Page 23 of Winterset

Oliver

Bexley greeted me at the door with a bow and presented a salver. On it, another missive. “This was delivered while you were out, sir.”

I took the missive and, recognizing Damon’s handwriting, stuffed it in my pocket. “Bexley, have Mrs. Owensby meet me in my study straightaway.”

“Is everything all right, sir?” he asked.

“I am not certain. Please summon Mrs. Owensby for me.”

“Right away, sir.”

Before going to my study, I went to the library and retrieved one of the books with the drawings inside.

As I strode to my study, I flipped through the pages, stopping on a sketch of a willow tree.

I perched myself on the edge of my desk and examined the drawing.

The tree trunk was drawn in the center of two pages, and the weeping boughs spread to fill both pages. It was extraordinary.

“Good afternoon, sir. Would you like your lunch served in—” Mrs. Owensby’s sentence cut off when she saw the book I held, or more precisely, the drawing in the book.

“No lunch for me today.” I snapped the book closed and set it aside. “But I had an interesting conversation at church today and wanted to ask you about it. Did you know that Winterset has several priest hides? Secret passageways too?”

“O-of course, sir.”

“Why did you not point them out when you showed me Winterset?”

She bit her bottom lip. “They are derelict, sir. I didn’t think you would find them interesting.”

“Ah. Another misunderstanding between us. Let us rectify this one immediately. Why don’t you show them to me.” I stood, gesturing to the door. “And be sure not to forget a single spot this time.”

“Certainly, sir. I should be happy to show them to you, but first I must—”

“Whatever else you were doing can wait. I would like to see these secret spaces now.”

She swallowed hard. “Certainly, sir. There is an entrance to the old servants’ passageway right behind you.”

“The bookcase? How clever.” I walked around the desk to inspect the case but did not see any latches or hinges to pull it open.

“The small blue book,” Mrs. Owensby said. “Tip it toward you to release the latch, and it will swing open toward you.”

I did as she said, but the door did not open.

I tried again, pulling more firmly this time, but it barely budged.

“Allow me to show you?” Mrs. Owensby asked.

I nodded my approval and took a step back to allow her space to open the bookshelf.

She tipped back the little blue book just as I had twice before, but unlike me, she held on to the book and used her strength to pull the door open.

A musty smell filled my nose. Mrs. Owensby stepped inside the small space, turning in a small circle and moving her arms as if to clear the space of cobwebs, or perhaps evidence.

Cobwebs did indeed cover the walls of the cool, dark corridor, and two centuries’ worth of dust coated the floorboards, save Mrs. Owensby’s fresh footprints, of course.

It was hard to imagine anyone hiding inside my walls.

A shiver snaked down my spine. I shuddered and secured the door back into place.

“Show me the rest of the priest hides,” I said.

She nodded. “Follow me.”

I did, but first, I pushed the desk against the bookcase so that it could not easily be opened from the inside.

In the entrance hall, standing in front of the wall of portraits, Mrs. Owensby pointed out another priest hide. “Push the top of that timber.”

Thinking it would stick like the last one, I used my strength, and it swung swiftly out and struck me in the shin.

Blast!

I jumped back. After walking off the pain, I lightly pressed the timber and looked inside the dark cavity.

This priest hide was much smaller than the entrance to the servants’ corridor in my study. Much smaller. It was a wonder anyone could fit inside at all.

I crouched to look inside and saw something. A frame?

I reached inside to pull it out, letting the timber fall back into place as I stood, and held up the frame to view the image.

Miss Lockwood’s missing portrait. The same one Mrs. Owensby claimed had been misplaced, but it had not been misplaced. It had been hidden.

I rehung the portrait in its proper place and stepped back to ensure it was level. My goodness, Miss Lockwood was beautiful. Miss Dalton did not hold a candle to her.

“This stays here.” I gave Mrs. Owensby a reproving look. “Show me the dining hall next.”

