Page 31 of Winterset

Kate

Sitting in front of my mirror the next morning, I pinned up my hair, or attempted to anyway.

I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Mary had always made it look easy.

It took me much longer than it should have, but finally, it was up.

I didn’t think it looked half bad, although I wasn’t sure it looked half good either.

It was the best I could manage on my own though.

I glanced at my timepiece.

Drat! It was already quite late.

I hoped I had not missed breakfast with Mr. Jennings again this morning. He would likely think I was still avoiding him if I did. After our walk in the garden and candid conversation yesterday, I was sure he would be waiting. But when I went downstairs, he wasn’t there.

I suddenly felt silly for spending so much time dressing and styling my hair. Not that I had taken care of my appearance for him, per se, but, well, yes, I had.

Mr. Jennings was always fashionably dressed and had perfectly styled hair. I wanted to look less like I had been living inside a wall for the past two years.

A lone place setting sat on the dining table, but I did not wish to eat alone. So I scooped up the plate and silverware and went to the kitchen.

Mrs. Owensby looked up from kneading dough. She eyed my hair and dress with a knowing smile. “You look nice this morning.”

My face warmed, and I wished I would have left my hair alone and worn my drabbest dress.

“How did you sleep last night?” she asked.

“Better than I have in two years,” I admitted. Not only was my bed even more comfortable than I remembered from a mere week before, but knowing Mr. Jennings slept down the hall in the other wing and that he’d pledged to protect me made me feel safe.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Owensby said and served me a pastry and a steaming cup of chocolate.

A sound caught my attention, and I looked up from my meal.

Mr. Jennings’s valet stood in the kitchen, looking slightly startled at the sight of me. Although I’d seen Mr. Hanover before, he’d not seen me. We’d never met face-to-face.

He stepped toward the table. “Miss Lockwood, I presume?”

I nodded. “And you are Mr. Jennings’s valet.”

“Charles Hanover,” he supplied.

“How do you do, Mr. Hanover?”

“Call me Charlie,” he said. “Please.”

“All right. Would you care to join me, Charlie?” I gestured to the table.

“I should be glad to.” He took the seat across from me.

Mrs. Owensby set a plate of food in front of him, and he thanked her.

I wasn’t sure what I expected from Charlie .

.. casual conversation, perhaps, but he only pulled out a small notebook and pencil and began writing.

As he worked, I noticed a reddish-pink stain on the side of his right hand, like he’d smeared his hand through paint.

Was he an artist like me? I glanced at his notebook.

No, he was writing, not drawing. And when he set down his pencil and picked up his fork, I realized it was not a stain but a port-wine birthmark.

Charlie alternated between writing and eating for several minutes but said nothing.

“What are you working on?” I asked, and when he looked up, I indicated his notebook.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a poem.”

“You are a poet?”

“Hardly. My poems are terrible. I write only for enjoyment.”

“Like my art.”

He gave me a pointed look. “ Not like your art. I have seen your sketches, Miss Lockwood. And they are very good.”

I could tell by the off-handed way he’d delivered the compliment that he hadn’t said it to flatter me, but it unsettled me all the same. He’d seen something personal, something I’d not shown him, and it made me uncomfortable. I supposed that made me hypocritical, but I couldn’t help it.

“Would you read me one of your poems?” I asked.

He hesitated.

“You have seen my art,” I reminded him. “It feels only fair.”

“All right.” He pushed the notebook to me. “But remember I warned you.”

I glanced down at his notebook and read:

A teapot’s hat was much too small

And did a jig upon the wall,

Where saucers hummed a merry tune,

As if they were the size of moons.

I looked at Charlie again.

“Mr. Jennings is right; your eyes are expressive.” He chuckled. “I told you my poems were terrible.”

I should probably have felt embarrassed for not hiding my thoughts better, but Mr. Jennings had told his valet my eyes were expressive? The thought made me smile.

I swallowed down my glee with a sip of my chocolate. “No, no. It is a well-written poem. I like the cadence. I’m not sure I understand it.” How did teapots jig upon the wall? And what made singing saucers the size of moons?

“ That is because it does not make any sense.” Charlie smiled. “I write whatever comes to mind and move on. It’s a terrible poem but a fun exercise. Would you like to try it?”

“I’m not much of a writer.”

“I meant with drawing.” He handed me the pencil.

I glanced down at the notebook and ran my hand over the blank page. It had been so long since I’d had plain paper to draw on.

