The Girl in the Gatehouse by Julie Klassen Page B

said. “Afraid someone will see what it is really like.”
    Mariah felt her brows rise.
    Amy Merryweather said carefully, “The matron is naturally . . .”
    “Suspicious,” Agnes supplied.
    Her sister amended, “Cautious.”
    “Miserly.”
    “Officious.”
    Mariah felt like a spectator at a battledore and shuttlecock match, looking from sister to sister as each returned the other’s volley.
    Agnes scowled. “Miserly I said, and miserly I meant. You can’t tell me some of the parish funds didn’t end up in that ridiculous feather-stuck hat Mrs. Pitt wears, or on the private table of her overstuffed husband – God rest his soul. Why, I smelt roast goose on Christmas, when all we had – ”
    “You cannot know that, Agnes,” Miss Amy said patiently. “I saw no goose.”
    “I know roast goose when I smell it, Amy. Never say I don’t. I may not have tasted it in many years, but well do I remember that golden smell!”
    Miss Amy turned to Mariah. “Her nose has always been her best feature – it is true, Miss Aubrey.”
    “And what did we feast upon that holy of days? Boiled chicken. From an old cock what had been strutting the earth longer than the man on the roof.”
    Flashing her eyes at Mariah, Amy Merryweather laid a warning hand on her sister’s arm. Agnes darted a glance first at her sister, then Mariah, before looking away.
    “Man on the roof ?” Mariah echoed.
    Amy swallowed, the bony ball moving up and down her withered neck. Agnes sullenly refused to meet her gaze.
    “That is actually why I’ve come.” Mariah pointed to the roof. “About the man up there.”
    Agnes Merryweather clasped slender, veined hands in her lap and pinned Mariah with a meaningful gaze. “None of us knows about any man on the roof, Miss Aubrey. There is no man on the roof.”
    Mariah protested, “But – ”
    “Did one of the children say something?” Miss Amy whispered, face tense with worry. “You must tell me if they did, so I might warn them. The Pitts have been very pointed in their instructions.”
    Mariah shook her head. “They haven’t said a word, I assure you. But I have seen him myself from the gatehouse.”
    “Who else knows?” Agnes asked. “Has anybody else seen him?”
    “Only Dixon. I don’t know if she told anybody.”
    “The less said the better, my dear,” cautioned Miss Amy. “If the Pitts hear talk, they are sure to suspect one of us.”
    “And they will line us up and not feed us until one of us confesses.”
    Mariah felt her mouth slacken. “But that is preposterous. You may tell her I saw him. Or send her to me and I shall tell her myself.”
    “Us, send Mrs. Pitt somewhere?” Agnes nearly grinned. “That I should love to see.”
    Miss Amy chewed her lip in thought. “Does it not wonder you, Sister? For years, nothing. The gate locked, the house abandoned. But now that the gatehouse is inhabited . . . ?”
    Agnes nodded. “It does wonder me.”
    “Why did they lock the gate? Do you know?” Mariah asked.
    Agnes Merryweather’s lip curled. “We know the reason given. They said some of us were stealing. Which was not true.”
    “You mustn’t forget, Agnes,” Amy said gently, “there was Harry Cooper and those strawberries.”
    “Three strawberries! Poor lad had never seen strawberries before. Had one in his mouth and two in his hand for his sisters before I could say a word. If they locked the gate for that, well, I don’t know what that says about Christian charity.”
    Miss Amy looked at Mariah. “You see, my dear, at first they left the gate open and we could stroll about the grounds. Not near the house, mind. Such lovely gardens. That young Mr. Phelps took such pleasure in showing us his prized specimens. Even gave Sister a posy on more than one occasion.”
    Even now Agnes’s wrinkled cheek pinkened.
    “The family hosted a harvest festival our first year here and invited us all to join in. What dainties! What music. They brought in fiddlers from the village. We