Page 10 of Winterset

My stomach knotted with guilt. I’d descended from a long line of passionate people.

People who had worked to buy and build up Winterset.

People who had protected the property and those who had dwelled upon it with their lives.

I’d never felt a fraction of the feelings my maternal ancestors had.

I’d never loved anything enough to be willing to sacrifice, much less die for it.

Would I ever?

I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside, it was overcast and dreary, a stark contrast to the inside, where the walls were papered in blue with tiny gold peacock plumes painted in a pattern. Sadly, upon closer inspection, the paper below the window was water-damaged.

Repair water damage, western wall

Remove wall papers in drawing room

Repair window casement

We continued our tour of the ground floor, viewing first the library, then the study, and finally, the dining hall. Every room required repair.

Next, Mrs. Owensby led me through the kitchen and downstairs to the servants’ quarters, where she, Bexley, and Charlie slept. The rest of the servants’ rooms were vacant and, with all my money now needed for repairs, likely would be for some time.

We climbed the servants’ stairs in the kitchen to the first floor.

Winterset boasted four bedchambers, two in the western wing and two in the eastern wing.

Mrs. Owensby led me to the eastern wing first. The first bedchamber she showed me was the one I’d occupied last night, thus I didn’t spend much time inspecting it.

I’d already experienced its dilapidated condition firsthand.

I glared at the lumpy mattress and the broken curtain rod, then made a note to replace both.

The second bedchamber was in even worse condition, with peeling wall papers and warped floorboards. I should probably save myself some time and money and declare this side of the house condemned and be done with it.

The wings were connected by a corridor, which also served as a portrait gallery.

As we passed through it, I didn’t pay much attention to the artwork—more portraits belonging to the Lockwood family—and instead focused on the hall itself.

Save a few squeaky floorboards, it appeared in good repair.

What a fine billiard hall this space would make.

Large enough to host a good-sized party but not so large as to prohibit conversation.

I added Repurpose the gallery into a billiard hall to my list, then followed after Mrs. Owensby. But instead of continuing to the western wing, she moved toward the stairs.

“What about the western wing?” I asked.

“That won’t be of interest to you. Only two more bedchambers. And besides, it is past time for luncheon.” As if the conversation were over, Mrs. Owensby began descending the stairs.

But I did not follow her.

When I was a boy, Father had forbidden me from entering Summerhaven’s east wing. For much of my life, I’d felt like a stranger in that house. I would not be made to feel so here in my own home.

I strode toward the west wing.

“Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby called after me, but I did not stop, determined as I was to discover what she was obviously hiding. “ Mr. Jennings ?” Her footfalls closed in behind me.

Before she could catch up to me, I opened the first bedchamber door and was met with a shock of sunlight. I held up a hand to block the bright light, then blinked, adjusting to it.

My gaze roamed the room, taking everything in.

It was a fine room. Finer than the one I’d slept in last night. Much finer. The walls were painted soft white, the ceiling high, the window wide.

Mrs. Owensby caught up to me, slightly out of breath.

“For the record,” I said, turning to meet Mrs. Owensby’s gaze, “I find this room of great interest.”

For once, she was silent.

Standing in the center of the room, I surveyed the space.

The furniture was draped with Holland covers, which I removed, unveiling a four-post bed in the middle of the room, a vanity and mirror near one corner, and an escritoire under the window.

The mistress’s room, likely. “This was Mrs. Lockwood’s bedchamber, I presume? ”

“It was,” Mrs. Owensby said. “At least, before she died in childbirth. But most recently, this bedchamber belonged to Miss Lockwood.”

At the sound of her name, I glanced around the room like I might find the young lady. But of course, that was impossible.

I turned in a slow circle, taking in the beauty of the space.

It would be a long while before a lady—my wife—would occupy this space. If ever one would.

Such a shame for a space as fine as this to go to waste. Perhaps this room would make a fine room for my hats.

Turn the white room into a hat room

And then, next to the four-post bed, I noticed a second door. “What is through there?” I asked, pointing.

