her bedchamber window, watching as two boys
from the poorhouse stretched a length of rope across the seldom-
traveled road. Curiosity rising, she unlatched and pushed open her
window.
“Good morning, boys,” she called down. “What are you doing
with that rope?”
“Hello, miss!” Stout eleven-year-old George waved his jaunty news-
boy cap. “We’re charging a toll for any girl what wants to cross.”
Mariah felt her brows rise. “A toll on this road? How much?”
George and his chum Sam exchanged grins. “Just one.”
Mariah cocked her head to the side. “One what?”
“One kiss.”
Scrawny Sam broke out laughing and covered his mouth with a
grimy hand. George looked at him as though he were an idiot.
“It is Kissing Friday, is it not?” George defended.

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

Is it? Mariah had completely forgotten. “I suppose it is. But I don’t

think you shall have much business there.”
George shrugged. “We’ve already kissed every girl in the
poorhouse.”
Sam nodded vigorously.
George dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. “I don’t suppose you
have any need to cross this way, miss?”
Mariah smiled. “I am afraid not, George. Perhaps some other
lucky lady will come along.”
“Could be.”
“And when she does,” Sam shouted, “we’ll be ready for her!”
Shaking her head, Mariah waved and shut the window. Kissing
Friday. How long it had been since she’d thought of it. The one day
schoolboys could buss any girl they chose without fear of retribution.
Mariah took herself downstairs to see what she might find to eat.
She was feeling peckish, for she had eaten little at breakfast. Dixon
had scorched the porridge again.
The kitchen was empty, but through the open window she heard
voices outside in the back garden.
“Do you know what day it is, Miss Dixon?” the gardener asked, a
grin on his ruddy face and a twinkle in his eye.
“Friday?”
“Not just any Friday. It’s Kissing Friday—and you know what
that means.”
Dixon planted a fist on her hip. “Mr. Phelps. You are no schoolboy.
I hope you are not thinking of stealing a kiss.”
“Aww, Miss Dixon, don’t make me pinch yer backside.”
Outrage stretched Dixon’s features. “My—! You would not dare.”
He shrugged easily. “That is the traditional penalty.”
“Albert Phelps, if you dare pinch my . . . anything, you shall find
this trowel upside your head forthwith!”
“Miss Dixonnnn . . .” He pouted, looking very like an overgrown
little boy. Like George or Sam, only less adorable.

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 Julie K lassen

Mariah bit back a grin at the man’s antics. She had to admire his
courage.
“Just a kiss on the cheek, then?” He pinched the air. “A small
one?”
From the window, Mariah had a clear view of Dixon in her gar-
dening gloves and apron, an old bonnet framing her thin face and
prominent blue eyes. She looked irritated and . . . something else.
What was it?
“Oh, very well,” Dixon said in a longsuffering manner, tilting her
head and offering her cheek like a patient preparing to be lanced. But
Mr. Phelps did not swoop down. Instead, he leaned in carefully and
pressed a slow, gentle kiss on Miss Dixon’s cheek. For a moment, Dixon
did not move, just stood there, face tilted, eyes . . . filling with tears.
“Th-thank you, Mr. Phelps,” she murmured distractedly.
“Thank you, Miss Dixon.” The gardener beamed, seemingly
unaware of the sheen in her eyes. He slapped his hat against his leg,
set it jauntily upon his head, and strode away.
He met the tall, thin carpenter, Jack Strong, coming up the lane.
“She thanked me for kissin’ ’er!” he called, pleased as could be.
Mariah expected Dixon to shout some rejoinder or at least to
grumble about lips that kiss and tell, but instead she peeled off her
gloves and drifted, dazed, into the kitchen.
Concerned, Mariah asked, “Dixon, what is it?”
Tears again shimmered in Dixon’s blue eyes. “Who would have
guessed? To have my first kiss like that . . .”
Mariah pressed her friend’s hand. “Plenty of girls have their first
kiss on Kissing Friday. I know I did.”
Dixon expelled a dry puff of air. “My first kiss, and no doubt my
last.”
Mariah grinned. “Not if Mr. Phelps has anything to say about it.”
Dixon squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head. “Old
fool.”

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

But whether referring to Mr. Phelps or herself, Mariah wasn’t

certain.
She stepped outside to thank Jack Strong for coming to repair the
rope swing and to ask after his wife, who was housekeeper up at the great
house. Then, taking a piece of cheese with her, Mariah went upstairs
to continue revising Daughters of Brighton, a story of two cousins—one
vivacious, the other timid and chaste—both in love with the same man.
She paused once more at the window, nibbling her cheddar. George
and Sam had given up or moved on, for the road was empty. Mariah
thought dully that perhaps she ought to have obliged the boys with a
kiss. It might have been her last as well.

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 My dear aunt, my reputation is perfectly safe;
though I cannot but be wonderfully indebted to you,
for the prodigious fuss you make about it.
—The Village Coquette, 1822 (anonymous)

chapter 3

W hen a knock shook the gatehouse the next morning, Mariah

laid aside her quill, rose from the little writing table in
the sitting room, and hurried downstairs, expecting to find Jack Strong
or Mr. Phelps.
But neither man stood on her back doorstep. Instead it was
­Jeremiah Martin, her aunt’s manservant.
Mariah shivered. Perhaps it was his icy blue eyes. The strange high
shoulder. The hook. Or the sudden fear at what his unexpected call
might bode. He had not come to the gatehouse since the day Mariah
and Dixon arrived last autumn.
“Hello. Mr. Martin, is it?”
“Just Martin, if you please.” He gave the barest bow, black suit
straining. “The mistress bids you come to the great house.”
Dread filled her. “Is Mrs. Prin-Hallsey unwell?”
“That is it exactly, miss. At the strike of eleven and not before.”

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

He turned and walked away, his gait awkward as he swung the one
hand but held the hook tightly to his side.
Dixon appeared at her elbow. “I am surprised a woman like your
aunt can abide having that man about the place.”
“It is surprising,” Mariah agreed. She shook her head, lips pursed.
“What can she want?”

At the appointed hour, Mariah walked over to the great house,

dressed in one of her finer frocks of Clarence blue. She climbed the
stairs and crossed the covered portico to the imposing front door. She
had knocked only once when the door swung open. Martin, brushing
past the footman, gestured her inside. “Two minutes late.”
Mariah bristled. “The walk took longer than I expected.”
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, candela-
bra, 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

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 Julie K lassen

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,

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

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 strid-
ing 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.”

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 Julie K lassen

“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

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 The Girl in the Gatehouse

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.

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