Page 32 of Winterset

Oliver

“You were right,” I said to Miss Lockwood, amazed.

“I did not think it possible, but you were right.” It had taken the five of us all day, but we had done it: we’d stripped the old papers off the wall, removed and replaced the rotted wood around the window, and even rehung the plain wall papers, and all by dusk.

Miss Lockwood grinned up at me. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible either, but I am thrilled that we did.”

“As am I. It will take some time for the papers to dry, but you should be able to start painting them in a day or two.”

“I can’t wait!” She clapped her hands excitedly.

“In the meantime, are you ready for dinner?”

She glanced down at her dress and then at me. “Not in the least.” She laughed, pulling scraps of wall paper off her dress and out of her hair. “And ... neither are you.”

I looked down at my shirt sleeves and waistcoat.

I’d removed my coat earlier so I would not ruin it.

Curled pieces of the wall paper looked an awful lot like feathers.

“Why did you not tell me I looked like a half-plucked chicken?” I ruffled my fingers through my hair, and so many scraps fell to the ground that it looked like it was snowing.

“You don’t,” she giggled.

“Oh, don’t I?”

“No, you look more like you are molting,” she said, and I shook my head at her, smiling. “I am quite hungry though.”

“So am I. What do you say we throw propriety out our newly fixed window and eat dinner as we are?” I suggested, wanting to preserve the easiness we’d built between us.

“Yes! Please .”

I offered her my arm, and she readily took it. Progress.

In the dining hall, a simple dinner was already set on the table: finger sandwiches and fruit. Mrs. Owensby had worked alongside us most of the day, so something quick and simple was just the thing.

Famished, we sat and served ourselves.

“Mm,” Miss Lockwood moaned. “Finger sandwiches have never tasted so good.”

“Delicious,” I agreed, and then neither of us said anything more until we’d had our fill.

Usually, Miss Lockwood excused herself as soon as she finished eating, but tonight, she sat back in her chair with a satiated smile.

I did not want to hope, but perhaps she was not ready to bid me good night.

It was not late. And although I was physically exhausted, I was not mentally tired.

I tried to think of something we might do together so she would linger with me a little longer.

“Would you care to join me for a game of ... chess?” I proposed the first two-person game that came to mind.

To my relief, her eyes lit up. “I would love to.”

In the drawing room, she led me to the corner where the chessboard was neatly stored.

I set it on the small game table, trying to ignore the pang of self-doubt that tugged at me.

It had been ages since I’d last played, and I was never particularly adept.

The game had always been Damon’s strong suit, not mine.

I should have suggested a different pastime.

We arranged the pieces, the familiar clinking of wood against wood filling the quiet room.

Miss Lockwood went first, confidently advancing a pawn.

I mirrored her move, though with far less conviction.

With each turn, I felt more and more like a schoolboy fumbling through a lesson than a gentleman engaging in a friendly game.

She captured my rook with ease, and my queen was left unprotected far too soon.

My strategy, if it could even be called that, was quickly unraveling.

Miss Lockwood, ever gracious, did not comment on my missteps, but I noticed the way her gaze lingered on the board, her lips pursed in quiet observation.

As she reached to move her next piece, she paused, her fingers hovering above a pawn.

“Do you enjoy playing chess, Mr. Jennings?” she asked, her tone gentle but inquisitive.

“I ... don’t,” I said, feeling a tinge of embarrassment.

“So you suggested it because ... ?”

“I thought you might enjoy it,” I said sheepishly.

Miss Lockwood’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “May I tell you a secret?” She leaned forward, motioning for me to do the same. “I don’t care to play chess either.”

Her candidness made me chuckle. “Then why did you agree?”

“Because I thought you enjoyed the game.”

Relief washed over me, and I relaxed into my chair. “What a pair we are, Miss Lockwood. What games do you enjoy? Cards?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Very much.”

“Shall we switch games, then?” I suggested.

She bit her lip.

“Unless you are tired,” I said.

“I’m not tired. Well, I am. But that’s not it. It’s just ...” She sighed and stood. “It will be easier if I show you.” She retrieved the playing cards from the cupboard and handed me the stack.

I glanced down at the cards. She’d painted them. Miniatures. “Who are they?” I asked.

“People I used to know. Their faces were starting to slip from my mind, and I didn’t want to lose them completely, so I used the last of my paint to create their images. I made sure the numbers and suits are still visible,” she said. “But I am sor—”

“Don’t apologize,” I stopped her. “I’m not upset. I’m impressed, by your talent and your ability to survive so long in isolation.”

Even in the flickering candlelight, I could see her cheeks flush. I indicated her vacant seat, and to my relief, she resumed it.

I spread the cards out on the table to look at her paintings. I recognized a few faces: the vicar and the baker, but most were unfamiliar. They were lovely. “How long did these take you to make?”

“About a month. I painted one or two a day. Once they were completed, it made playing patience much more fun. I imagined whichever person was on the card as though they were sitting across from me, and I felt less lonely.”

I could hardly bear to think of her sitting alone, painting the faces of the people in her town whom she planned never to see again. I stared down at the cards so Miss Lockwood could not see the emotions I was sure were written on my face.

“Do you have a favorite game?” she asked.

“Several,” I said, “but perhaps we shouldn’t play with these.” They were too precious. I gently stacked the cards and set them aside.

“Nonsense,” she reached for the deck. “They are just a few silly pictures. If you are worried about dirtying your hands, you needn’t. I used watercolor, so the paint cannot rub off. The pigment has soaked into the paper fibers.”