“It’s, uh, well ...” Mrs. Owensby stammered, and as I moved toward the door, she followed on my heels.

I discovered the door led to an intimate sitting room, which contained two overstuffed chairs and a small circular table. There was no direct access to the corridor, only the two bedchambers it discreetly connected.

I continued through the sitting room to another bedchamber. Paneled in English oak and furnished finely, this final room was, by far, the largest and grandest bedchamber at Winterset. And like the mistresses’ bedchamber, in far finer repair than the rest of the manor.

“This is the master’s bedchamber.” I frowned at Mrs. Owensby.

“It is, sir.” She was not even trying to hide her disrespect.

“Then why, Mrs. Owensby, was I made to sleep in the smallest bedchamber last night?”

“Because it is the farthest bedchamber from the master’s bedchamber, sir.”

I frowned, puzzled. “Do explain.”

“I-I thought you would not wish to sleep in the same room that Mr. Lockwood died in,” she said.

Out of respect for Mr. Lockwood? Or because she was being mindful of any reservations I might have?

I wasn’t squeamish about death, but she might be.

“The period of mourning has long since passed,” I said.

“And seeing as I am Winterset’s master, I would like my things moved to the master’s bedchamber. Directly.”

She nodded, appearing resigned.

With the main house tour complete, she led me back through the long gallery toward the stairs. I still wanted to see the attic, but not with her as my guide. It would keep until later, when I could explore in solitude.

As we walked, I glanced at the art dotting the walls. There were so many portraits and all of the same man. “Who is this man?” I asked Mrs. Owensby.

“That is your previous tenant, Mr. Lockwood, sir.”

“And why are there so many portraits of him?”

“His daughter, Miss Lockwood, was an artist. She enjoyed capturing his likeness.”

That suddenly made the portraits much more interesting. I stopped to inspect one of the paintings. It was not as perfect as the professionally painted ones that hung in the entrance hall, but Miss Lockwood had been skilled.

Hands clasped behind my back, I continued down the gallery, glancing at each portrait.

She’d painted her father from every angle: straightforward, in profile—both sides—and even one from above, which showcased a bald spot. An odd detail to commit to canvas, and it made me slightly uncomfortable. There was something too real, too raw.

A pity her talent would never be fully developed.

How would she have painted my portrait? What would she have seen in me?

Mrs. Owensby cleared her throat, and I stepped away from the portraits to follow her out of the gallery. We didn’t speak as we retraced our steps through the corridor nor as we descended the grand staircase.

But when we reached the entrance hall, Mrs. Owensby turned to me with an earnest look.

“Winterset has been a most beloved home and haven to many generations,” she said, her tone somber.

“And now it is entrusted to your care. I hope you will do whatever is necessary to see her properly cared for, sir.”

Although Mrs. Owensby had not expressly said it, her concern was apparent: she viewed me as an unwise and unworthy master.

How could she not?

I had been foolish. Not in the way she was accusing me of, but I had been a fool.

Mrs. Owensby watched me as if waiting for a response. But as my servant, she was not owed an explanation, and I wouldn’t provide her one. The burden of my mistakes was mine alone to bear.

“Thank you for the tour, Mrs. Owensby.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure it has given you much to consider.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

Mrs. Owensby returned to her tasks in the kitchen, and I glanced around the entrance hall.

With the curtains now fully opened, the space did not seem so dismal as it had yesterday in the low light.

The hall was still smaller than I preferred, but the stained-glass windows lining the landing, the intricately carved banisters, and the glittering chandeliers made the space feel somewhat refined.

Even the portraits were not so fearsome as yesterday. I walked to the spot to view Miss Lockwood’s portrait, wanting to see the beautiful face that had haunted my dreams last night, but the wall where her picture had hung was vacant. Where had it gone?

“Mrs. Owensby,” I called. Once she’d returned to the entrance hall, I indicated the vacant space on the wall and asked, “Where is Miss Lockwood’s portrait?”

