Page 3 of Winterset

Oliver

Society could forgive a gentleman many faults so long as he possessed a title and a grand estate. Regrettably, I did not have—and never would have—a title, but I did have an estate, though it was not grand.

Winterset Grange.

Although the manor was old and far from London, at least it was mine.

Had Mother possessed brothers or the property an entailment, I would have been forced to earn a living—an unappetizing prospect for any man of gentle breeding, to be sure.

Thankfully, there was neither. Which meant The Grange, as Mother lovingly referred to her childhood home, and all its possessions now belonged to me.

If I survived the long trip north, that was.

Several days into this jarring journey and, still, the carriage clattered on. Over stone, under bridge, and through countless villages. It seemed my valet, Charlie, and I would never reach our destination.

It had been over twenty years since I’d last visited my inheritance with Mother for the funeral of my maternal grandmother, and I remembered very little of the estate: the misted moors, the stone eagles that stood sentinel atop the gateposts, and the medieval wood door.

Winterset was beautiful in its way, but it was not Summerhaven, my childhood home, and that would take some—perhaps a lot—of adjusting to. And with a name like The Grange and an address so far from London, how was I ever meant to attract a suitable wife, let alone entice her to live there?

With a sigh, I stretched my legs and bumped Charlie.

“Sir?” He blinked into consciousness.

“My apologies. I did not mean to wake you,” I said, but seeing as both of us stood over six feet tall and were folded into a tiny conveyance, it could not have been helped.

“It’s no problem.” Charlie sat upright, stretching. “I wanted to finish this poem before we arrived anyway.” He retrieved his notebook and pencil from the bench beside him and began writing. His poems never made much sense to me, but they were humorous.

Charlie had been my valet for years, since Cambridge. We were near in age, height, and intellect. The only things that differentiated us were our incomes and social standing. He was my friend—perhaps my only friend these days—as much as he was my valet.

After I’d finished my schooling, he’d continued as my valet, accompanying me first to my set of rented rooms at Albany in London, then on my Grand Tour of the Continent.

After two years discovering the wonders of Italy and France, settling at Winterset was likely as unappealing to him as it was to me, but Charlie was nothing if not loyal, and I was grateful not to be embarking on this final venture alone.

I had always pictured returning to Winterset with a wife, but Miss Amelia Atherton had declined my suit.

The rejection did not fester. I hadn’t loved her, and she hadn’t loved me; neither of us wished for the difficulties that love brought into a marriage, which was why I had thought we would make a good match.

But in the end, she had not wanted to live so far from her family.

Although I could not relate to that sentiment, I had wished her well, and we’d parted as friends.

It was better this way.

Amelia would have been miserable so far from London. No, that fate was for me alone to endure. A penance for past deeds, probably.

Then, two years ago, I’d had my opportunity at happiness with my closest childhood friend, Hannah, but I’d been blind to her feelings for me.

When I’d finally realized them and offered for her hand, it had been too late; she had fallen in love with my elder brother, Damon.

It had been an uncomfortable situation, and to be honest, I’d already struggled to feel like I fit within my own family at Summerhaven; I was always out of step and out of place.

The spare. They didn’t need me, and they never had. So I’d set off on my Grand Tour.

I had not seen Damon and Hannah since the day of their marriage two years ago, but I did not begrudge their happiness; in fact, it was one of the many reasons that I stayed away from Summerhaven.

I did not wish to cast a shadow on their contentment.

My feelings for Damon were complicated, but even I could see how in love they were.

I’d never felt that kind of love. Not even for Hannah.

Flirting was a favorite pastime of mine, and London had offered plenty of opportunity, but I’d never really loved a lady, and a lady had never loved me.

But in two years, I had certainly changed, and now I hoped that one day my circumstances with love would change too.

Now, more than anything, I wanted to fall in love and marry.

I wanted to find someone who I could settle down with and start a family, to have a place where I belonged.

