Page 17 of Winterset

Kate

When I was finally brave enough to creep out of my attic bedchamber, the faintest hint of Mr. Jennings’s cologne lingered in the air. Lemon, sandalwood, and cedar. A heady combination. Masculine.

He’d gotten too close. Dangerously close.

Had I taken my pranks too far or not far enough?

Nothing I had done to get him to leave had worked. What else could I do to make him uncomfortable here?

I was pondering what I might do to increase his discomfort when I heard voices outside.

I went to the window, and careful to stay in the shadows, I peeked out.

In the courtyard below, Mr. Jennings and Bexley stood on the drive, holding shovels.

He’d written in his notebook that the drive needed to be cleared, and I’d just heard him tell Mrs. Owensby that he planned to clear the drive, but I supposed he would have Bexley clear the drive while he supervised.

Did he really mean to do it himself? While wearing his fine coat?

He would split the seams! And where were his gardening gloves?

His hands would be littered with blisters by the time he was finished.

I shook my head, laughing at his obvious inexperience.

He didn’t know the first thing about gardening. This would be entertaining.

The men moved in opposite directions, Bexley toward the house and Mr. Jennings toward the gate.

Mr. Jennings didn’t hesitate, thrusting his shovel into the ground and removing a clump of weeds. His shoulders strained against the seams of his coat.

I leaned against the wall next to the window and watched.

Mr. Jennings possessed unexpected strength for a man of gentle breeding. He moved confidently, attacking the weeds. He had muscular arms and a straight back, and he did not lack determination. He might not know anything about gardening, but he did not look bad doing it.

But after only a few minutes of laboring, it began to rain. And not a little.

Mr. Jennings looked down at the few feet of ground he’d managed to clear. Even from all the way up here, I could feel his frustration.

Poor man. Even Mother Nature was on my side.

Mr. Jennings looked at the sky and cursed, then called to Bexley.

Though I could not make out Mr. Jennings’s words over the sound of the rain, I assumed he was telling Bexley that they’d have to stop working for the day, unfortunately for me.

Watching him struggle had been such an enjoyable diversion.

But Mr. Jennings did not leave the courtyard.

He only removed his coat and cravat and handed them to Bexley.

Mr. Jennings’s waistcoat came off next, leaving him in only his shirtsleeves and breeches.

Bexley walked back toward the house, out of my line of sight, and Mr. Jennings returned to his task. Rain soaked his white shirt, and the material clung to his shoulders, arms, and chest.

He stopped shoveling several times to wring water from his shirt, but the effort was futile, and he finally surrendered. Reaching over his shoulders, he removed his shirt over his head in one swift motion and tossed it aside.

I stared, captivated.

Raindrops pelted his broad shoulders and slid down his smooth, sculpted chest and abdomen, each droplet tracing the contours of his powerful physique. His breeches, weighted with water, hung low on his hips, accentuating his trim waist and tapering torso.

Mr. Jennings turned to continue his task, executing each thrust of the shovel with controlled precision. His biceps bulged.

“Kate!”

I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Owensby’s voice directly behind me and turned to face her. How had I not even heard her approach?

“Saints above!” she snapped. “Come away from the window before Mr. Jennings sees you.”

When I took one last glance at Mr. Jennings’s fine form instead, Mrs. Owensby grabbed my elbow and pulled me away.

“What could possibly be so interesting?” Mrs. Owensby peeked over my shoulder out the window and sucked in a scandalized breath. “Katherine Lockwood!”

“You were right,” I said. “He is nimble.”

“I ought to box your eyes .”

“Can eyes be boxed?” I asked.

She huffed at my impertinence. “After Mr. Jennings’s perusal of the attic this morning, I should think you would have learned to be more careful.”

“I was being careful. I was keeping close watch of Mr. Jennings.”

She looked at me in disbelief. “And what about his manservant, Charlie? Did you not think to be wary of him?”

I had not.

“He is currently removing your family members’ portraits from the walls downstairs and will shortly be carrying them up here to store.”

Her words alarmed me. “I was momentarily distracted, but since Mr. Jennings was outside, I did not think I was in danger.”

“You are in great danger, hiding here without Mr. Jennings’s permission, and you must never forget it.”

“I’m sorry. The day was just so long, and ...” I hung my head. There was no excuse.

Mrs. Owensby’s expression softened. “I hate the thought of you sitting up here in the attic all alone, but if you will not leave Winterset and you will not reveal yourself to Mr. Jennings, you must stay hidden.”

