Page 24 of Winterset

Kate

A cool breeze woke me from my garden nap. White puffy clouds dotted the sky, and the sun was high overhead.

Oh no!

I sat up with a start. If the sun was that high in the sky, I’d stayed longer than I should have. Much longer. Mr. Jennings would be returning from church any moment, if he was not already home.

I grabbed my art supplies and rushed to the gate. I wished I could linger a little longer in the garden, but sadly, I didn’t have a single second to spare. It would be another week before I could safely return. Sneaking inside the manor this late in the day was already risky.

I locked the gate behind me and started through the hedgerow maze.

Should I go through the main entrance or the servants’ entrance?

I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Jennings had returned from church yet, but if he had, he might be sitting in his study or lounging in the library.

But I could not enter through the servants’ entrance either.

His manservant could be sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Owensby.

Apparently, he was an aspiring poet and enjoyed sharing his work with her while she cooked.

What was I to do?

I was entering the last row of the maze when I heard a sound and stopped short.

There, entering the maze, was Mr. Jennings.

Thankfully, he was looking down at the ground, or else he would have seen me.

I turned on my heel to retreat, and a twig snapped beneath my feet.

“Is someone there?” Mr. Jennings said.

He’d heard me but hadn’t yet seen me, so I dashed away down the row.

“Hello!” he called.

If I could navigate a few more rows, I would reach the edge of the maze that bordered the courtyard. If I made it there, I could wedge myself through the plants to freedom.

But Mr. Jennings’s footfalls sounded such a short distance away. Only one row over, from the sound of crunching leaves and snapping sticks. If I slowed even a fraction, he would catch me.

Fear propelled my legs faster.

Only one row stood between me and safety.

I sprinted down the last row toward a dead end.

The hedges were planted so closely together and their branches so tightly woven that the plants looked like a green wall.

Glancing at the ground, I found a small space between bases and turned sideways to squeeze through.

Sharp sticks scratched my uncovered skin as I slid through the hedge, but I hardly noticed the sting as I exited to safety.

Mr. Jennings would not be able to wedge himself through the hedgerow, nor could he climb over it as he had the front gate; the little limbs would not support his weight. He would have to retrace the path to the exit, and by that time, I would be safely inside the manor.

I’d not run more than half a dozen steps across the courtyard toward the house when I heard a thud and an ungentlemanly curse.

He must have run headlong into the hedge when he’d turned the corner at full speed.

I ran to the house’s main entrance. A glance confirmed no one was in the entrance hall, so I went unnoticed up the grand staircase and through the attic door.

My heart pounded as I climbed the attic stairs to safety. I hurried into the first decoy priest hide and closed the door, sighing with relief, then sucked in a sharp breath.

The second door to the real priest hide was slightly ajar.

I did not remember leaving it open; I was always careful to close it behind me, but I had been excited for a day of freedom. Perhaps I’d forgotten to check that it was securely closed. Or possibly, Mrs. Owensby had come up to check on me and left it ajar by accident?

I slowly pushed it open and peeked inside.

At first glance, the room appeared exactly as I remembered leaving it: my bed was neatly made, and my book sat on my pillow. Although I did not remember closing it, it seemed I had. Other than that, though, all was as I remembered leaving it this morning.

Sitting on my bed, I took a deep breath.

And then another.

Was that ... salmon?

I’d been in such a rush to run upstairs that I hadn’t even noticed it.

Why was Mrs. Owensby making Mr. Jennings’s favorite dish? Was she making it poorly? Pulling another prank on the poor fellow. The taste of putrid fish could turn him off the dish forever.

I sniffed the air again.

It did not smell putrid. It smelled good— very good, like lemon and garlic and butter.

My mouth watered.

I hadn’t eaten fine food like that in years. Not since Papa passed.

Maybe Mrs. Owensby was trying to torture me.

She had been quite angry when she’d learned that Mr. Jennings had seen me in the library.

I’d explained it was good because he now thought me a ghost, but she’d still been vexed.

What would she say when she learned about him chasing me through the hedgerow in broad daylight?

I would have to hope my disappearing act today would strengthen his belief that I was a ghost.

My stomach growled.

Hmph.