“It was removed, sir. As you requested.”

In a way, I was pleased that my servants had carried out my instructions, but why did they have to start with the one portrait I actually wanted to see again? “Why do the others still hang here?”

“It will take Bexley some time to accomplish the task. He must remove, carry, and store each painting in the attic one by one.”

Sadly, that did make sense.

“Shall I make you finger sandwiches for luncheon?” Mrs. Owensby asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

With a nod, she turned toward the kitchen.

“One last thing, Mrs. Owensby,” I said, and she turned back. “Please send Charlie to my study. I would like to instruct him to move my things. I will sleep in the master’s quarters tonight.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, sir. I can instruct him for you.”

I’m sure she could, but she would likely instruct Charlie to move my belongings to the stable. “No, thank you. I am quite particular and prefer to give him the instructions myself.”

Mrs. Owensby nodded with resignation, then continued toward the kitchen.

Alone again, I went to the study and closed the door.

It was a modest-sized room with oak bookshelves lining the far wall and a large desk occupying the space directly in front.

To the right, a fireplace, and to the left, a bow window.

The walls were papered in a dark-green damask print and decorated with paintings of local landscapes.

Had Miss Lockwood painted these too? I searched for the artist’s signature but could not find it anywhere on the canvas.

I stood behind the desk next to the leather chair but didn’t sit.

Such a small thing, sitting. But I’d dreamed of this moment—of being master—more than any other.

For as long as I could remember, Father could always be found sitting in his study, poring over his ledgers, reading a book, smoking his pipe, and I’d come to associate this type of room with authority, manhood, ownership.

I didn’t feel worthy to sit behind this desk. Not yet. Not unless I decided to take up the duty.

With an exhale, I braced my hands on the desk and hung my head.

And that was how Charlie found me.

“Long morning?” he asked.

“The longest morning.” I pushed off the desk to stand at my full height. “Winterset is in even worse repair than I’d imagined. The entirety of the east wing should be condemned.”

“Surely not,” he challenged with a smile and sat in the chair before my desk.

I slipped off my coat, laying it over the back of my chair before loosening my cravat and cuffs.

“The manor is in utter disrepair. There is water damage in the drawing room, a ghost in the attic, and I cannot be sure, but I think I hear rats in the walls.” Not to mention the candles. I could not stand their stench.

“A ghost?” Charlie grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It is. And I don’t know how I’m going to change anything in the future. My money is nearly gone, and with it, any hope I had of marrying this century.”

“I’m sure someone would have you. A dairymaid, perhaps?”

I glared at him, unamused. “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime, Granger.” Charlie sank further into his seat, lacing his hands behind his head and giving me a self-amused smile.

“I detest it when you call me that.”

“That is precisely why I call you that.”

I did not truly hate the moniker; it was a great deal better than sir , which propriety demanded he address me in public, but in private, I preferred for him to call me by my given name, as would a true friend.

“Well, what will you do?” Charlie asked, sobering.

“Had I the funds, I would return straightaway to my bachelor lodgings in London.”

“You may not like what you’ve found here, but I know you, Granger. You won’t give up so easily.”

I didn’t want to give up, partly because of my pride—no man liked to fail—but also because I had nowhere else to go. And what about the rest of the estate? I didn’t even know yet what state the tenant cottages were in. If they were in as poor condition as the manor, it would ruin me.

I blew out a breath and dragged a hand through my hair. “I need to track down Mr. Moore and get my money back,” I said.

Charlie nodded. “How should we go about it?”

How indeed.

Fool that I was, I hardly even remembered what the man looked like. How could I hope to find him? I pursed my lips, thinking. “My letters to Mr. Moore were addressed and delivered to the postmaster in town. Perhaps he has identifying information on the man who picked them up.”

“We shall question him, then.” Charlie glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s not too late today; let us ride out, survey the tenant cottages, and then visit the postmaster.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Let’s go directly after luncheon.” I felt a bit better for having a plan in place.