I nodded contritely. “I will be more careful.”

“Good. Now, I am supposed to be drawing Mr. Jennings a warm bath and fetching his French-milled lavender soap.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did he also order you to collect fresh rainwater to fill his royal bath?”

“You mustn’t say such things,” she scolded, though I saw the start of a smile on her lips. “Mr. Jennings is working hard to clear the drive. Not many masters would do such a thing.”

“True, but Mr. Jennings let the weeds grow in the first place.” Had he cared one wit for his estate, he would have hired a steward to manage Winterset two years ago.

“Regardless, Mr. Jennings will still need a warm bath after he is finished outside.”

“Well,” I crossed my arms, “I’m not sure his fancy soap will be strong enough to remove all that soil. Perhaps you should replace it with the lye soap you use to launder his clothes?”

She shook her head. “It is a bit too harsh.”

“Not harsh enough to hurt him. I just don’t want him to get too comfortable here.”

“Oh, Kate.”

“Tell him you accidentally used his soap to clean his laundry and bring the bar to me for safekeeping.” I was curious. What made it so superior? I had to see it.

Mrs. Owensby seemed uncertain but warily nodded, then turned to leave.

“One last thing,” I said, stopping her. “After a day spent outside in the rain, Mr. Jennings will likely be chilled to the bone. You must season his soup with plenty of pepper to warm him from the inside.”

“You are a force to be reckoned with, Kate.” Mrs. Owensby sighed. “Now, go and hide before Charlie comes up,” she instructed and left the attic.

I did as I was told and hid all afternoon, listening to Charlie climb up and down the attic stairs, storing the portraits.

Eventually, Mrs. Owensby returned with a dinner tray: steaming soup with a side of bread and butter. Also on the tray was Mr. Jennings’s soap.

The bar was buttery soft and smelled divine, like all the best scents in the walled garden combined.

The rain continued into the night. I loved the soft sound, but then it became a storm.

Lightning lit the sky, and thunder ripped through the silence.

I’d never liked storms. Such powerful, unpredictable forces of nature had always frightened me.

Sleeping in the attic so close to the stormy sky was terrifying.

When I was young, Papa used to take me into the library during storms. He’d pull me into his lap and read to me until the storm stopped or I fell asleep, whichever came first. How I wished he were here now.

Clutching my blanket, I tried to calm my fears by repeating Papa’s promise: So long as I stayed within these walls, I was safe. But no matter how many times I repeated the mantra, I could not stop trembling.

Another bolt illuminated the sky, and unable to stand it any longer, I rose from my bed.

Mrs. Owensby’s earlier warning rang in my ears.

It was dangerous for me to go downstairs at this hour.

Although I’d heard Mr. Jennings retire to his bedchamber not long ago, he was likely not yet asleep.

But the storm seemed a great deal more dangerous than he did at present.

I did not like to disobey Mrs. Owensby, but the storm was severe.

It sounded like a bolt could come crashing through the roof at any moment. I could not stay here.

I crept down the attic stairs, pressed my ear to the door, and listened. The house was quiet, so I sneaked down the stairs to the library and quietly closed the door.

The storm was quieter inside this room with the noise dampened by all the books lining the walls.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the study table in the center of the room, the overstuffed armchairs by the hearth, and the rolling ladder on the bookcase, but only for a moment.

Thunder rolled in the distance, but it was not so loud in this room.

I felt safer here, closer to Papa, if only in my memory.

I ran my hands over the books. I should take one or two more while I was here.

The pages of my current “sketchbook” were almost full, and who knew when I would be able to come down here again.

I always selected my books from the uppermost shelves.

They seemed to be the least often read and, therefore, the least likely to be missed.

Without slippers, the ladder rungs were cold beneath my bare feet, and my white linen nightgown tickled the tops of my toes.

I felt along the books for the slip of paper marking the last spot I’d retrieved a book and pulled out the next.

The book was thin, so I grabbed another.

Taking two books at a time left a considerable gap on the shelf.

Perhaps, I should—

But before I could finish the thought, there was a noise at the door. The turning of the knob.

My gaze darted to the door, which was slowly being pushed open, and then swept around the room, looking for a place to hide. The secret passageway was the only place, but I could not descend the ladder quickly enough to conceal myself.

The door creaked open to reveal Mr. Jennings, candlestick in hand. Everything happened in rapid succession: lightning flashed, our eyes locked, Mr. Jennings jumped back, and his candlestick fell to the floor, catching the carpet on fire.