She led me there and pointed at the threadbare tapestry hanging on the wall. “There is an alcove behind it.”

I pulled back the material and stepped inside.

Curious about what it would feel like to hide here, I let the tapestry fall back into place.

The space was immediately dark, save for a few pinpricks of light that poked through holes.

I peeked through one. It had a perfect view to see the head of the table.

My skin prickled at the thought of Miss Lockwood’s watching me take my meals.

But despite my strong suspicion, I hadn’t found any evidence of another human hiding in my house.

I stepped back out. “Show me the drawing room now.” I wanted to know how someone could play the pianoforte one second and disappear the next.

With a nod, Mrs. Owensby led me into the drawing room and pointed out a hidden jib door.

I pushed on the panel, and it slid open to reveal the derelict servant’s passageway.

This passageway was as dark and dusty as the one in my study, though the cobwebs here were broken and brushed aside, and the dust on the floor had been disturbed by human footprints.

I blinked, not believing my eyes, but they did not disappear. I stepped inside the corridor, determined to discover where the footprints led.

“Mr. Jennings, please, wait.”

But I did not wait.

I did not even slow as I walked the length of the corridor and climbed the steep stairs. At the top, a door opened to the first-floor landing, and directly before me was the attic door.

Mrs. Owensby had not followed me through the passageway but was using the grand staircase to climb.

I did not wait for her to catch up but opened the attic door and climbed the steep spiral stairs.

Once in the attic, I walked along the walls, searching for seams and pressing on panels, hoping to find another priest hide, but they were well disguised, purposely so.

I’d already made a full circle of the room’s walls when Mrs. Owensby entered the attic, out of breath and looking anxious.

“Where is the entrance?” I said.

“Perhaps you should not—”

“The priest hide, Mrs. Owensby. Where is the door?” I knew there was one up here, considering how strangely she’d acted the last time we’d occupied this space together and how severely she was shaking now.

She didn’t move right away, and my confidence wavered. I could be wrong. While Miss Lockwood’s survival and hiding here made sense, I’d seen nothing other than a few footprints today to prove as much.

But then Mrs. Owensby stepped past me and pressed on a wall panel that looked as innocuous as all the others, and a door swung silently open.

My heart picked up its pace. Miss Lockwood could be sitting inside this room. I tugged my cuffs to straighten my shirt sleeves and walked inside the room, anticipating our introduction.

But the room was empty.

This was, by far, the largest priest hide. The room where a priest would have slept. It boasted a neatly made bed, a wardrobe, and even a tiny window. Dust covered the furniture, and cobwebs hung in the corners. Miss Lockwood had not slept here. The room was undisturbed.

Disappointed, my heart slowed to its normal rhythm. I was about to leave when I noticed something strange: footprints leading directly into the wall.

For a moment, my mind conjured up an image of a ghost passing through the wall. But then I just as quickly dismissed the idea because an incorporeal being did not have feet with which to make these footprints.

Could there be another room directly behind this one?

I knocked on the paneling, and sure enough, it sounded hollow. It took a moment to find a latch, but when I did, the door easily opened.

I blinked against the darkness. There was no window in this room.

“Hello?” I said softly, gently, but there came no answer. She wasn’t hiding here.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. This room was significantly smaller than the first, just large enough for a bed and bedside table, but it appeared lived in.

Linens covered the bed, a book spread open on a pillow. I picked up the book and thumbed through the pages. Like the other books in the library, drawings of flowers covered the pages. I closed the book and set it back on the bed.

On the table was a woman’s hairbrush and a bar of soap.

My soap, I realized from the familiar scent.

I tucked the bar into my coat pocket, then sat on the bed and opened the bedside table drawer, wondering what else my stowaway had pilfered. Something rolled to the front. I felt for it, and once it was in my hand, I did not even have to hold it up to the light to know what it was.

My seal.