I’d gone about marriage wrong in the past, courting women not because I felt something for them but because of what they could offer me.

I had been selfish and shortsighted. While I’d acted as so many of the ton ’s gentleman did, I had not acted as a gentleman ought, something I deeply regretted.

I’d worked hard to cultivate change within myself these past two years, though, and I was determined to court the right woman properly next time.

The carriage clattered on, with long stretches of travel, quick stops to change horses, more monotonous miles, day after torturous day.

The farther we ventured north, the rougher the roads became.

Mine and Charlie’s horses, which were tied behind the carriage, protested the unsteady terrain with snorts of displeasure and frustrated neighs, their impatience mirroring my own.

I stared out the side glass.

As a boy, the untamed land surrounding Winterset had terrified me. The wild way the wind had whipped over the grass and through the gardens, how it had howled through Winterset’s halls and hearths. Echo Ridge, where Winterset was built, was as beautiful as it was haunting.

At last, we came to the covered stone bridge that marked the southeast border of my estate. It wouldn’t be much longer before Winterset came into view.

I did my best to smooth my cuffs and cravat, limp from hours of confined carriage travel, then donned my silk topper.

It was the latest fashion, boasting a tall stove-pipe design and a bell-shaped brim, and had been made for my particular use by the finest hatter in all of London, Mr. James Lock.

It was a bit luxurious for traveling, but I wanted to arrive at Winterset in a manner befitting its master.

I could scarcely wait to enjoy a warm, well-cooked meal and to sleep in a comfortable bed.

I’d written to Mr. Moore, the steward I’d hired to care for Winterset in my absence, notifying him of my arrival date, and I was not a day late.

He would likely be waiting for me at the manor, eager to show me the many improvements he’d overseen there.

I’d written extensively to Mr. Moore in my last letter to him about my preferences to make the transition easier for the servants.

A gentleman could never be too prepared , Father had obsessively preached, although only to Damon, not to me.

As his second son—his spare—I’d always been beneath Father’s notice, but I’d learned what I could from his overheard lectures.

My lack of preparation was one of the reasons I’d stayed away from Winterset so long.

When I’d come into my inheritance, I’d known I wasn’t ready to take up my duties.

I’d been ill-prepared and prideful and so deep in my cups that my whole world had wavered.

The house had been blessedly let at the time, so I’d planned and paid for my Grand Tour of the Continent.

But then Winterset had become unexpectedly vacant.

I thought I would have to cancel my tour and see to the duties of running the estate.

Thankfully, Mr. Moore—the previous tenant’s butler—had appeared like a godsend and offered me the perfect plan: hire him as steward to care for the estate and I could go on my Grand Tour, as planned.

Mr. Moore’s knowledge of the house had been second only to his love for the property, so I’d hired him.

With him to oversee Winterset’s many repairs and refurbishments these past two years, I’d been able to enjoy my tour, confident that all was being taken care of in my absence.

Hiring him had been the best decision I could have made for Winterset, the one thing I was proud of.

After two years abroad, I had gained experience and perspective, and I was finally ready to take the reins, eager even.

I wanted to make Winterset the pearl of the north.

And perhaps, one day, if I worked hard enough to make something of this house and of myself, Society would overlook my lack of title.

The carriage continued through a small village.

There weren’t more than a dozen shops, and I did not see a hat shop, only a general haberdasher—a disappointment, to be sure.

Next, we passed through woodland, then by several tenant farms. My tenants, I realized with some trepidation.

And then, at last, looming in the distance was Winterset.

The sight sent a chill down my spine. The gray stone house stood ominously afar off.

Its stacked stone chimneys stained black from more than three centuries of smoke looked like skeletal fingers reaching skyward.

An intricate cornice adorned the roof like a rough-cut crown.

And below, oriel windows jutted from the facade like the eyes of a haunted soul.

The closer the carriage came to the manor, the heavier the air hung.

