Page 29 of Winterset

Oliver

The following morning, I waited in the dining hall for Miss Lockwood, hoping she would join me for breakfast, but she didn’t. I checked the drawing room to ensure she was not waiting there for me, but she wasn’t. So I resumed my seat at the table.

Mrs. Owensby placed my breakfast before me: rolls with butter and preserves and tea.

“Would you like anything else, sir?” she asked.

“Nothing, thank you. But do you know if Miss Lockwood is joining me this morning?”

“Miss Lockwood took a tray in her bedchamber this morning.”

“Oh. Did she say why?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Owensby.”

Was she avoiding me? The thought gnawed at me as I forced myself to eat. Something in our conversation last night must have unsettled her.

I had no desire to dine alone, so I quickly ate and went to my study.

There was so much that needed to be done, so many issues that required my time and attention, but I could not concentrate.

My thoughts circled back to Miss Lockwood and the exchange we’d had the previous day.

Our conversation had started strained when I’d discovered her acting as a servant, but it had ended pleasantly enough.

At least, I thought it had. Perhaps I was mistaken.

I retraced our conversation. Over breakfast yesterday, we’d discussed the specifics of our arrangement.

Miss Lockwood had insisted on staying in the attic as if she were still a ghost. I refused, and she suggested she sleep belowstairs, but that idea was equally unacceptable.

She wasn’t a servant, and I wouldn’t treat her as one.

We discussed other possibilities, including us both sleeping in our respective rooms, but the antechamber that connected our rooms presented a problem: It wasn’t proper.

An unmarried man and an unmarried lady could not sleep in connecting rooms meant for a husband and wife, and I did not want to make her uncomfortable.

Our discussion went nowhere until Mrs. Owensby intervened, suggesting we sleep in separate wings.

Her suggestion had some semblance of propriety, so we agreed.

I insisted Miss Lockwood take the mistress’s bedchamber in the eastern wing, where she would be more comfortable, and I would sleep in the western wing, where I’d slept my first night at Winterset.

As this was not a permanent situation, my belongings would remain in the master’s bedchamber to avoid causing the servants unnecessary work; moving my clothing only to move them back again in a few weeks or months, whatever it would take to secure a new living situation for Miss Lockwood, would be foolish.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but we were both satisfied.

Or at least, I’d thought we were. She’d seemed so happy yesterday as the servants had moved her belongings back into her bedchamber.

She’d taken a dinner tray in her room and retired to bed early last night, but I’d supposed that was only because she’d been tired.

She’d awoken so early to play the part of a servant.

But now it was morning again, and she remained in her bedchamber. Had I misjudged her emotions?

I dragged my attention back to my notebook, but the words blurred before my eyes.

Deuces! I needed a distraction. I tugged the bellpull, summoning Charlie to my study.

Not five minutes later, he appeared at the door. “You rang, sir?”

“None of this sir business today, please. I need you to play the part of my friend today, Charlie.”

He stepped inside and closed the door.

“Is something wrong?” Charlie asked, sinking into an armchair.

“No. Nothing. I’m just thinking.”

“About ... ?”

Miss Lockwood , I thought, but I said, “Winterset.”

“Right,” Charlie said, his smile as wide as the Thames. “ Winterset is what has you out of sorts this morning.”

I blew out a breath, but it did nothing to lessen the pressure building inside me. “I can’t stop thinking about her. Her situation, that is. I want to get to know her so she trusts me enough to help her. But how can I do that when she is avoiding me?”

“You could write her a note,” Charlie suggested. “Invite her to do something with you that she enjoys.”

“The last time I wrote to a lady, it did not go so well.” Amelia Atherton had denied my marriage proposal outright.

And now that I thought about it, most of my relationships with ladies, while enjoyable, never ended well.

Or I should say, they always ended. “I don’t want to make a mess of things with Miss Lockwood.

Given our unusual situation, it would be foolish.

Besides, words are your forte, not mine. ”

“I’m not suggesting you write Miss Lockwood a sonnet, Granger.” He smirked. “Only an invitation. Your unusual situation presents certain challenges, to be sure, but one invitation won’t mess things up. It might even make her feel more at ease. I will fetch your stationery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace .”

“You are most welcome, Granger .”

