Page 28 of Winterset

Kate

I’d lain in my little bed in the attic for several hours but was wide awake, fearing for my future.

A guest , by definition, was temporary.

Mr. Jennings had said I could borrow his home a little longer. Duty prevailed upon him to aid me, but his generosity could not last forever. When it ran out—and it would run out—what would become of me?

I had nothing.

No one.

Regardless of my circumstances, though, I could not stay here indefinitely as his guest.

The weight of the realization pressed heavily upon me. I would have to leave Winterset, and soon, probably. My throat constricted with emotion. Winterset’s walls had always been my haven, but now I felt them closing in around me.

Clutching my blanket, I curled into myself.

I felt so helpless, so hopeless . But I could not afford to give in to such emotions. I needed to create a plan.

I took a calming breath and forced myself to think. Slowly, an idea began to take shape.

I could not stay here at Winterset as Mr. Jennings’s guest, but perhaps if I could prove my worth, I might remain here as his servant. He did need more help.

If I proposed the idea, I doubted he would agree to it.

For weeks, I’d been nothing but an unruly ghost in his attic, and that was to say nothing of his sense of propriety.

But if I showed him how useful I could be as a servant, if I fixed everything I’d done to Winterset these past weeks, and I helped him chip away at the repairs on his list, how could he deny me employment?

Unable to quell my anxieties enough to fall back to sleep, I rose well before the sun warmed the horizon and readied myself for a day of work.

Mr. Jennings was not normally an early riser, and once he was up, it took him a considerable amount of time to get dressed, but there was so much to be done before he came downstairs to breakfast. I quickly donned a simple day dress and apron—it was actually an artist’s smock, but it would protect my dress just as well from dust as from paint—then wove my hair into a plait.

My first task would be easy: replace the tallow candles with the wax candles we’d stored in the attic before his arrival. Hopefully, when he awoke to a pleasant smell, he’d know that I meant things to be different between us. That I no longer wanted to be his foe but his friend.

The task took only an hour, and I felt accomplished. Sitting alone in the attic day after day had been so stifling. How pleasant it was to be moving about freely and finally have a purpose.

The second chore I wished to complete was building a fire in each room Mr. Jennings would use today: the dining hall, library, and study.

He was probably accustomed to having his rooms warmed before he awoke, but since he’d arrived at Winterset, the servants had had only enough time to light a fire in the first room he planned to occupy.

My helping would lighten the loads of Mrs. Owensby and Bexley, who had been carrying more than their fair share in their effort to protect me.

But as I knelt before the hearth in his study, I realized one regrettable fact: although I’d seen plenty of fires being built, I’d never actually done it myself. Bexley had made it look so easy, but it took me several attempts to succeed. Hopefully, I would become more proficient with practice.

After lighting the fire in the study, I trimmed the quill pens and refilled the inkwell. His desk was already impeccably clean; otherwise, I would have tidied that too.

With little time left before Mr. Jennings would arise, I focused my efforts on tending to some of the easier items on the list of repairs he’d made in his notebook, starting with improving the entrance hall’s appearance.

I tied back each of the curtains to allow light to stream through the stained-glass windows and rolled the old, threadbare carpets.

Bexley would have to help stow them in the attic and bring down the better carpets, but the space looked better already.

At half past six, I heard Mrs. Owensby beginning her chores in the kitchen, pots and pans clanking as she began breakfast. In the dining hall, I heard Bexley setting the table.

I hurried to help him.

“Ah, good morning, Kate. You’re up early.” Bexley smiled.

“I couldn’t sleep. Rather than fight it, I thought it would be better to get up and work.”

“Work?” Bexley’s bushy brow furrowed.

“Yes. Speaking of, I need your assistance with something in the entrance hall.”

“Certainly.” He set down the silverware and followed me to the entrance hall. He glanced around the room, which was both brighter and better kept than it had been yesterday. “ You did all this?”

I nodded, feeling pleased with myself.

