Page 30 of Winterset

It was a touching monument, but I was a bit surprised to find something so permanent here, seeing as the Lockwood’s had only been letting Winterset, but it didn’t bother me.

Miss Lockwood looked up at me and must have seen my wonder because she said quietly, “My father had this statue made and placed here in the garden in my mother’s memory. She died in childbirth.”

“I’m sorry you never knew her.”

“Me too,” Miss Lockwood said. “Had his death not been so sudden, I’m sure he would have had it removed upon quitting Winterset. I would understand if you—”

“It’s lovely,” I said and meant it. “It must stay wherever you are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jennings.” She gave me a grateful smile and turned back to view the statue.

“I may not have known my mother, but my father kept her memory alive with this garden. While we planted and pruned together, he told me stories about her. I can still see the crinkle of his eyes and hear the smile in his voice when he used to talk about her. I would give anything to see my father one last time and to meet my mother.”

Her words struck me with unexpected force. She spoke so genuinely and with so much love. I’d never felt that way for anyone before, and certainly not for my father. I could barely meet her gaze, ashamed of the emptiness I felt in comparison.

She looked up at me. “You look upset. Have I said something wrong?” she asked.

“No. It’s only ... I have been to many places, seen many things, and met many people, but I have never experienced the kind of passion and love that you just expressed. You speak of your parents, your art, even this garden as though they are the air you breathe, and I feel ... envious.”

“I assure you, my life is nothing to envy,” she said softly.

My heart squeezed.

There was so much I didn’t know about her. But I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything . I had so many questions, but I couldn’t ask her outright. Her walls were as high as this garden’s, and I had to climb carefully if I didn’t want her to retreat.

So, instead, I said, “That is a beautiful memory. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

We continued walking through the garden. It felt nice to walk with her like this. It was easy between us. When she let down her guard, she was witty and clever and sweet. The gentle rustle of the willow leaves and the soft sounds of the pond mirrored the peace between us.

Yet as we rounded a bend in the path, the weight of my responsibilities crept back into my mind. Specifically, the ghost-story reading I’d agreed to host loomed over me like a shadow. How could I host such an event when I was so concerned about Miss Lockwood’s well-being?

“What are you thinking about?” Miss Lockwood asked, breaking my reverie.

“Nothing important.”

“Your brow says otherwise, Mr. Jennings.”

She was observant, as always. “I was just thinking about the ghost-story reading I am supposed to host.”

“I forgot about that,” she said softly.

“Forgive me, what I should have said was that I was thinking about how I might cancel it.”

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to interfere with your plans any more than I already have.” She smiled bravely, but I saw the worry in her eyes. “When are you hosting it?” she asked.

“A little less than two weeks.”

“That doesn’t leave you much time.”

“Not much at all,” I agreed, thinking of all the work that needed to be done.

“Do you have a plan to make the estate presentable?”

“Only a vague one,” I admitted. “I thought I would concentrate my efforts on the places my guests will see.”

“So, outside, you will focus on the courtyard and drive. And inside, the entrance, dining hall, and the drawing room?”

I nodded. “The drawing room will be the most difficult. The water damage under the window is extensive.”

“Water damage?” She looked equal parts concerned and confused.

“Yes. The window seal failed. The frame is rotted, and the papers are ruined.”

“Is that why you are planning to remove them?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t like them.”

“I love them. The design is beautiful.”

She smiled at that. “Thank you. It took me nearly two months to paint them.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“How could you have?” she said. “That room alone will likely take more than two weeks to repair.”

“I know.” I sighed. “And even if, by some miracle, I complete the repairs, new wall papers cannot be delivered so quickly.”

“You could purchase plain papers, and I could paint them for you if you would like.”

“I would like that very much. Thank you.”

“Perhaps you could order new furniture to distract from the imperfections,” she said.

“I doubt there is enough time.”

“You’re probably right.” Her brow furrowed. “We could rearrange the existing furniture to hide the imperfections,” she said.

I laughed. “The entire room is an imperfection.”

“Hmm. Well, what if, instead of hiding the needed repairs, we highlight them? You are hosting a ghost-story reading, after all.”

“You think I should make Winterset look worse?”

“Only the drawing room. We could bring down the old furnishings from the attic: the threadbare carpets and moth-eaten tapestries. Your guests would think the decor was purposeful. We will make the rest of the manor as presentable as possible.”

She was excited, her eyes distant, as though she were picturing the room.

“That might work for the inside,” I said. “But what about the grounds?”

“If you have the funds, hire men from town. They could cut back the overgrown plants in the courtyard, regravel the drive, and fix the fountain.”

“Do you think they can do that in less than two weeks?”

“If you pay them, they’ll find a way.”

I did not have much money to spare, but there should be enough to cover the cost.

As our walk came to an end and we made our way toward the garden gate, I felt a growing sense of anticipation. I had been overwhelmed by the work that Winterset required, but now, with Miss Lockwood’s help, I had something to look forward to.