Page 19 of Winterset

Kate

At least an hour had passed, maybe two, since Mr. Jennings had seen me in the library, and I still shook as I paced the attic. Had he not dropped his candle, he would have—well, I did not know what he would have done. Dragged me to the constable? Thrown me out in the rain?

I continued pacing.

Mr. Jennings would likely return any moment.

What was I to do?

I could not stay. He knew I was living in his house now.

But neither could I leave; as dangerous as Mr. Jennings might be, Mr. Cavendish was infinitely worse.

Mrs. Owensby’s plea that I reveal myself to Mr. Jennings and beg his protection echoed in my mind.

But it was too late for that now. I’d stolen food, shelter, and his precious seal. Men had hung for less.

Noises came from outside. Gravel crunching as a carriage came down the drive and then a man’s voice. Mr. Jennings’s. Was he ... singing ?

I rushed to the window and peeked outside, but with the thick cloud cover still left from the storm, it was too dark to see anything.

The singing grew louder as he neared the house. Was that French? No, Italian? It was impossible to tell because his words were slurred.

He was drunk.

I’d been certain he’d gone to town to fetch the constable, but it seemed he hadn’t visited the jail, only the tavern.

Perplexed, I crept down the attic stairs to the landing and peered through the rails.

Below, Mr. Jennings staggered into the entrance hall.

“ Signora Owensby !” Mr. Jennings singsonged. “ Venga in fretta !”

I fought a smile at his deep, lilting voice.

A moment later, a bedraggled Charlie entered the hall, no doubt startled awake by the singing. “Granger?” He held up his candle and, seeing his master in such a sorry state, burst out laughing.

“Does my singing amuse you, Charlie?”

“Indeed it does, sir,” he said, and using his candle, he lit a few lamps.

“Well, at least you are honest, which is more than I can say for you.” He pointed at Mrs. Owensby, who had just entered the hall looking half asleep and in her nightclothes, and Bexley on her heels.

“You are always talking in circles, you are.” Mr. Jennings turned in a circle, arms caged as if dancing a waltz.

Oh my. He was more than drunk; he was utterly possessed.

“I am tired of being toyed with,” Mr. Jennings said, stopping his drunken spinning; however, in an attempt to regain his balance, he all but ran into Mrs. Owensby.

“Sir,” Mrs. Owensby said, hand outstretched to steady him. “You are blee—”

He batted away her hand. “Do not try to placate me, Mrs. Owensby. I am in a foul mood. I refuse to be the cat to your mouse any longer. Or no, that isn’t right.” He paused, looking to be in thought. “You are the cat, and I am the ... the ...”

“Mouse?” Charlie supplied.

“Where?” Mr. Jennings’s gaze snapped to the floor. “Blasted things have been creeping through the walls at all hours, and now they have the gall to scamper across my floors in plain sight?”

“No.” Charlie sighed. “ You are a mouse.”

“The devil I am!”

Charlie groaned. “You are insufferable when you are intoxicated, Granger.”

“Does he drink to a stupor often?” Mrs. Owensby asked Charlie.

“No,” Charlie said. “Almost never.”

Mr. Jennings sighed dramatically. “ Si vous aviez mes problèmes, vous seriez ivre mort aussi .”

He spoke both Italian and French then. Impressive.

“Sir,” Mrs. Owensby said again but more sternly this time. “I must beg you to listen. You have injured your forehead and may require stitches.”

Mr. Jennings touched his forehead and winced.

“Charlie,” Mrs. Owensby said. “Come help me.”

Charlie obediently started toward them, but the nearer he came, the slower he stepped.

“If you will just press the cloth to his cut,” she instructed Charlie, and he seemed to sway.

“No, ma’am. I—” Charlie started, but his plea faded as he fell to the floor.

“Charlie!” Mrs. Owensby shrieked.

Bexley stooped to help Charlie. “I don’t think he’s too fond of blood.”

“He detests it,” Mr. Jennings said. “It made him a terrible second in the ring.”

So, Mr. Jennings was a pugilist. That explained his athletic form.

“Take Charlie belowstairs to rest,” Mrs. Owensby instructed Bexley.

“I hate to leave you alone,” Bexley said. “Mr. Jennings is in such a state.”

As if cued, Mr. Jennings launched into another aria, his deep vibrato filling the entrance hall. I hated to notice, but his voice was quite pleasant.