It felt like the house itself was holding its breath.

The carriage swayed around the final bend and then suddenly stopped. The forceful motion all but threw me from the seat, and my hat toppled to the dirty floor.

Charlie looked up from his notebook. “Have we arrived?”

“It would seem so.” I retrieved my hat from the ground and brushed off the dust. “Although we have not yet passed through the gateway.” I righted myself and opened the door to inquire of the coachman. “Why have we stopped?”

“Gate’s closed, sir,” the coachman called back in a thick Scottish brogue.

“Can you not open it?” The coachman had not seemed a simpleton when I’d hired him, but one never could tell whether a servant was worth his wages until he’d been proven.

“’Tis grown over with ivy,” he said.

Grown over? He must be mistaken. “Certainly a little ivy can’t stop us from passing through,” I said, but when I leaned out the conveyance to get a better view, I found that he was correct.

It was not a little ivy. It was a curtain of ivy that covered the entirety of the gate.

The scrolling iron, the red brick pylons, even the stone sentinels were completely cloaked.

“What the devil?” I hopped down from the coach, my boots sinking into the rain-softened soil, and strode quickly to the gate to search for the handle. In tearing away the vines that clung to the iron bars, I discovered the gate was chained and locked.

I stepped back and stared at it, utterly perplexed.

“Strange no one’s here to greet you,” the coachman called down to me.

“Quite.” I stared hard at the padlock.

I’d written to Mr. Moore weeks ago, instructing him to have the servants prepare the house for my arrival.

I’d not received a response, but I hadn’t expected one, as I’d been traveling.

Besides that, he was a man of few words, writing only when funds were needed for repairs or improvements.

I’d appreciated his brevity while I’d been traveling the Continent, but now it worried me.

An uneasy thought crossed my mind: Perhaps I’d been too hasty in hiring Mr. Moore with only his own reference to recommend him.

Charlie joined me and stared at the gate too. “Perhaps Mr. Moore did not receive your letter?” he said.

“It’s possible. But that fact hardly matters. If my steward cannot be trusted to keep my estate in readiness while I am away, he is not worth his wages.”

Still, a gentleman should never be too hasty in his judgment —another lesson I’d overheard Father teach Damon. I dashed it away, determined not to let Father’s voice overrun me now.

It was possible the gate was locked for a reason. What reason, I couldn’t imagine, but it was possible.

“I need to see the state of the grounds and manor,” I said, stepping closer to the gate.

It took considerable effort, but I made a small viewing hole through the intricately woven ivy. Though I could not see much through the defense foliage, I saw enough: an overgrown carriageway, a filthy fountain, which I had paid to have him refurbish last past spring, and boarded windows.

“Devil take it!” It was worse than I could have imagined. It looked as though not a single shilling I’d sent Mr. Moore—if that was even his name—had gone to Winterset’s upkeep.

I’d trusted him! And I’d paid him handsomely to serve as my steward and to care for Winterset in my absence.

Evidently, I’d made a grave mistake.

Mr. Moore was not a steward but a thief!

What an imbecile I was! Every person who had passed by this blasted gate these past two years knew it too.

How humiliating!

“Do you want me to search for another entrance?” Charlie asked. “I can see if there are any other servants to help clear away the ivy so the carriage might enter the drive.”

What I wanted was to go back in time two years and shake myself out of my liquor-induced stupor so that I could see clearly enough to discern Mr. Moore’s true character and not have hired him. But since that wasn’t possible, Charlie’s plan would have to suffice. “Yes, Charlie. Thank you.”

With a nod, he followed the fence line in search of the servant’s entrance. And when he disappeared around the corner, I turned back to glare at the gate.

Pacing now, I prayed the inside of the manor did not match the exterior. If it did, I did not know what I would do, or rather, what I could afford to do. So much of my savings had been spent.

Several more minutes passed and, with it, the remainder of my patience.

If I could not pass through the gate, I would climb over it.