Whether she meant it as such or not, this was a punishment.

Why hadn’t I thought to eat something in the kitchen while Mr. Jennings was away?

I sighed and reached under my bed for the small stack of crackers I’d stashed.

I’d placed it there for situations like these, when I was stuck upstairs for an extended period.

I took a bite, but the stale cracker did not satisfy me.

It was going to be a very long afternoon, waiting until it was safe to sneak downstairs for food. I could only hope that Mrs. Owensby would save me some of that salmon.

I passed the rest of the day lying in bed, replaying the day’s events in my mind; reliving the luxury of the warm bath, the peace in the garden, and even the thrill of running away from Mr. Jennings.

At some point, I must have drifted off to sleep, though, because some time later, I awoke to the sound of Mr. Jennings’s bedchamber door closing below me—a sure sign that he was dressing for dinner. I hurried into the servants’ passageway.

I’d grown rather good at sneaking through the darkened passageway and quickly descended the stairs to the dining hall.

I hadn’t watched Mr. Jennings dine since the first night Bexley had cooked him overboiled beef and burned bread, but I had to know what Mrs. Owensby was up to tonight, and I needed food. I was famished.

At the dining hall, I pushed on the door to exit the passageway, but it didn’t budge. So I pushed my shoulder into it, but it still didn’t open.

No matter. I would exit the passageway in the drawing room.

But that one wouldn’t open either, nor would the doors in the study or library.

Either Mr. Jennings had decided to redecorate, which seemed unlikely, or Mrs. Owensby was trying to send me a message; she had made it no secret that she didn’t like me sneaking around the house, and presumably, she’d set out to prevent it.

Blast and bother!

I rushed back up the stairs and exited the passageway where I’d entered it near the attic door. I glanced down the corridor and was unsurprised to find Mr. Jennings’s door still closed. The man took an age to dress for dinner.

Clinging to the shadows, I inched across the landing and descended the grand staircase. I had just reached the base when I heard Mr. Jennings’s bedchamber door open.

I hurried through the entrance hall and slipped into the dining hall.

I’d wanted to grab something to eat from the kitchen, then hurry back to my attic bedchamber before Mr. Jennings’s valet came down, but I’d wasted too much time in the passageways, so I tucked myself inside the tapestry-covered alcove.

It was as small as I remembered, but hiding here would be worth it even if I got only one bite of Mrs. Owensby’s delicious dinner.

I leaned forward and looked through the hole in the tapestry.

Bexley strode through the entrance hall toward the dining hall to announce dinner, then returned with Mr. Jennings a moment later. I noted Mr. Jennings’s fine dress, styled hair, and easy manner. Bexley pulled out Mr. Jennings’s chair and then took his usual place by the wall.

Mr. Jennings leaned back in his seat, appearing at his leisure. He looked much more at home since I’d first watched him dine.

After hearing my “ghost” in the garden earlier today, I thought he would be less at ease. But he did not look the least bit disquieted. He seemed comfortable. Comfortable in a way only a man at home could be.

I frowned.

Mrs. Owensby entered the dining hall, carrying a platter of scrumptious-looking salmon. A savory scent filled the air as she set it on the table in front of Mr. Jennings.

If Mrs. Owensby meant to torture me, she was certainly succeeding.

It took her three trips to the kitchen to retrieve all of Mr. Jennings’s dinner, and although his face remained a neutral mask, I was sure he grew bored with waiting.

He was a proper gentleman, after all, and likely not used to waiting.

Despite Mrs. Owensby’s protests that he not hire more staff, it could not be long before he demanded a footman, a cook, a few housemaids, a gardener, maybe more.

What would I do when he did? How would I hide?

Once the table was set, Mrs. Owensby took her place next to Bexley, and Mr. Jennings served himself some food.

He took a bite and closed his eyes as he chewed.

I wondered if his reaction meant Mrs. Owensby had overseasoned or overcooked the salmon.

Even if she did mean to punish me, she couldn’t have lost sight of our goal to make him leave.

“Mrs. Owensby,” he finally said slowly, his tone inscrutable. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Not a prank, then. At least, not on him.

Mrs. Owensby smiled, pleased. “Thank you, sir. I am glad you like it.”