“I will be fine,” Mrs. Owensby said. “Although I do not have the stamina to tend to two patients tonight. If you will, see Charlie back to his bed and watch over him, and I will see to Mr. Jennings’s injury.”

Bexley agreed, and when Charlie came to, still quite pale and shaken, Bexley assisted him belowstairs to recover for the night.

“Come, Mr. Jennings,” Mrs. Owensby said. “Let’s get you into the library. You can warm yourself by the fire, and I will better be able to see and help you.”

Mr. Jennings shook his head. “The library is haunted.”

“What?” Mrs. Owensby said to him, but her gaze lifted to the banister, where I was hiding.

Of course Mrs. Owensby knew I’d sneaked down to watch the spectacle.

“I saw Miss Lockwood’s ghost, Mrs. Owensby. This very night, floating in the library.”

I blinked in surprise. He didn’t know I was alive? Miracle of miracles! Our scheme had worked! I was safe.

Mrs. Owensby glanced in my direction again, her face pinched with anger. “Then I will assist you to the drawing room, sir.” She draped his arm over her shoulder to support his weight.

Still crouched behind the stair rail on the landing, I wasn’t sure what to do. I did not wish Mrs. Owensby to be left alone with an injured, intoxicated man. But besides his sultry serenading, he did not seem dangerous.

One never could be too sure, though, so I tiptoed down the stairs to the drawing room door and slipped inside. I hid myself in the shadowy corner of the room near the door. Even though he thought me a ghost and was quite clearly drunk, I did not wish to try my luck.

Mrs. Owensby lowered him into an armchair by the dying fire. Needing more light, she added another log, stoked the flame back to life, and then lit the lamps, illuminating the room.

By the time she turned back, Mr. Jennings’s breathing had evened out, and he was still with sleep.

Mrs. Owensby leaned close and inspected his wound.

From my position, I could see only the top of Mr. Jennings’s head poking over the back of the armchair, but his injury was severe enough to elicit a wince from her.

She straightened and moved toward the drawing room door, where I hid.

“Is he all right?” I whispered as she passed.

“Kate!” Mrs. Owensby startled and looked over her shoulder at Mr. Jennings to ensure he hadn’t heard her, then turned back to me. “No, I’m afraid not. His wound is deep and wide and requires stitches. I am going to tell Bexley to fetch Doctor Foster.”

My insides clenched. A memory of Doctor Foster standing over Papa’s lifeless body flashed through my mind. Although the doctor was not directly responsible for Papa’s death—Mr. Cavendish was—he had done little to help the situation. “Doctor Foster is likely as drunk as Mr. Jennings,” I said.

“We will have to hope that is not the case tonight,” she said. “I can’t sew Mr. Jennings’s wound; my eyesight is too poor, and my hands are unsteady.”

I held Mrs. Owensby’s gaze. “I will do it.”

“Don’t be absurd, child. What if Mr. Jennings wakes and sees you?”

“He has already seen me,” I reminded her.

Mrs. Owensby frowned her displeasure.

“Luckily,” I added, “he believes I am a ghost. And even if he does see me again tonight, he is too drunk to remember it accurately in the morning.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but you have never stitched a wound before.”

“No,” I said, “but I am proficient enough at embroidery.”

“Stitching skin is vastly different from stitching silk, Kate.”

I grimaced at her words but pushed the feeling aside. “I don’t trust the doctor not to do more damage, Mrs. Owensby. And we shouldn’t delay Mr. Jennings’s care.”

She bit her lower lip, seeming to consider.

“Please let me do this,” I said. “Think of it as my penance for all my pranks.”

“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Owensby said, “but you’re right; his care should not be delayed. Use his cravat to wipe away the excess blood while I fetch supplies,” she said and hurried toward the servants’ quarters.

Alone now, I walked slowly and quietly through the drawing room, never taking my eyes off Mr. Jennings. His head was propped against the armchair wing, and his curls fell across his forehead, covering his wound. His arms were draped over the armrests, and his legs were splayed on the floor.

Heart pounding, I retrieved a chair from the corner and sat close to him.

My goodness. Had he bathed in drink? I should not be surprised if he slept until spring.

Feeling more confident that he wouldn’t wake, I moved to loosen his cravat. It was intricately tied, and it took me a minute to work out the knot and then another to unwind the cloth. My fingers brushed the soft skin of his neck. Despite his wet clothing, his skin was warm.

