Page 14 of Winterset

“Not necessary,” I said. “I am not angry, Mrs. Owensby. I only wish for an explanation for how this happened.” I indicated the notebook.

“May I?”

I pushed it across the desk and gave her a few moments to examine it. “Well?” I said, keeping my tone even so as not to frighten her again. “Do you have any explanation?”

“I don’t think she likes your plans for Winterset,” Mrs. Owensby mumbled.

“She who ?”

“Kate. That is, Miss Katherine Lockwood. Your previous tenant’s daughter.”

Miss Katherine Lockwood.

The beautiful young lady in the portrait. She was the ghost? I suddenly did not mind so much Winterset being haunted. I might even welcome it.

Kate.

Her name matched my vision of her: Headstrong. Confident. But also lovely.

I cleared my throat, pushing away the thought. “To be clear, Mrs. Owensby, you believe it was a ghost, Miss Katherine Lockwood, who defaced my notes?”

“I wouldn’t put it in quite that way, but yes, sir. I believe it was she who did this. Though she should not be blamed.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. Surely Mrs. Owensby didn’t expect me to believe an apparition was capable of committing this crime. I had no desire to embark on yet another circular conversation with my housekeeper, but alas, here we were.

“A ghost cannot pick up a quill pen, much less write with one,” I said. “And I cannot imagine why a ghost would mind whether or not I removed damaged papers from the walls in the drawing room.”

“Seeing as she painted the papers, I can.”

I took back my notebook from Mrs. Owensby. “I suppose that explains why she took exception to my turning the art gallery into a billiard hall and the white room— her room—into a hat room.”

“I would say so.” Mrs. Owensby’s chin quivered as she nodded.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. It was Mrs. Owensby’s show of emotion that led to the realization that it was Mrs. Owensby who had redacted my notes. She’d not done it maliciously but, rather, out of grief. “Miss Lockwood must have been very dear to you,” I said, softening.

“As dear to me as if she were my own daughter.”

My irritation turned to compassion. “How long did you care for her, Mrs. Owensby?”

“From the time she was a newborn babe.”

Mrs. Owensby probably thought she was still caring for her charge by protecting Miss Lockwood’s paintings, bedchamber, and family portraits.

“Seeing my plans to undo some of Miss Lockwood’s work must be difficult for you, but in some cases, it cannot be helped.

” I explained about the water damage. “But I give you my word that I will preserve as much of Miss Lockwood’s memory as possible.

In a show of goodwill, please have Bexley rehang the young lady’s portrait. ”

“That is most kind of you.”

It wasn’t, actually. It was a selfish wish. The young lady’s eyes captivated me, and I preferred to have the luxury of looking at her portrait until it could be returned to the young lady’s kin.

“Yes, well. The painting will still need to be given to her next of kin when they are located, but until such time, please rehang her portrait in the entrance hall.”

“Thank you, sir. I will. I do hope that will please her.”

I hoped it would please Mrs. Owensby —at least enough to stop her antics. “And I hope we can now peacefully coexist.”

“As do I,” she said, sounding earnest.

“Very good.” Although I disapproved of Mrs. Owensby’s actions, I felt better knowing why she’d done what she had. And I was confident that in confronting her, I’d no longer have to deal with Miss Lockwood’s “ghost.” “I believe we understand each other.”

She nodded. “Do you require anything else?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

She quit the room with a curtsy.

Alone again, I quickly ate dinner—boiled beef and root vegetables—then picked up my quill pen and notebook and moved to the window, where the day’s dwindling light was the brightest. The list was extensive: broken beams, faulty casements, and water intrusion in the drawing room.

The major repairs needed to be completed before winter, or more damage would be inflicted.

And I still needed to examine the attic to determine the extent of the damage there.

It took over an hour to estimate each repair’s cost and calculate the total price.

It would take a considerable amount of money, but it could be done if I made most of the repairs myself and acted as my own steward.

I would have to prioritize the needed repairs over the lofty renovations I’d dreamed of, but if I sacrificed, I could secure Winterset’s future and my own, if I chose to.

It was the right choice, perhaps the only choice, so why did I feel such apprehension?

The truth?

I was afraid.

Not of the manual labor, though I did not relish the idea, but of failing again.

I’d made one decision on Winterset’s behalf: entrusting the estate’s care to Mr. Moore, and that had proven disastrous. How could I trust myself not to make any more mistakes?

Part of me wanted to run away from this burden. But to where? To whom? Winterset was all I had. My one foothold in Society. My only hope for the future.

There was no escape.

Winterset needed me, and I needed Winterset.

Charlie was right. No matter how inadequate I might feel, I could not turn my back.

I did not want to, I realized. Not really.

I wanted to protect this home, to make something more of it, as my maternal ancestors had.

And although I would never admit it to Charlie, the prospect of repairing Winterset, as daunting as it was, was beginning to excite me.

So, I would stay.

I would stay where I was needed, and I would work to make this manor my home.

A place where I belonged.