Page 1 of Winterset

Kate

The problem with drawing flowers was that they were constantly being blown about by the breeze.

I could successfully sketch one petal, but by the time I was ready to draw the next, the flower would be posed in a completely different manner.

I loved drawing in the walled garden, but how was I ever supposed to improve my art when all I had to work with were such unruly subjects?

I frowned at my little daisy muse.

Well, not my muse so much as my de facto model. I’d never really cared to draw still life. I could not capture the personality of a peony nor convey the emotions of a foxglove’s face.

With a sigh, I set aside my sketch and lifted my chin toward the sky, searching for warmth.

If only I could be satisfied to admire great works of art instead of attempting to create them, I might find some measure of contentment, if not happiness.

But no matter how vexing the effort, I couldn’t bring myself to quit; I loathed the act but loved the art. A paradox, to be sure.

Summer was surrendering too soon this year. The once warm breeze had already turned into cool gales, and the sweet scent of flowers had given way to the earthy fragrance of fall foliage. In a few short weeks, my beloved walled garden would lie dormant for a season.

Determined to capture its beauty before it did, I returned to my drawing. I successfully sketched another petal, but halfway through the next, wind swirled through the garden again.

Drat!

What I wouldn’t give to have a willing human model to sit for me.

It wasn’t that Mrs. Owensby was un willing, but as Winterset’s housekeeper, she was forever at work cooking, cleaning, and tending to everything in her path.

And Bexley, Winterset’s butler, was constantly occupied with everything else it took to keep the manor from falling into complete ruin.

Heaven knew I was grateful for them, but in my most selfish moments, I did wish for more.

But dwelling on what that dark day two years ago had deprived me of would do me no good. Time had taught me that it was better to focus on whatever was before me. At present, a daisy.

Most people would probably view the small, scraggly weed as nothing more than a nuisance.

But I admired how it survived against all odds, the way it clung to life between the cobblestones.

Its beauty was worthy of being committed to paper, even if all I had were the pages in Papa’s old books and a bit of charcoal.

It wasn’t ideal to draw in a book. My art obscured the text, and the text interfered with my art.

I did feel guilty about it, but I took comfort in knowing I wasn’t damaging the books beyond their intended use.

If ever someone wanted to study—I peeked at the cover of the book I was using as my sketchbook— A Compendium of Domestic Accountancy , they could.

Although with such a stuffy title, I doubted anyone ever would.

I always replaced the book on the shelf in Papa’s study once I’d filled the pages.

Straightening the book in my lap, I lowered the charcoal to the page, but before I could make my mark, a conspiracy of ravens rushed from a nearby tree, and their caws set my heart to racing.

I froze and listened for whatever had frightened them to flight.

At first, I heard nothing. And then, faintly in the distance, the clatter of a horse’s hooves coming toward Winterset broke the silence.

I sprang to my feet, abandoning my art, and hid behind the leaning willow tree near the wall. Even though the garden’s interior was not visible from the road, panic pulsed like poison in my veins, making me weak and shaky.

We never had visitors. Nor deliveries. Nor anything that would cause anyone to come to Winterset.

But someone was here.

Perhaps it was a person seeking employment. Or a neighbor finally curious enough to come see about the state of the house.

It couldn’t be him , could it? No, not after all this time.

Taking care not to be seen, I scooted up the tree’s tilted trunk and peeked over the garden wall.

It was only a post-boy. He was entering the courtyard through the servant’s gate, skipping no less.

My whole being relaxed with relief.

But ... why was he here? We rarely received mail, and what we did receive was never delivered directly to us but to the postmaster in town. So again, why was he here?

The boy quickly disappeared around the side of the house to make his delivery at the servant’s door. A minute later, he reappeared and left the way he’d come, the servants’ gate clanging closed behind him.

I waited a few minutes to be sure he would not return, then crept from behind the willow tree and padded down the cobblestone pathway to where my art supplies lay in a heap.

I knelt to assess the damage. Papa’s book and my unfinished drawing were unharmed, save a wrinkled page. But my model, my flawless daisy, was crushed. I gently straightened it, but as soon as I withdrew my support, the flower fell.

I plucked it from its stony crevice and tucked it between two pages to press. It would be safe there, damaged but not discarded.

Too curious to be creative, I replaced my slippers and bonnet and made my way to the garden door.