Ten minutes later, and just as many drafts, I’d written Miss Lockwood a short note inviting her to walk with me that afternoon and handed it to Charlie to deliver.

An hour passed, and I anxiously paced the entrance hall.

Charlie assured me he’d delivered the invitation, yet I’d received no response from Miss Lockwood.

At a quarter past twelve, she finally appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a simple blue gown and pelisse with her hair pinned into a chignon. She looked lovely.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” I said, my voice betraying my tension.

She descended the stairs, stopping on the last step. “I wasn’t sure you truly wanted me to.”

“I did. I do . Did I do something to make you think otherwise?”

“No,” she said hastily. “You’ve been more than kind.” Her cheeks pinked ever so slightly. “It’s just ... I feared you offered only politeness.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I invited you to walk with me today because I enjoy your company, Miss Lockwood. And I’m relieved you accepted.” She glanced away shyly. “Had you not, I might have run straight into another hedgerow,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Seeing as I led you into the first hedgerow, you may want to rethink your invitation.”

“No,” I said simply and offered her my arm.

She hesitated, and I realized my mistake.

“Forgive me,” I said, returning my arm to my side. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” she said quickly. “You only surprised me. I’m out of practice at, well, everything.”

“You don’t seem to be. But even if you were, I’m glad you came. If you would still like to walk with me, Mrs. Owensby has kindly agreed to be our chaperone.” I tipped my head toward Mrs. Owensby, who stood discreetly by the dining hall door.

“I would like to walk with you. And if you are still willing, I should be glad to take your arm too.” She lifted her hand.

I eagerly held out my elbow. The feeling of her featherlight fingers on my arm made my heart race. Bexley opened the front door, and Miss Lockwood’s grasp tightened on my arm.

“Bexley, will you please ensure the courtyard is clear?”

He quickly did so and returned promptly with a nod, signaling that it was safe. As we stepped outside, I wished just for a moment that the ivy I’d loathed upon my arrival still cloaked the front gate to offer her a sense of security.

“Where shall we walk, Miss Lockwood? You know these grounds far better than I.”

“Would you like me to show you the walled garden?” She glanced up at me, her eyes hopeful.

“I’d like that. It’s one of the few places in Winterset that I haven’t seen yet.”

She led me to the hedgerow maze. The path to the garden entrance was well-worn, something I hadn’t noticed when I’d chased her.

We reached a weathered wood door, and she produced a key from her pelisse.

Entering first, she led me down a cobblestone path to a pond.

Mrs. Owensby trailed behind us, but not distractingly so.

“I’m afraid the garden is going dormant, so there aren’t any blooms, but what do you think of it?” she said, her voice laced with uncertainty.

I took in the tranquil scene: the weeping willow, the winding path, the small pond. The garden was not overly large, but it was well-appointed, peaceful, and protected. I understood why Miss Lockwood liked coming here. “It’s beautiful.”

Her expression softened. “I know it doesn’t look like much now, but in a few months, this garden will burst into life again.

The hawthorn blossoms will turn the hedges white as snow, and clusters of primroses will dot the ground.

Robin song will fill the air. And the scent of blooming lilacs will be intoxicating. ”

“I knew you were a talented artist, but am I to understand that you are also a master gardener?” I raised an eyebrow.

She scoffed. “Hardly.”

“How do you know so much, then?”

“My father taught me the basics of how to plant and prune, but everything else I have learned from your library.”

“Do you enjoy reading?” I asked her.

“Immensely.”

“It is a wonder, then, that you drew in my books,” I teased, unable to resist.

She grimaced. “I ran out of paper and used the books I thought no one would ever read again.”

“Miss Lockwood, I was teasing. I don’t mind. Your drawings likely improved their value. They are lovely.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“I noticed you like to draw flowers.” The books were filled with them.

“Actually, I prefer to paint people. Portraits. Capturing a person’s likeness and the feel of their soul on canvas is magical.” She smiled softly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much passion for anything.”

Her eyes sparked with mischief. “You are passionate about your hats.”

“Why, Miss Lockwood. Did you just call me vain ?”

She shrugged playfully. “Only if the hat fits.”

“I daresay it does.” I laughed.

We continued in companionable silence until we reached a stone angel. At the base, an inscription read For Eleanor Lockwood.