The Girl in the Gatehouse by Julie Klassen Page A

poorhouse was overseen by a board of guardians, but left the day-to-day running of things to its matron, a Mrs. Pitt.
    She added, “I’d hate for him to be hurt when we might have prevented it.”
    Dixon turned on her heel. “Take Martin with you. Perhaps he’ll oblige me and fall off instead.”
    A few minutes later, Mariah walked up the path to the poorhouse. The building rose three stories high, topped by the flat roof and myriad chimneys she could see from the gatehouse. But this was the first time she had viewed the poorhouse at close range. While Windrush Court and most of the buildings in the village were constructed of the honey-colored limestone typical of the Cotswolds, Honora House was built of stark grey stone. Tall rectangular windows lined all levels on each side. A pair of spindly yew trees flanked its otherwise unadorned entrance.
    Several yards to the left of this entrance sat two women on a bench. How small they appeared against the backdrop of the tall box of a building. As Mariah drew closer, she saw the ladies were older, perhaps about sixty years of age. The dark-haired one was knitting, while the white-haired woman simply sat with her face raised to the spring sunshine.
    “Good day, ladies,” Mariah greeted them. “A lovely day to be out of doors.”
    “Indeed it is,” the white-haired woman replied.
    “Clouds rolling in,” her dark-haired companion amended.
    Mariah looked from one woman to the other. And even as she formed her next sentence, she knew it to be only partly true. Feature to feature the resemblance between them was remarkable, yet beyond the hair color, there were striking differences. “You two are so alike,” she said. “You must be sisters.”
    “And you must be a genius.” This from the woman with dark hair mixed with strands of steel grey, whose mouth and eyes were framed by the deep grooves carved by hard times and bitterness.
    The white-haired woman smiled. “We are indeed. Twins. I am the younger, but my hair is white while Sister’s is still dark. Where is the justice in that, I ask you?” Her eyes twinkled.
    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