“I more than like it. This may be the most delicious salmon I have ever tasted,” he enthused. “In fact, I should like you to make it for the dinner party, which I am to host in a fortnight.”

He was to host a dinner party? Here? He couldn’t!

“Well, actually,” Mr. Jennings continued, “I have agreed to host a ghost-story reading , not a dinner party, but I daresay that if I invite guests—there should only be five—to Winterset, then I should also feed them.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Owensby agreed. “I suppose you should.”

“So,” he said, “I would like you to make the salmon then. It really is delicious.”

Though he could not see me, I scowled at him as he finished every. Single. Bite.

Mrs. Owensby moved to clear his plate. “Might I bring you dessert now? I’ve made trifle.”

My mouth watered at the mention of my favorite dessert.

“If it is half as good as the salmon, I should be delighted.” He smiled up at her.

She disappeared into the kitchen, returning only a moment later with the most delicious-looking dessert: layers of ladyfingers and creamy custard.

Mr. Jennings took a forkful and moaned. “This is ... incredible.”

Mrs. Owensby smiled. “That is kind of you to say, sir.”

“I only speak the truth. You all must have some. You, Bexley, and Charlie.”

Mr. Jennings wanted to share his meal with his servants? Such an unexpected and kind gesture.

“I couldn’t—” She started to protest.

But he held up his hand, cutting her off. “You can. You will. Not a single bite of this delicious creation is to go to waste.”

“As you say, sir,” she said, carrying the bowl to the kitchen. Hopefully, she would save me some.

Finished with his food, Mr. Jennings sat back in his seat with a contented sigh and stared straight ahead at the tapestry in front of where I stood.

“Bexley, do you know anything about that tapestry?”

“I believe it is quite old, sir. Dates back to the Tudor era, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It is quite lovely.” Mr. Jennings stood and slowly walked the length of the dining table toward the tapestry.

I pressed my back against the alcove wall.

His footsteps clicked across the dining hall and stopped directly in front of where I stood. Only the thin fabric of the tapestry separated us.

“The silver threads in this tapestry do not shine in the candlelight as they ought,” Mr. Jennings said, and his gloved fingers curled around the edge of the tapestry, coming within a few inches from my face. I held my breath as he rubbed the material between his fingers.

I was certain he was about to discover me, but then he dropped the fabric, letting it fall back into place. “It is quite dirty.” He inspected the dust now covering his hand. “It should be removed immediately and cleaned.”

“Immediately, sir?” Bexley asked.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Mr. Jennings clarified. “I want it made to shine when I host my dinner party and reading in a fortnight.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

“Very good,” Mr. Jennings said, retreating a step backward.

It was then, as he quit the dining hall and walked toward the drawing room, that I noticed something dangling from his watch fob ribbon.

Was that ... ? I squinted to see better.

No. It couldn’t be. But somehow, it was: his seal.

Had Mrs. Owensby found it in my bedside table and given it to him? When? Why?

These questions plagued me for hours as I stood in the small alcove, waiting for Mr. Jennings to retire to bed. My feet grew sore, and my legs stiffened from standing so long. I felt faint, but finally, I heard him climb the stairs, and his door close.

I pushed back the tapestry, and although I wanted to go to the kitchen to partake of the delicious food Mrs. Owensby had prepared, without knowing where Charlie was, I couldn’t risk it.

As I padded from the dining hall, I noticed somebody had pushed the buffet in front of the jib door. Then, as I tiptoed through the entrance hall, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks: my portrait, the one I’d hidden in the entrance hall priest hide, was hanging on the wall.

My mind raced to make meaning of all the oddities that had occurred today: Mr. Jennings appearing in the hedgerow maze, my attic room door being ajar, the passageways blocked, his seal, my portrait returned to its place.

He knew.

I did not know how he knew, but he did. He knew about the priest hides, about the secret passageways, about me .

And Mrs. Owensby knew that he knew. That was why she was acting so strange, why she was serving him salmon and smiling down at him.

My heart raced with the realization and the knowledge that if he knew I was hiding here, then I wasn’t safe here. My servants seemed to be but not me. So instead of running upstairs to hide, I fled out the front door.