Page 16 of Winterset

Oliver

The next morning, I took a breakfast tray in the drawing room. As I ate a too-hard, tasteless biscuit, I stared at the pianoforte. I did not believe for one second that Miss Lockwood’s ghost was haunting me.

It was implausible.

Foolish .

And yet I could not explain last night’s events: A pianoforte could not play on its own, nor could windows open themselves. Even now, in the light of day, fully awake and rested, I could not make sense of what had transpired.

Mrs. Owensby had surely redacted the list in my notebook, but there was no possible way she could have played the pianoforte or opened my window while she was sleeping belowstairs.

Perhaps I had dreamed that the sound was coming from the pianoforte?

But no, the servants had heard it too. It was baffling.

The only possible explanations were that I was going mad, or a ghost was indeed haunting my house. That I even considered the latter a possibility probably indicated the former. Had King George known he was going mad as it had happened?

There must be a simple explanation that did not include phantoms. This house and the people who lived within it held secrets, and I intended to discover every one.

I set my biscuit on the tray and rose from the sofa. The pianoforte lid was still open, so I peeked inside, but nothing was amiss. I circled the instrument but found nothing out of the ordinary.

I sat on the bench and stared down at the keys. I hadn’t played in years.

As a young boy, Mother had insisted both Damon and I take lessons, wishing for our home to be filled with music. Damon had practiced regularly and quickly become proficient, but I hadn’t progressed. I’d sat at the pianoforte for hours, but I’d pouted more than I’d practiced.

I placed my fingers on the keys.

I was only six when Father had had enough of my pouting. He’d just come inside from riding. He’d struck my knuckles so hard with his crop that they’d bled.

My knuckles still bore scars.

When I’d screamed in pain, Damon had come running. As the first son, he’d always borne the brunt of Father’s teaching tactics, but as the spare, I had often been beneath Father’s notice.

From that day on, whenever I’d practiced, Damon had sat beside me. He’d shown me the mathematics behind the music, and I’d learned to love playing. Not because I’d suddenly found the instrument diverting but because my brother had sat beside me.

And then he’d gone away to school, and when he’d returned, everything had been different. He had been different—more like Father, cold and cruel. And when he’d sat at that bench, he’d played not for pleasure but for praise.

I withdrew my fingers from the keys.

It would do me no good to think about the past. I’d once thought Damon and I would repair our relationship, but too much had passed between us now for our relationship to be mended.

I closed the lid and was about to rise from the bench when I saw something on the top of the piano. A swirl in the thin layer of dust, swirling around a smaller central circle. It almost looked like a flower.

Could Miss Lockwood’s ghost have drawn this? Mrs. Owensby had said she had been an artist, but ... Ghosts could not draw. They did not even exist.

Perhaps I was going mad.

I stood and stalked to my study. It was time to get to work.

Thankfully, nothing appeared out of sorts this morning. I walked to my desk and pulled out a paper from the top drawer to draft a letter to the local magistrate, informing him of my unfortunate experience with Mr. Moore.

I did not think Mr. Moore would be apprehended, and I did not wish for the magistrate to view me as a fool, but I could not hold back the information knowing it might save another man from the same fate as me.

Once the letter was finished, I folded the paper and reached for my seal. But I felt only my watch and key.

Thinking the seal might be stuck under the fob ribbon, I stood, smoothing the fabric. But the clasp where my seal usually hung was empty.

Had I removed it yesterday before I’d discovered my notebook? No. I hadn’t gotten that far. My pulse began to race.

I could not lose my seal. It was an irreplaceable family heirloom and had been entrusted to my care.

I moved the heavy oak desk, lifted the threadbare carpet, and shook the velvet curtains but found nothing. Dropping to my hands and knees, I scoured every inch of the floor, wondering if it had fallen and rolled out of sight. But my search was fruitless.

Standing, I took a deep breath to calm my emotions. It had to be here. Where had I last seen it?

Could it have come off my fob ribbon when I’d removed it last night? I’d been in such a hurry to get to the drawing room that it was possible I’d knocked my things off my bedside table, and it had become detached.

I took the stairs two at a time, then ran to my bedchamber. I all but skidded into the room.

There was nothing on the night table nor on the ground below it. I glanced under the bed, but the floor there, too, was bare.

Frantic now, I overturned my mattress and searched under every piece of furniture. But I did not find my seal. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere.

It had most likely fallen off my fob ribbon while I’d been riding yesterday.

Another failure.

Blast! I slapped my hand against the wall and then leaned into it and closed my eyes.

A gentleman always keeps track of his belongings . Father’s voice crept into my mind unbidden, and I drove it away with a shake of my head.

There was too much to do today to waste time wallowing: the attic still needed to be inspected, the Lockwood portraits stored, and the drive cleared.

Exhaling, I pushed myself from the wall and walked down the corridor to the attic door. I opened it and found a slender, spiral staircase. There was no rail, but a thick rope hung in the center of the spiral. I gripped it for stability and started up the stairs.

A scurrying sound came from above.

“Mrs. Owensby?” I called, but there came no response. It was likely only a rat.

At the top of the stairs, I let go of the rope and stepped into the attic.

The space had only a few small windows, so it was darker than the rest of the house.

It was also quite cluttered. Broken pieces of furniture were strewn about the space, old rolled carpets littered the walkway, and bulky picture frames were tilted against the wall.

There did not seem to be any sense in how things were stored.

I tilted a few of the portraits away from the wall and glanced at the nameplates mounted on the bases.

Ah. Mother’s family portraits.

Thankfully, they appeared unharmed. I continued down the long line, viewing the portraits, and after seeing no less than twenty, I realized I was searching for Miss Lockwood’s portrait.