“It looks wonderful, Kate. I daresay Mr. Jennings will be pleased to see the manor looking so wonderful, but I don’t know that he’ll be pleased to learn that you did it.”

“I hope he will warm to the idea. It may be the only way I can stay at Winterset long-term,” I said, and Bexley gave me a sad smile of understanding, confirming my fears.

“Besides, it feels good to be useful again.” If Mr. Jennings would allow me to stay, it would be a small price to pay to ensure my safety.

“What is it you need my help with?” Bexley asked.

“I need these carpets moved to the attic and the better carpets brought back down.”

“I would be happy to,” Bexley said.

“Thank you, Bexley. I will finish setting the table.”

It did not take long to lay out Mr. Jennings’s place setting at the head of the table, and it was a good thing, too, because he was due downstairs any moment. I needed to make myself scarce.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Owensby was up to her elbows in flour, and a sweet scent swirled in the air.

“Breakfast smells amazing.” I took a deep breath. “How can I help?”

“No need. Almost done.”

With a nod, I sat at the servants’ table to wait.

Mrs. Owensby eyed my paint-stained smock. “Shouldn’t you take your breakfast in the dining hall with Mr. Jennings?”

Although Bexley had brought out two place settings to put on the dining table, I’d laid out only one. “I’d rather take my meals here in the kitchen,” I said.

She seemed unsure but said nothing and returned to her task.

It wasn’t long before heavy footfalls pounded down the grand staircase and through the dining hall. The kitchen door swung open, and Mr. Jennings stood on the threshold. “Miss Lockwood is mi—” He cut off his sentence when he saw me sitting at the servants’ table.

I stood to greet him as a servant would and said, “Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well?”

He frowned. “I did, thank you. But when I awoke this morning and walked down the corridor to come downstairs, I noticed your bedchamber door open, and I saw your bed had not been slept in. Where did you sleep, Miss Lockwood?”

“The attic,” I said.

“Why would you—” He shook his head sharply, and a curl fell across his forehead. He promptly pushed it back. “May I have a word with you, please?”

“Certainly, sir.” I straightened.

“In the drawing room,” he clarified and propped open the kitchen door.

Heart racing, I quit the kitchen. Behind me, I heard him say something to Mrs. Owensby, but I could not hear precisely what. I hoped he was not vexed with her.

He did seem upset though, and I wasn’t sure why he would be, seeing as the house looked and felt much better than it had when he’d gone to bed last night, but I could tell from his tone that he was.

In the drawing room, Mr. Jennings gestured for me to sit on the settee. He leaned against the pianoforte and crossed his arms, taking in my makeshift apron. “Miss Lockwood, I seem to have left some things unsaid last night. I apologize.”

“There is no need.”

“I believe there is. Last night, I invited you to be my guest , and today, I find you sitting in the kitchen at the servants’ table and dressed in an apron, no less.”

“It is a painting smock, but it doubles quite nicely as an apron, don’t you think?”

Mr. Jennings blinked at me, looking utterly perplexed. “It does. But why are you wearing it?”

“Well, last night, when you invited me to stay here a little longer as your guest , I realized neither of those things is permanent. Eventually, I will need to find another situation. I thought that if I proved useful, I could convince you to hire me as a housemaid.”

“I have offered to help you, Miss Lockwood, not hire you.”

“Hiring me would be helping me,” I argued.

“My assistance to you is not dependent upon your usefulness to me. You must know that.”

“I do, sir. But I also know that I cannot live here as your guest forever.”

“Did I not invite you to?” he said.

“You did not, sir. You invited me to stay here as your guest , which, by definition, is temporary. And I daresay, my occupancy here is still more of an invasion on my part than an invitation on yours.”

“A fact you seem more preoccupied with than I am. And strictly speaking,” he hastened to add, “you did not invade my house—you are not Napoleon, Miss Lockwood. You just never vacated it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I remained silent.

“I fear we haven’t gotten off on the best footing.” Mr. Jennings sighed.

