Page 15 of Winterset

Kate

I turned onto my side in bed, trying to get comfortable in the dark of night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how Mr. Jennings had blamed Mrs. Owensby for redacting his notes.

I’d been hiding in the priest hide built into the bookcase, hoping to hear Mr. Jennings’s reaction when he returned.

Knowing that both Mrs. Owensby and Bexley had been otherwise engaged all afternoon, I hadn’t expected Mr. Jennings to blame either of them.

But, of course, he had. Logically, there was no one else to blame.

If he’d wanted to, he could have released them from his employment.

And it would have been my fault.

From now on, I would ensure that the things Mr. Jennings saw and heard could not be traced to the servants. I’d been lucky that he’d shown Mrs. Owensby empathy instead of anger.

As much as I hated to admit it, Mr. Jennings possessed some admirable qualities. But that did not mean we could peacefully coexist .

I rolled onto my back.

Hmph. It didn’t seem fair that Mr. Jennings should be sleeping so soundly in his bed when he was the cause of my unrest.

It was time for my ghost to cause another disturbance.

How though?

I thought back to the countless stories my maid Molly had told me about the pranks she and her siblings used to pull on one another.

I’d never laughed so hard as when she’d told me the story of how her eldest brother had thrown water on their youngest brother in the dead of night.

Perhaps I could wake Mr. Jennings. I couldn’t get too close to him, so throwing water on him was out of the question, but there had to be some way of waking him without being discovered.

Earlier today, Mr. Jennings had had his belongings moved to the master’s bedchamber in the west wing of the house, directly over the drawing room.

The drawing room housed the pianoforte. What if I sneaked downstairs and played the pianoforte?

All the servants were safely accounted for in their beds, and Mr. Jennings’s own manservant would be able to vouch for this, so Mr. Jennings could not blame them.

Excited, I rolled out of bed and crept down the attic stairs to the landing. It was dark, but I didn’t need a candle. I knew every twist and turn of these halls, every piece of furniture and squeaky stair too.

It didn’t take me long to pass through the corridor and descend to the ground floor. Returning to the attic would be more difficult, as I would have to sneak back through the narrow, secret passageways in the walls, but it would be worth the effort to see his face.

I slipped into the drawing room, padded soundlessly to the pianoforte, and propped open the lid. Thankfully, the moon was full and gave me enough light to see the keys.

Seating myself on the bench, I felt a bit guilty, knowing my actions would also wake the servants. However, it was, in a way, for their protection. Mr. Jennings needed to know that it was me who was disturbing his peace, not them.

What to play?

I swirled my finger along the top of the piano, thinking. Something dark and brooding. Something haunting .

Mozart? No, Mozart’s melodies would lull Mr. Jennings peacefully from sleep, and I wished to rip him from his rest.

For that, only Bach would do.

Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The pounding minor melody could wake the dead.

I gingerly placed my fingers on the keys, then struck the first chords, shattering the silence. I played the piece as loudly and violently as possible, rending the night.

I should be able to complete at least a dozen measures before anyone appeared at the drawing room door. Mr. Jennings would likely get here first since his bedchamber was closest, but the servants would not be far behind.

I was not inordinately skilled at the pianoforte, but I was proficient. In the darkness, though, I missed several notes. But my mistakes only added to the eeriness.

Above me, there came a loud thump , like a man falling out of bed.

I snorted a laugh and continued playing or, rather, pounding the keys.

It felt so good. After being silent for so many days, making myself heard felt liberating.

Mr. Jennings was moving around his bedchamber now. It wouldn’t be much longer before he came downstairs.

I quickly completed a rapidly descending cascade of notes that was sure to set his heart racing, then held a final chord and rose from the bench.

I’d played a minute, at most, but I’d made myself heard.

Footfalls sounded on the grand staircase.

I hurried to the hidden jib door and pressed it open to reveal the secret passageway—a derelict servants’ corridor that snaked through the walls of the entire house.

I stepped into the shadows and pushed the jib door back into place.

A few paces down the darkened corridor, there was a small gap where the panels met, which provided a view of the drawing room.

Only a few moments later, Mr. Jennings skidded into the hall. He held a candlestick, which highlighted the fact that he wore only his nightshirt. It gaped at the neck, revealing the portion of his chest that a cravat would typically cover.

I swallowed hard.

He raked his free hand through his curls, the golden locks gleaming in the flickering candlelight. He squinted into the darkness at the pianoforte. “What the devil?”

Not long after, his manservant, Charlie, ran into the room, looking just as bedraggled as Mr. Jennings. “Granger?”

“I’m here,” Mr. Jennings said.

Charlie glanced around the drawing room. “Were you ... playing yourself a lullaby?”

Mr. Jennings scowled. “Don’t be daft. The music woke me, same as you.”

And a moment later, a disheveled Bexley and Mrs. Owensby entered the room.

“Sir?” Bexley said. “Are you quite all right?” Bexley’s voice was gravelly with sleep. And behind him, Mrs. Owensby clutched the neckline of her night dress.

“The pianoforte,” Mr. Jennings said, pointing an accusing finger at it. “It played.”

“You mean, you played?” Mrs. Owensby said.

“No, it played. I only just came down to see who was playing at this ungodly hour and found the room empty.”

“We were belowstairs,” Charlie said. “Perhaps it was ...” His sentence drew out, then died, having no plausible explanation.

I smiled.

No one was hurt. No one was blamed. I’d succeeded!

Mr. Jennings checked the windows, the pianoforte, behind the furniture. But there was nothing to find. Well, nothing except for me, of course, but I was hidden within the wall.

They continued discussing what might have caused the disturbance, and I passed through the secret corridor undetected upstairs. It was cramped and dark and dusty, but I hardly noticed as I felt my way upstairs, so great was my glee.

And I wasn’t even finished yet.

With everyone accounted for, I went to Mr. Jennings’s bedchamber. I opened the window, and cool air whooshed into the room, billowing the curtains. His bedchamber would be freezing when he returned.

I turned to leave but paused when I saw something on Mr. Jennings’s dressing table: his fob watch, key, and seal. It was his seal that interested me most. I picked it up and moved to the hearth to inspect it in the firelight.

The inscription read: Veritas , Honestas , Libertas. Truth, Honor, Freedom. The motto was laid over a rose.

Perhaps I would hold on to this until Mr. Jennings learned to live by the virtues it symbolized.

I closed my fingers around the seal and slipped into the corridor. I walked to the end and opened the small window.

When Mr. Jennings opened his bedchamber door, it would create a wind tunnel and slam the door shut. He might be able to explain why the door slammed but not who had opened the window.

Pleased with my work, I climbed the stairs to the attic and got into bed. And for the first time in a month, with Mr. Jennings’s seal safe in my hand, I slept soundly.