It had not yet been rehung, as I’d instructed yesterday, but I’d thought of her likeness, her bright eyes and coy smile, more than once. Ironic, considering I’d had her portrait removed to avoid thinking of her.

I turned my attention to inspecting the ceiling.

With hardly any room overhead, I ducked under beams as I moved through the cramped space. For once, luck was on my side. There were no signs of water damage or rotted wood. The windows, too, appeared in good condition, with no evidence of mold or rot around the casement.

I exhaled in relief, my breath fogging the autumn-chilled window, and something caught my eye. I exhaled again, slowly this time. In the middle of one of the diamond-shaped panes was another swirl similar to the flower design I’d found drawn in the dust on the lid of the pianoforte.

I stared at it for a few seconds, then wiped it away. Mrs. Owensby had likely made both designs while moving about the house.

The window boasted a view of the garden, or rather, the tall hedge maze that I assumed led to the garden. I was sure it was as overgrown and ill-tended as the rest of the grounds, so I was glad it was hidden from view.

I turned my attention to the attic floor to assess the severity of the rodent infestation.

I walked the entire length of the attic, my eyes sweeping side to side, but I strangely saw no signs of rodents.

There were no droppings, nests, or chew marks, which was unexpected, considering how often I’d heard them in the walls the past three days.

I turned to make my way back down to the attic door, but I must have turned too swiftly because the toe of my Hessian boot caught the corner of a traveling trunk, leaving behind a large scuff on my boot.

“Deuces!” I sat on the trunk and tried to buff the mark with my sleeve, but the scar was too deep. Groaning, I gripped the edge of the trunk to stand and felt something rough beneath my fingers.

I ran my thumb over the rough spot, wiping away the dust, and there, on the lid, were carved the initials KL .

Katherine Lockwood.

My back grew warm, like someone was watching me. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was there.

Who had I expected to find? Miss Lockwood?

What a fool I was. Sometimes, she felt so real, though, so alive. Perhaps it was only because Mrs. Owensby was determined to keep the young lady’s memory alive, but there were times when it almost felt as though Miss Lockwood were standing in the room with me.

I lowered myself onto one knee before the trunk and opened the lid.

It was filled with women’s clothing. Miss Lockwood’s, presumably. A blue dress folded neatly on top, the fabric surprisingly fresh and clean. I held it up to the light to admire— er, examine. It was lovely. And so petite.

“Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby’s voice called up the stairs.

My heart raced as it had when I was a boy and Father had caught Damon and me creeping around Summerhaven’s forbidden east wing. I guiltily dropped the dress and closed the trunk lid.

“Mr. Jennings?” she called again. “The attic door was open. Are you up there?”

“I’m here,” I called back, quickly standing and searching for something to do to make my being here less suspicious.

But why ? This was my house, my attic. Even this trunk was mine until Mr. Lockwood’s next of kin could be found. Still, I felt silly standing here doing nothing, so I sat atop the lid and pulled out my notebook and pencil.

Mrs. Owensby appeared at the top of the stairs and walked over to where I sat. “What are you doing up here?” she asked, breathless.

“Can a man not sit in his own attic?” I smiled.

“He can, but why would he wish to?” She glanced around the attic as if looking for explanation.

That was the question, wasn’t it? “To ... rest.”

She gave me a skeptical look, unconvinced.

“I was checking the soundness of the roof, and I grew tired.”

“I see. And how have you found the roof?”

“Watertight.”

“Good. Then you will have no need to come up here again.”

I raised an eyebrow at her impertinence. I stood and, crossing my arms, looked down at her.

“That is to say,” she quickly amended, “it is good that you will not have to add a new roof to your list of repairs and waste your time up here, where no one will ever see your progress. Shall we?” She motioned toward the stairs.

She was acting even odder than usual, like a vexed governess handling a naughty child.

“I’ll be down shortly, Mrs. Owensby,” I said, standing my ground.

But she stood her ground.

What was a man to do? I cleared my throat.

“We have much to accomplish with very little time before winter arrives; the drive must be cleared of overgrowth to allow the cart entrance, the Lockwood portraits removed and replaced with these.” I indicated my ancestor’s portraits leaning against the wall.

“Speaking of portraits, I did not see Miss Lockwood’s portrait rehung in the entrance hall, nor did I see it stored up here in the attic. Do you know what has become of it?”

Mrs. Owensby cast her eyes about the attic, whether to look for it or avoid my gaze, I couldn’t be sure. “I suppose it has been ... misplaced ,” she said.

“Well, see that it is found and rehung immediately. I should like to keep the portrait safe until it can be delivered to the young lady’s next of kin.”

Mrs. Owensby nodded but said nothing more on the subject.

I continued listing the chores that needed to be completed today. “You and Charlie will work inside the house to remove the pictures. Both the gallery and the white room must be emptied,” I instructed. “And Bexley and I will work outside to clear the drive.”

I thought it best to separate Bexley and Mrs. Owensby and keep an eye on them until I could explain all that had transpired in this house or until these peculiar incidents stopped happening.

“Very well,” she said. “We best get to it.”

Still, she seemed too eager. She did not even object to my requests or to being paired with Charlie instead of Bexley. Why? What was she hiding?

“Please inform Bexley and Charlie. And as I said, I will be down shortly.”

Unmoving, she worried her lower lip.

“You may go now, Mrs. Owensby.”

With a nod, she reluctantly retreated down the stairs.

Mrs. Owensby was undoubtedly hiding something in this attic, perhaps protecting something that had belonged to Miss Lockwood. What? I wasn’t sure yet. But now, more than ever, I was determined to find answers.