“You have ten seconds. Don’t think, just draw. Ready?” He indicated his notebook with a nod. “Begin.”

I lowered the pencil to the page and drew the first thing that came to mind. As luck would have it, a gentleman’s top hat. A very poorly proportioned one.

I laughed and showed Charlie.

“Interesting.”

“I know.” I grimaced. “It’s terrible.”

“That is not why I find it interesting. This looks like one of Mr. Jennings’s toppers.”

It did look like one of his toppers. My cheeks warmed. “Where is Mr. Jennings this morning?” I said, trying for nonchalance but achieving the opposite.

“Town,” Charlie said simply, either not catching on or commenting at my eager interest.

“For what purpose?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “He’s probably gone to buy another ridiculous hat.”

Charlie’s mouth tugged up at the corner. “Knowing him, you’re probably right.” He opened his mouth like he intended to say something more, but his attention focused on something over my shoulder, and he stood.

I followed his gaze behind me and saw Mr. Jennings standing at the kitchen door. My heart jumped at the sight of him. He looked so handsome in his greatcoat that I nearly missed the plethora of parcels tucked under his arms.

“Perhaps he did go to town to buy new hats,” Charlie whispered, and I laughed lightly.

“Something funny?” Mr. Jennings asked, glancing between Charlie and me.

I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh, then looked at Charlie.

“I let Miss Lockwood read one of my poems,” he said. “She wasn’t impressed.”

Mr. Jennings smiled. “Ah.”

“What are those?” I glanced at the parcels.

“ Those are the reasons I missed our breakfast this morning. Come, I’ll show you.”

Curious, I followed him to the drawing room. He closed the pianoforte lid and spread out the parcels upon it. Each was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He unwrapped the first parcel and looked at me excitedly as I opened its contents.

“Oh!” I gasped, tears filling my eyes at the sight of so many paints and brushes. I touched them reverently.

“Would you like to open the rest?” He pushed one toward me.

I quickly opened one to discover a new sketchbook and pencils. The next parcel contained canvases. The one after that held the plain wall papers I’d requested.

“I went to the store to buy only the paint and papers for the walls, like we talked about yesterday,” he admitted.

“But then I couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation, about how much you love to paint and sketch, and I realized you probably needed some supplies, and .

..” He glanced down at all the materials, then sheepishly at me.

“I may have gotten carried away. If any of these are wrong—”

“Not wrong,” was the most I could manage around the lump in my throat. “Forgive me,” I said, blinking back tears. “It’s just been such a long time since I’ve had any art supplies. I feel like I’ve been reunited with a long-lost friend.”

He handed me his handkerchief. “If I have forgotten anything, you need only ask.”

“You have left nothing undone.” I dabbed the corners of my eyes. “But even if you had, I am already so deeply in your debt. This is incredibly generous of you, Mr. Jennings. No one has ever done anything so thoughtful for me. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” he said. “Oh! I almost forgot.” He produced one last parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to me.

I eagerly untied the twine and opened the package. A sweet, citrusy scent filled the air.

“Lemon drops? These are my favorite!”

“Mrs. Owensby might have mentioned that when I asked her what your favorite confection was this morning.”

I touched his arm in gratitude. I couldn’t help it!

Mr. Jennings looked down at my hand.

I quickly let it drop and stepped back, feeling self-conscious. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

He gave me a warm smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

“ Thank you , Mr. Jennings. For the supplies, the sweets, for everything.”

“It was nothing.”

“Not to me.” I held his gaze, hoping to convey just how much this meant to me.

How much I appreciated these gifts, how much I appreciated him .

But I held his gaze a moment too long, and it felt almost intimate.

My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, and I looked away. “When can we get started on the wall?”

“Whenever you would like,” he said.

“Now. I wish to start now.”

“Then we will. I must warn you, though, that it will take at least a day of preparation to remove the ruined papers and rotted wood and likely another day to replace it with good wood.”

“Why, Mr. Jennings, that sounds like a challenge. If we all work together—you, me, Bexley, Charlie, and Mrs. Owensby—I believe we can have it done by dusk.”

“Dusk?” He shook his head. “Perhaps by dawn, if we work all night.”

“Then we better get started immediately,” I said.

Mr. Jennings smiled fully, the dimple in his chin making a rare appearance. “Yes, we’d better. I will get the others so we can get started.”