That wasn’t why I was worried. I did not want to ruin them. But Miss Lockwood’s eyes pleaded with me to agree to a game. To tell her through my actions that I wasn’t vexed. So I said, “I’m not particular. Do you have a favorite game?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “What about whist? Papa and I used to play it after meals.”

“I enjoy playing whist.” I carefully shuffled the cards. “My brother, best friend, and I used to play all the time before—”

“Before ... ?” Miss Lockwood prompted.

“Nothing. Just before .” The memory of playing cards with Damon and Hannah had slipped so suddenly into my mind and then out my mouth that I hadn’t had time to censor it.

“Are you and your brother close?” she asked.

I dealt the cards. “We used to be when we were young.”

“Not now?”

“No.”

“Why not? What happened?”

“That is a very long and uninteresting story,” I said.

“I doubt that. Will you tell me about him?”

Uncomfortable, I rearranged my cards. I had no desire to talk about him, but maybe my vulnerability would inspire hers, and I relented. “What would you like to know?”

“To start, his name.”

“Lord Winfield. However, he refuses to use his proper title and insists everyone continue to call him by his courtesy title Lord Jennings.” It was so like him to think himself above Society’s customs.

“Those are his titles ,” Miss Lockwood said. “But what is his name? What do you call him?”

“Nothing, if I can help it.” I’d meant my words to sound teasing, but even to my ears, they sounded petulant.

Miss Lockwood’s lips scrunched to one side in confusion, or perhaps reproof.

“His name is Damon, but I have not spoken to him in over two years.”

“You have a living, breathing brother, and you have not spoken to him in two years ?” She blew out a breath. “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps I will explain it to you one day.” I offered her a smile, hoping to end the conversation.

“Not now?”

“No reason to ruin a perfectly good game. It is your turn, by the way.”

“Hmm.” She set down a pair of cards. “Well, if you won’t tell me about your brother, at least tell me about your best friend you mentioned.”

“I should be happy to. Hannah is—”

“Hannah?” Miss Lockwood looked up from studying her cards. “Your best friend is a woman ?”

“Well, she wasn’t a woman back then; she was a girl. But yes, growing up, my best friend was female.”

“Oh.” Miss Lockwood trained her gaze on her cards. “How nice.”

“It was nice. But now she’s married to my elder brother, so I suppose they are best friends now.” I pressed on before she could ask questions. “Hannah visited Summerhaven, my childhood home, every summer. Our mothers were best friends, you see.”

Miss Lockwood nodded, listening. “Are you close in age?”

“Hannah’s mother and me? Not particularly.”

Miss Lockwood looked to the heavens. “You know what I meant.”

I smiled at her. “Yes. Hannah and I are close in age. Only a year separates us.”

“You two must have been very close.”

“Indeed.”

“So ... how was it that Hannah came to marry your brother, then?”

“Well, I suppose because he is better at chess than I am.”

Her brow furrowed, and then a thoughtful expression took over her face. “Is that why you aren’t close with your brother? Because of Hannah?”

“No,” I said too quickly, then added, “Well, she is part of the reason, but not in the way you are probably thinking.” I hesitated but said, “My brother and I were not on good terms long before they fell in love, but the way in which he courted her did nothing to aid my affection for him.”

“Do you approve of their union?” she asked.

“I do.” Sometimes, I still couldn’t believe they were married.

They’d hated each other as children—or so I’d thought—and I disapproved of how their relationship started, but I did not begrudge their union.

How could I? They were a perfect pair. My feelings for Damon were complicated, but I honestly only wanted for their happiness.

“But ... ?” Miss Lockwood squinted as if doing so would help her see my past more clearly.

“But nothing,” I said, having no intention of sharing any more details with her. It was far too humiliating. “You are working too hard to puzzle this out, Miss Lockwood. We should turn the topic of our conversation to you now.”

“I’d rather we keep talking about you.”

“You are quite persistent, aren’t you?”

“To the point of impertinence.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Forgive me if I am overeager for something new to discuss. I have not spoken to another soul besides Bexley and Mrs. Owensby in two years.”

“I daresay you are using your circumstance to your advantage, Miss Lockwood.”

“One must play the cards one has been dealt, sir.” She smiled coyly.

“ Sir ?” I protested. “Come now, Miss Lockwood, we have been living together for weeks now. Please, call me Oliver.”

She scoffed. “I will do no such thing.”

“What will you call me, then?” I asked, amused. “I am growing so tired of sir .”

“I should think Mr. Jennings would be quite acceptable,” she said, smoothing her plait playfully over her shoulder.

I tilted my head side to side, pretending to weigh the merit. “Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you. But our situation is not normal now, is it? Therefore, you shall call me Oliver, and I shall call you Kate.” I reached across the table and teasingly tugged the end of her plait.

She stiffened, then shot to her feet.

Surprised by her swift response, I stood too. I searched our surroundings, glancing over my shoulder out the window, worried that someone might have ventured past the window and seen her. But I saw nothing.

“I am going to go to bed now.” Her voice was thin and distant.

“Are you unwell?”

“No, yes.” She shook her head. “I just have to go. Excuse me.” She sidestepped out from behind the table and pushed in her chair.

I immediately offered her my arm to assist her.

She looked at my arm like I was offering her a snake, her eyes wide with fear.

Because of me? Because I’d suggested we use our Christian names? Because I’d tugged her hair?

“I will take my breakfast in my bedchamber tomorrow,” she said.

“Of course, if that is your wish. But what has happened? Have I done something wrong?”

“Nothing.” She raised her chin and blinked rapidly as if to hold tears at bay.

Not knowing what else to do, I took a backward step to allow her space and bumped into my chair. It clattered to the floor. I stooped to pick it up, and when I rose, she was gone.