“Considering I pretended to be a ghost and haunted you to get you to leave ...” I bobbled my head side to side. “No, I don’t think we have.”

His mouth quirked up at the corners, revealing a single dimple in the center of his chin. “May I speak candidly?”

“I would prefer it.”

Mr. Jennings pushed off the pianoforte and sat in the armchair opposite me.

He rested his elbows on his knees, bringing us eye level.

“I cannot in good conscience employ you as a servant. You are a gentleman’s daughter, Miss Lockwood.

Your father was my tenant. I will not take advantage of your misfortune.

I invite you to be my guest here at Winterset for as long as you need. Indefinitely, if that is your desire.”

“That is generous of you, Mr. Jennings. Still, I struggle to accept your invitation because I know I don’t deserve your help.”

He studied me as if searching for the right words. “Miss Lockwood, you do not have to deserve my help, nor do you need to earn your keep. You simply need to accept my invitation to stay. Will you?”

“I don’t want to displace you in your home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I believe that has been exactly your goal,” he said teasingly.

“It was,” I admitted, my cheeks warming with shame, “but not anymore.”

“I am relieved to hear that, seeing as this is the only home I have.”

“It is the only home I have too,” I said quietly.

“Well then, since it seems we will be sharing this space for the foreseeable future, can we declare an official ceasefire?”

“On one condition,” I said.

“Name your terms.”

“I would like to make recompense for my actions. I took a few pranks too far, and I feel bad about them. Allow me to clean your hats.”

A laugh burst from his mouth. “No. Absolutely not.”

I frowned. I thought he would be glad to have me clean them. It would be a tedious task and likely occupy much of his valet’s time. “I only want to fix what I have ruined.”

“And while I appreciate that, Miss Lockwood, I am not letting you within ten paces of even my least favorite hat.”

“And here I thought we were going to be friends.” I shook my head.

“We are. So long as you don’t lay one finger on my hats.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up his hand.

“Those are my terms, Miss Lockwood.”

“Very well,” I conceded.

“Good. Now then.” He stood, signaling the end of our discussion. “Won’t you please join me for breakfast? To be clear, I’m inviting you to join me for breakfast, not serve me breakfast.”

I gave him a rueful grin and stood. I was quite hungry after working all morning. But then I remembered the state of my dress: my messy apron and lack of gloves. “I’m not dressed for—”

“You look lovely, Miss Lockwood.” He gave me a sincere smile.

“That is kind of you to say, even if it is untrue.” I smoothed my stained apron, but it did not make it any more presentable.

“You don’t need to change your clothing on my account. But if you prefer to do so, I would happily wait.”

“I fear my meal might suffer for it if I do.”

He pointed at himself. “You aren’t suggesting I would do something to your food, are you?”

“Considering all the overboiled beef and burned bread I made the servants feed you, I would not put it past you.”

“As enjoyable as that might be, we’ve declared peace, Miss Lockwood. What kind of person would I be if I pulled a prank right after promising not to?”

“Hmm,” I said, making a show of taking his measure. “I should not like to test our truce so soon.”

“Shall we?” He gestured for me to lead the way and followed me out of the drawing room.

As we passed through the entrance hall side by side, Mr. Jennings kept a respectful distance.

He remarked on the stained-glass windows, noting how much brighter the entrance hall appeared with the curtains pulled back.

And when we entered the dining hall, I noticed a place setting had been added to the table directly beside Mr. Jennings’s.

He followed my gaze. “I asked Mrs. Owensby to add another place setting. Is that all right?” he asked in a low voice.

Was it?

Despite everything, I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Or I did, but not because I was afraid of him.

The opposite. Mr. Jennings had said he wanted to help me, and I believed him.

Any discomfort I now felt was owed solely to anticipation, the unsteady footing of a new friendship, the wonder of what he would say next, and how I should respond.

“It is all right,” I said finally. “Thank you.”

With a nod, he assisted me with my chair. “Now, let’s discuss your sleeping in the attic.”