I wound my way through the tall hedgerow maze, and at the exit, I glanced around the edge, surveying the courtyard.

Ivy covered the front gate like a curtain, which suited my purposes, but it pained me to see the overgrown carriageway, the shuttered windows, and the filthy fountain.

Certain I would not be seen by passersby, I hugged my art supplies to my chest and walked from the hedgerow to the house.

Like always, I entered through the servant’s door.

The familiarity of the kitchen was always a comfort.

But rather than the typical warm welcome from Mrs. Owensby, I was instead greeted by a cloud of thick smoke and the scent of burning bread.

“Mrs. Owensby!” I called, rushing into the kitchen. “Bexley, help! Quick!”

In the hearth, a pot bubbled over, steaming and spewing soup onto the hot coals. In the brick oven, bread burned, black smoke curling out of the opening. I hurriedly retrieved the baking peel, snatched the loaf from the oven, and set the blackened lump on the worktable.

With still no sign of Mrs. Owensby or Bexley, I then grabbed the poker from the hook next to the hearth and pushed the cast-iron arm holding the soup pot out of the fire.

Situation in hand, I went in search of the servants.

“Mrs. Owensby?” I called as I climbed the kitchen stairs, my voice carrying up to the vaulted ceiling in the dining hall. “Bexley?”

Though they gave no response, I heard their hushed voices and followed the sound to the entrance hall, where I found them huddled together. “There you two are,” I said.

Mrs. Owensby startled and spun to face me. “Kate.” She held one hand to her bosom and used the other to tuck something into the back of her apron. “You mustn’t sneak up on an old woman.”

“You are not old, and I did not sneak. On the contrary, I have been calling out for you both for help. The pot was bubbling over, and the bread is ... well, coal.”

“Dear me,” Mrs. Owensby said and moved immediately toward the kitchen.

“I saw to it,” I said, stepping in front of her to block her escape. “What were you two up to?”

“ Up to ? What are we always up to, dear? Cooking, cleaning ...” Her sentence stretched, and she glanced at Bexley for assistance.

Bexley cleared his throat and added, “Polishing.”

“Really?” I said, suspicion mounting. Bexley hated polishing the silverware and always left that chore until the end of the week. It was only Tuesday. I glanced over my shoulder into the dining hall and saw that the table was barren. They were definitely up to something nefarious.

“I saw the post-boy,” I said. “What did he deliver?”

Bexley’s Adam’s apple rolled with a swallow, and Mrs. Owensby shifted uncomfortably beside him. “A missive,” he said simply.

“I am sure. What did it contain?”

“Nothing you need mind, dear.” Mrs. Owensby patted my shoulder like I was a small child, not a grown woman, and her fingers brushed my hair.

I flinched.

She gave me a sympathetic smile. “I would love to style your hair for you.”

As kind as her offer was, I could think of nothing worse.

Well, that was not precisely true—I could think of many things much worse—but having my hair touched was not something I would enjoy.

I fingered my hastily woven plait and felt a twinge of sadness. It felt like another lifetime ago that Molly, my former lady’s maid, had stood behind me at the vanity and tamed my curls into an intricate coiffure. How I missed her.

I pushed away the memory and met Mrs. Owensby’s gaze. “That is kind of you, Mrs. Owensby. Thank you. But taking pains in my appearance when I do not grace anywhere but these halls would be a waste of both our time.”

With a knowing nod, she withdrew her hand. “If you will excuse me,” she said. “I must see if I can salvage dinner.”

As she walked past me, I wickedly plucked the letter from the back of her apron and started up the western side of the double staircase.

“No, Kate,” Mrs. Owensby called, her footsteps hurrying after me. “You mustn’t! Bexley, stop her!”

Bexley, despite his age, obediently sprang toward the steps to intercept me. But I was faster and well ahead of him.

The missive felt soft and smooth in my hands. It had been an age since I’d had the use of paper so fine. Hopefully, the writer would be brief so I could use the rest of the paper as a canvas.

The seal had already been broken, so I quickly unfolded the letter. Every inch of the page was filled with precise, elegant script, leaving only a small portion of the outside part of the paper without mark. Drat!

Dear Mr. Moore,

I frowned at the salutation. Who was Mr. Moore? Had this letter been delivered to Winterset in error? I glanced at the bottom of the page to see who had sent it. It was signed, xMr. Oliver Jennings.