I trained my gaze on Mrs. Owensby, who was silently watching from the doorway.

“I know how this must seem, sir, but if you will let me explain.”

“Oh, I demand that you do. But first, I want to know where she is.”

“W-who, sir?”

“Come now, Mrs. Owensby. You’ve had enough entertainment at my expense, don’t you think? No more lies.”

“I have never lied to you, sir.”

“Not overtly, but you have withheld the truth. Is that not lying?” I asked, and she looked away, guilty. “I was told today that Miss Lockwood’s body was never recovered. So I will ask you again, and plainly this time so there is no room for confusion or miscommunication: Where is Miss Lockwood?”

As if Mrs. Owensby could no longer bear the weight of her guilt, she bowed her head and sniffed. “I don’t know. Kate was supposed to be back up here well before you returned home from church, but sometimes she gets distracted drawing, and ...” She shrugged.

I blinked.

I’d been convinced Miss Lockwood was alive, but now I had confirmation: She was alive, and not only alive but also here .

Relief rushed through me. “I want to see her.”

“W-what do you mean to do with her?” Mrs. Owensby said quietly, sounding scared.

“I only want to have a conversation,” I said.

“Would you allow me to speak with her first?”

“No.” If Mrs. Owensby spoke with Miss Lockwood, I was certain Miss Lockwood would disappear.

And more than anything else, I wanted to meet Miss Lockwood, to unravel her many mysteries.

To understand why she had hidden here and to help her.

But I could not do any of that with Mrs. Owensby working against me.

“Do you enjoy your employment here, Mrs. Owensby?” I asked.

“I do, sir. Winterset is my life’s work,” she said.

“I will offer you a choice then: If you swear not to say a word to Miss Lockwood about my knowing about her and all this”—I indicated the priest hide—“then you may continue working here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will go about your duties as though nothing has changed.”

Her eyes narrowed when she looked at me. “But why?”

“Miss Lockwood has played me for a fool long enough. It’s time the tables were turned.” I would find ways to draw her out without scaring her or making her feel endangered. I doubted it would take long for her to reveal herself once I turned some gentle pranks her way.

Mrs. Owensby studied me. “If I say nothing to Kate, then you will allow her to keep hiding here?”

“I have already discovered her, so she no longer needs to hide from me.”

“It isn’t you that she is hiding from, Mr. Jennings. Not really.”

My brow tightened. “Who, then?”

“Mr. Cavendish. The evil man who killed her father,” Mrs. Owensby answered, but I only had more questions.

“Miss Lockwood is in danger?” I asked.

“So long as she stays hidden here at Winterset, she is safe, sir. He does not know she is alive, but if he did know, I believe she would be in danger, yes. Which is why you must promise me two things.”

“Go on.”

“First, you will do nothing to harm Kate.”

“I can easily promise you that. And second?”

“You will not say a word about Kate’s existence to anyone.”

It was possible Mrs. Owensby was toying with me again, playing on my sense of honor and duty to keep her ward close to her.

But fear shone so brightly in her eyes, a genuine expression that could not be playacted.

While I was not entirely convinced Miss Lockwood was in any real danger—Mrs. Owensby had not been the most reliable source of information—I was a gentleman, and it was my duty to protect any young lady who might require it.

“You have my word as a gentleman,” I said.

“Now, will you tell me where she might be?”

Mrs. Owensby’s gaze drifted to the window. “I suspect she is in the walled garden. It is her favorite place, and it has been a week since she has been outside.”

A week. I winced. All this time, she’d been right here.

Mrs. Owensby turned to leave.

“One more thing,” I said, stopping her. “Contrary to personal experience, I have it on good authority that you are an exceptional cook, Mrs. Owensby. Salmon sounds delicious for dinner.”

“Yes, sir. It shall be ready by seven.”

“See that it is.” I stood. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish blocking the entrances and exits to the passageways and priest hides, and then, I think I will walk in the walled garden.”