Page 11 of Winterset

Kate

My stomach growled. Loudly.

I didn’t know the precise time because my attic “bedchamber” did not have a window, but given the severity of my hunger, it had to be well after breakfast, maybe even luncheon. I cursed Mr. Jennings for robbing me of both my dinner last night and my breakfast this morning.

I also blamed him for my boredom.

I didn’t even have any light to draw by; I’d not anticipated having to hide for so long this morning, so I’d burned my candle to the bottom while drawing.

Last night, Mrs. Owensby had made me promise to stay in this priest hide until she came to fetch me.

She did not want me to have any near run-ins with Mr. Jennings again.

Since there was no knowing where he would be lurking, I laid in my little attic bedchamber, staring at the sliver of light that snuck in beneath the door.

Would it be so great a crime if I opened the door a crack? I wouldn’t leave the priest hide, so my promise would still be intact, and then, at least, I would have enough light to sketch by.

I rolled out of bed and felt my way in the dark for the hidden knob on the wall. Once found, I opened the small panel door, which took me to another small chamber: the decoy priest hide. Crossing to the wall opposite, I came to another hidden knob that led me to the main attic.

It was an ingenious design: the real priest hide being hidden behind the false one.

Care had even been taken to make the first priest hide, the decoy, appear as a real room, with a small window and bed.

In the past, when priest hunters had searched the house and found the first priest hide bedchamber, they had not thought to look for another one directly behind it. Or at least, that was the idea.

I opened the door, but the tiny window in the decoy room did not let in enough light to see much of anything, so I cracked open the second door, which opened to the rest of the attic.

That let in a little more light, but not enough.

If only I had not promised to keep it closed.

Drat! The minimal light would have to suffice.

Sitting on my bed, I grabbed Papa’s book and my bit of charcoal and opened to my unfinished drawing of the daisy weed.

The flower was still pressed between the pages, but it didn’t look at all like it had when I’d begun the sketch; it was dry and thin and flat.

The petals were translucent, and the stem was a stiff spine.

I’d have to complete the picture from memory.

I sketched the remaining petals and leaf and was adding cross-hatch shading to add depth and dimension when I heard the lower door open and footsteps ascending the attic stairs.

I froze.

I was expecting Mrs. Owensby, but it could be Mr. Jennings. It was too late to make any movement.

I eyed the open door between my bedchamber and the decoy priest hide, wishing I’d kept it closed.

“Kate?” Mrs. Owensby called quietly, and I exhaled in relief that it was her. A moment later, she peeked inside my room, sparing only a second to frown at the open door. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice scratchy from lack of water. “What time is it?” I asked.

“Past luncheon. You must be starving. Hurry, and you can have a change of scenery and eat lunch in the kitchen. Mr. Jennings and his manservant are out of residence, surveying the property and tenant cottages on horseback. They won’t return for hours.”

Famished, I quickly put on my slippers and followed Mrs. Owensby down two flights of stairs to the kitchen. A plate of finger sandwiches and fruit was already waiting for me on the table. I bit into a cucumber sandwich and closed my eyes. Food had never tasted so good.

As I ate, Mrs. Owensby and Bexley huddled over me like protective parents, their faces concerned.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, Kate,” Mrs. Owensby said. “I don’t think we can keep up this charade.”

My pulse picked up. “Has something happened? Is he suspicious?”

“No, but you must agree that things have not gone according to plan.”

I set aside my food, considering this for a moment. “Actually, save having to sit still in such small places for long periods of time, I think things are going quite well. Mr. Jennings has not found me, nor does he seem suspicious.”

“Did you not hear how he questioned me yesterday when he saw your portrait? He is curious about you, Kate.”

“I heard him ask a few questions, but you commanded the conversation brilliantly. Thanks to your quick thinking, Mr. Jennings believes I am dead.”

“For now,” she said. “But you already nearly exposed yourself when you giggled.”

“That was one mistake. I will not make another.”

“Oh, you will not? You were sitting at the table in plain view when Charlie came down the stairs yesterday. And today, I found you sitting in the priest hide with the door open.” She gave me a displeased look.

I trained my gaze on my plate, guilty.

