Page 12 of Winterset

But Mrs. Owensby wished for me to put my trust, my very life, in this man’s hands.

How could I even consider doing that without first ascertaining his character?

I had already made that mistake once with a man, and I would not make the same mistake again.

Decided, I sat in Papa’s chair and pulled the notebook toward me.

Mr. Jennings had precise, elegant penmanship. I couldn’t help but admire the sophisticated slant of his scrawl and the perfect spacing between his letters.

His only entry appeared to be a list of needed repairs and refurbishments for Winterset. It was such a long list. My gaze drifted down the page.

Purchase wax candles

As soon as I read the first entries, I couldn’t help smiling, pleased that my plans had made Mr. Jennings uncomfortable. But then I read the next item on his list and frowned.

Vanquish ghost

I scoffed. Unlikely.

Replace carpets

Repair uneven floorboards

Return Lockwood portraits

Repair water damage on western wall

Remove wall papers in the drawing room

Water damage? What water damage? The man must be senile. And he most certainly would not replace the wall papers; I’d spent months hand-painting the plain papers, and I was proud of the outcome. He should consider himself lucky to sit in such a beautiful room.

Repair window casement

Replace mattresses

Repair curtain rods

Remove wall papers in eastern wing bedchambers

Repurpose the gallery into a billiard hall

Turn the white room into a hat room

I sucked in a breath. The white room was my bedchamber. I understood why Mr. Jennings might think it would make a good dressing room; it was large and bright and conveniently connected to the master’s bedchamber. But why would he wish to cannibalize the best room in the house for a few hats?

It was difficult to ascertain much of anything about Mr. Jennings’s character from reading his checklist, so I searched his desk drawers. The top drawer was full of folded papers. Letters, I realized. Dozens and dozens of them, filed neatly in a row.

I pulled one out, intending to read it, but it was still sealed, so I put the letter back in the drawer and retrieved another. But that one was also sealed. As was every letter in that drawer.

How peculiar.

Why would Mr. Jennings keep these letters if he did not read them?

And in his top desk drawer, no less. They must be important to him to keep them so close, but why had he not read them?

I glanced at the back of one of the letters, hoping to identify the senders, but I did not recognize any of the seals.

There appeared to be three different seals, but they seemed to all be written on the same creamy white paper.

Curiosity consumed me, and before I could think better of it, I cracked one of the seals and unfolded the letter.

It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. But also necessary. I needed to know more about this man to protect myself and, more importantly, my servants.

The letter was dated two years earlier, and it started simply:

Oliver,

What a pleasant name for such an un pleasant man. I continued reading.

It has been three weeks since I stood on the steps of Summerhaven and watched you leave on your Grand Tour. How I longed to run after you that day, brother, to convince you to stay, but you were decided, and I could do nothing to stop you.

Father died a few days after your departure.

Did you know? Do you care?

You missed his funeral.

On that day, Mother, Hannah, and I sat in our family’s pew, waiting for you.

Both women anxiously watched the door, hoping you would appear, but I knew you wouldn’t.

I understand why; Father was cruel and cold to you your entire life.

But funerals aren’t for the dead, Ollie; they are for the living.

And we wanted you there. We needed you. I know you have not heard that enough; I am sorry for that.

But I am also angry at you.

You might not think that fair, but I am. I am angry and sad and guilty and grief-stricken because of what has become of us, because you aren’t here to help me fix the family that Father has broken.

Come home, Ollie. We miss you terribly.

Your brother, first and forever.

xDamon

I would have given anything to attend my papa’s funeral.

But Mr. Jennings had abandoned his family days before his father’s death. He had to have known it was coming. How could he not? But he could not even be bothered to open his brother’s letters.

How cold. How cruel.

I could not, would not , trust Mr. Jennings.

Consideration done, I refolded the letter and placed it back inside the drawer with the other unopened letters.

My mind was made.

No matter what Mrs. Owensby or Bexley thought, I would never come out of hiding to Mr. Oliver Jennings. I would do whatever was necessary to drive him from the premises. Simple pranks like tallow candles and overboiled beef weren’t enough though. I needed to give him a better reason to leave.

But what more could I do?

As Mrs. Owensby had said, he seemed in no hurry to leave; in fact, his list of repairs made it clear he planned to stay.

I had to change that.

I scanned the list again, trying to conjure up a plan to drive him away, and my gaze snagged on one line:

Vanquish ghost

Perhaps Mr. Jennings was more frightened of the fantastical than he seemed.

What if I played into his fears? I could pretend to be a ghost and haunt him. Mrs. Owensby had planted the seed in his mind. I only needed to water the idea to bring it to life. It was mad, but it just might make him leave.

I picked up the quill pen and drew a line through each renovation I disagreed with, making the thickest, darkest line across Vanquish ghost .