Using one hand, I pushed back the golden curls that had fallen across his forehead to reveal the gash above his left eyebrow. It was not long but appeared deep. What had happened? Had he gotten into a fight? Fallen?

I folded his cravat in my free hand and lightly touched the linen to his temple. The blood wiped away easily, but it took more effort to clean his cheeks, where it had already begun to dry.

He really was handsome.

But just because he was handsome did not mean he was good. In my experience, good looks often seemed to indicate the opposite; the more handsome the man, the worse his behavior.

The sheer symmetry of his face demanded artistic admiration.

Most people had one eye that was slightly lower than the other, a nose that was a little crooked, or ears that protruded unbecomingly.

But Mr. Jennings possessed strong, sturdy features that were implausibly balanced: eyes equidistant from a straight nose, high cheekbones, and plump, red lips.

“I think that will do,” Mrs. Owensby said, startling me.

Realizing Mr. Jennings’s cheeks and forehead were clean and had likely been clean for some time, I withdrew my hand.

Mrs. Owensby handed me the needle and thread, then stood directly behind me to assist.

Thankfully, Mr. Jennings’s skin was split straight and should be easy enough to sew closed. I would be as gentle as possible, but no matter how careful I was, it would likely leave a scar.

Only half a dozen stitches were all that would be needed, and then I could retreat back to the attic. My hands shook as I gripped the needle. Despite all my pretended confidence, I was afraid.

Mrs. Owensby whispered some basic instructions and made a display of how and where to sew the flesh. “Quickly now,” Mrs. Owensby whispered, “before he wakes.”

With a nod, I focused on the task.

I could do this.

I had to do this.

Bracing my elbow on the chair’s left wing, I touched the needle to his forehead.

He shifted in his sleep but did not wake.

I concentrated on making tight, even stitches, and little by little, I closed the wound.

“Not a ghost,” Mr. Jennings murmured.

I froze, my face mere inches from his. His eyes were open, though only just, and he studied my face. My heart hammered in my chest. He would haul me to the authorities now and—

“An angel .” He lifted his hand and brushed the back of it to my cheek.

He touched me softly, but his skin was rough, likely from work and lye soap.

I felt a pang of remorse. He dropped his hand back onto his lap like it was too heavy to hold up.

A straight scar stretched across his knuckles.

It was thin and faded. He’d likely received it when he was a boy.

What had happened to him? I wondered. “Do you see her, Mrs. Owensby?” His eyes locked on mine, and I dared not move an inch.

“S-see who , Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby said.

“Miss Lockwood’s ghost,” he said.

“I see no ghost,” she said, and his brow furrowed. “Do not move! You must relax your forehead, or you will pull out your stitches.”

“You truly cannot see her?” He reached out to touch my cheek again, but Mrs. Owensby swatted away his hand.

“Eyes closed!” she ordered.

“ Le plus bel ange ,” he murmured, then closed his eyes, complying.

I quickly made the last stitch and tied the knot, then looked up at Mrs. Owensby. She motioned for me to hide behind the curtains.

Once I was safely out of view, she said, “There. Good as new.”

Mr. Jennings’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked several times at the spot where I’d stood. “Where has she gone?”

“Where has who gone, sir?”

“Miss Lockwood. I could have sworn she was—” Mr. Jennings’s sentence stretched thin as if he were attempting to make sense of what he’d seen— me —and what he’d heard— Mrs. Owensby . When he couldn’t, he shook his head. “I fear I am going mad, Mrs. Owensby.”

I felt bad for my behavior. I’d not meant to cause Mr. Jennings any real pain, physical or mental.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Owensby said and helped him stand. “You are only drunk as a fish. You will feel better after a good night’s rest.”

He huffed a laugh, though it held no amusement. “Miss Lockwood would never allow it,” he said. “I’ve not had a decent sleep since stepping foot in this wretched manor.”

Wretched manor?

Winterset was many things, but it was not wretched . It was my home. My haven. How dare he speak of it so disdainfully.

I’d thought he was beginning to see Winterset for how wonderful it was.

He’d made an exhaustive list of repairs and had even worked the land with his own two hands.

But no. Mr. Jennings was just as selfish as the day he’d walked into Winterset, and it was past time he left.

If he wasn’t happy here, then he shouldn’t be here.

Any kindness I’d felt toward him instantly evaporated, and my resolve to drive him from this wretched manor strengthened.

I would make him rue the day he stepped foot in this house.

And I knew exactly how to do it.