“Kate, we have done our best, but he seems in no hurry to leave. I think— we think ...” Mrs. Owensby glanced at Bexley no doubt to bolster her confidence. “There is a better option than hiding. We think you should reveal yourself to Mr. Jennings.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am quite serious. Mr. Jennings seems like a decent fellow. I believe he will prove to be a friend, not a foe.”

“You believe ,” I said, “but you cannot be certain. None of us can. We have only just met Mr. Jennings. And as you well know, any man can put on a pleasant facade for a few days.” Longer if it suited his interests.

She gave me a sympathetic look of understanding but continued. “You did not see the way Mr. Jennings stared at your portrait yesterday. He was quite taken with you, Kate.”

“That hardly recommends him.” I daresay it did the opposite.

Mrs. Owensby’s gaze softened. “Not all men are abhorrent, Kate. I have a good feeling about Mr. Jennings.”

“A good feeling? How so? This is the same man who shirked his obligations to Winterset these past two years. Mrs. Owensby, you have a gift for seeing the best in people, but in this situation, I must beg you to see reason.”

“And I must beg you to do the same. Hiding from Mr. Jennings forever is an impossible endeavor. If you reveal yourself to him now, you can appeal to his sympathetic sensibilities and request his assistance in relocating to someplace safer.”

My mind spun in disbelief, and I looked at Bexley. “Do you truly agree?”

“Mr. Jennings has behaved as a gentleman thus far,” Bexley said. “It is possible he may prove you an ally.”

“Think of it, Kate,” Mrs. Owensby hastened to add, her voice hopeful. “You could begin a new life elsewhere. Far away from Mr. Cavendish and everyone who knows you.”

“I do not want a new life, nor do I wish to live elsewhere.” Winterset was my home. My servants were family. And even if I did want to leave, where would I go? At least here I had a roof over my head. Telling Mr. Jennings was too risky.

“You must wish for more,” she said. “Freedom. A family.”

What person did not wish for those blessings? But I could not have a family without a husband. And I most certainly did not want one of those. Nor would I ever. Of that , I was certain. “I am content with my life, Mrs. Owensby.”

“Content but not happy,” she countered.

“What need do I have for happiness when it is so quickly turned into misery?”

“That is the way of life, my dear. Everything must have its opposite, or all will be meaningless. Please, won’t you consider my advice?”

I had no desire to, but I owed my guardians at least that much, so I nodded. “When will Mr. Jennings return?” I asked.

“He and his manservant have only just ridden out,” Bexley said. “So they will likely be gone for a few hours.”

“Good,” I said. “That gives me some time, then.”

“Time for what?” Mrs. Owensby eyed me.

“To consider .” I popped the last bite of sandwich into my mouth and quickly rose. I needed as much time as possible to poke around Mr. Jennings’s things. After all, he had been poking around mine all day, and what better way to learn about a man than to go through his personal effects?

Since arriving, he’d spent most of his time in his bedchamber and the study. I would quickly search those rooms and discover what I could about him in the time permitted.

I started in Papa’s study.

Well, Mr. Jennings’s study now, but I couldn’t bring myself to think of it that way.

I’d spent too many hours sitting in this room, snuggled in the leather armchair in the corner, sketching Papa as he balanced his ledgers.

I’d wait hours for him to take a break so we could walk together in the walled garden.

I wished I could remember the last time I’d sat here with him.

It could not have been long before his death, but I could not remember it.

Had I known it would be the last time, I would have committed every detail to memory: what he was wearing, every word he spoke.

I would have asked him questions and recorded his answers.

But of course, I had not known, and now that last day was lost forever.

The study smelled different now, too, less like Papa’s pipe and more like Mr. Jennings’s cologne.

I walked to the desk and ran my fingertips along the desktop, which was something I would not have been able to do when it had been Papa’s.

Stacks of ledgers and letters had forever cluttered his desktop.

Now the study was too tidy. The only things on the desk were an open notebook, a bottle of ink, and a quill pen.

I reached for the notebook but then hesitated. I’d come here with this precise intention, but it was wrong to read a person’s private thoughts—even if the notebook had been left in plain sight. Mr. Jennings’s lack of care was not an invitation, and I knew better than to think it was.