Page 33 of Winterset

Kate

Two years.

Two years and one teasing tug had sent me right back into the nightmare.

I pressed my back against my bedchamber door and slid to the floor, the cold seeping through my gown as if trying to anchor me to the present. But the past had its grip on me, tightening with every thought.

I hated Mr. Cavendish. With every breath and bone in my body, I hated him.

If only I had seen who Mr. Cavendish truly was, if only I had bothered to ask more questions and demand answers, Papa might still be alive today.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and seconds later, someone knocked on my door.

“Kate?” Mrs. Owensby’s voice filtered through the door. “May I come in?”

I let her into my bedchamber.

Her eyes roamed over me, checking for injury. “Are you all right, dear? Mr. Jennings said you might need me.”

“I’m fine. It’s only ...” I sat on the edge of my bed and released a long breath. “Mr. Jennings touched my hair.”

“My dear girl.” Mrs. Owensby sat beside me and wrapped me in her arms.

“He probably thinks me mad.” I rested my head on her shoulder. “I probably am. No sane person would fake their death. Nor hide in a house that does not belong to them for two years.”

“Mr. Jennings doesn’t think you are mad, but he is worried about you. Have you told him what happened to you?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“Well, when he first asked me the day I revealed myself to him in his study, I was only concerned about protecting you and Bexley. It seemed irrelevant.”

“And after?”

“I don’t know. I want him to know why I’m hiding here, but I don’t know how to say the words.

How am I supposed to slip the most shameful moment of my life into conversation?

Things with Mr. Jennings have been going so well.

When I am with him, I feel almost happy.

I don’t want to lose the ease between us.

If I tell him, I worry he’ll look at me differently. That he’ll treat me differently.”

“I cannot tell you how he will react, but you needn’t be afraid. He is a kind man with a good heart and will do all he can to help you and keep you safe.”

I felt the truth of her words. Mr. Jennings had been nothing but kind to me since the day he’d stepped into this house. He’d shown me respect and put my needs and comfort above his own. Over the past few weeks, I’d come to trust him.

It would be difficult to tell him what had happened to me, but I wanted him to know my story. And it could not wait another moment, lest I lost my resolve. I abruptly stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Owensby. I don’t know what I would do without you.” I kissed the top of her head and hurried out the door.

I crept into the corridor to the grand staircase. Candlelight flickered from the study door into the entrance hall.

Mr. Jennings sat at his desk with his head in his hands. His hair was disheveled, an unruly mess of curls poking through his fingers. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and he’d removed his cravat and discarded it on the floor. The sight of him so undone made my heart ache.

I stepped out of the shadows and into his study.

Mr. Jennings’s gaze snapped to me. He stood quickly but didn’t approach, watching me with a mixture of concern and restraint.

“Might I have a word?” I asked.

He nodded, gesturing to the pair of armchairs on either side of the fireplace, and we sat.

I took a deep breath, and without preamble, I said, “I met my former intended, Mr. Cavendish, when I was only seventeen.”

Mr. Jennings’s eyes widened in surprise. Whatever he’d thought I was about to say, I was sure it wasn’t this.

“We were introduced at a dinner party. I thought him dashing in his formal attire. He liked my eyes.” I laughed bitterly. “Probably because I was blind to his true nature.”

Mr. Jennings remained silent, his attention fully on me.

“Over the next few weeks, he courted me, and we fell in love, or so I thought.

“Papa had reservations about our relationship: Mr. Cavendish was several years my senior and had acted inappropriately by dancing three sets with me at a ball. But Papa saw how besotted I was with the man, and after much discussion, he accepted our courtship.”

Mr. Jennings’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“We became engaged and set our wedding date. It felt like a dream. But then, at our engagement ball, I found him kissing a maid in the garden. His betrayal devastated me, and I refused to marry him. I turned to walk away, but he—” I hesitated, the memory of that night hitting me with such force that I had to pause to steady my breath. “He dragged me back by my hair.”

Mr. Jennings’s eyes darkened, understanding dawning in them as he glanced at my hair.

“He was furious that I dared deny him and demanded that I marry him,” I continued. “He said that I belonged to him, that I must marry him whether I wanted to or not, and that I would not play him for a fool. Looking back, I see now that he did not love me but rather my dowry.

“I screamed for help, and Papa came, along with others who had already been looking for me. But before they reached us, Mr. Cavendish tore my dress, disheveled my hair, and kissed me forcefully to make everything appear as though we had been taking the moonlight together. He even loosened his cravat to make it look more convincing.”

Mr. Jennings pressed his eyes shut. He worked his jaw but said nothing. He seemed to know that if he interrupted me, I might not have the courage to finish my story.

“When Papa and the others finally reached us, Mr. Cavendish told everyone we had succumbed to our passion. I tried to tell the truth, but he silenced me with whispered threats and stepped in front of me as though he were protecting my virtue. I felt utterly powerless in that moment, but Papa believed me and challenged Mr. Cavendish to a duel to defend my honor.” My voice trembled when I added, “Papa died defending me.”

A tear slipped down my cheeks, and Mr. Jennings silently handed me his handkerchief.

“Papa’s last words to me were a promise: that if I stayed within these walls, I would be safe.

But not an hour after he passed, Mr. Cavendish came to Winterset and demanded that I fulfill our marriage contract.

He told me he would not allow me to tarnish his family’s name and threatened that if I refused him, I would meet the same fate as my father. ”

Mr. Jennings’s hands tightened into fists in his lap.

“I don’t know how Mr. Cavendish deluded himself into believing I could marry him after all he had done.

Perhaps he thought that in ruining my reputation and killing my father, I would have no choice but to marry him.

I don’t know. But I could not marry that man, so I staged my death and disappeared.

The villagers found my pelisse—stained with Papa’s blood—at the bottom of the cliffs on the seashore and assumed I was dead.

“I’m told that Mr. Cavendish played the part of distraught bridegroom, spinning a spectacular story to make it sound like it was my father who had become unhinged after finding me kissing Mr. Cavendish in the garden.

He made everyone believe my father was mad, not himself.

He convinced people that he was passionately in love with me and had been trying to save me from my father.

Like he was some sort of knight come to rescue me from a monster.

But nothing could have been further from the truth; he is the monster.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see Mr. Cavendish’s cold eyes and the malicious curl of his lips. ”

Mr. Jennings swore beneath his breath, his expression pained. “Miss Lockwood—”

“Kate,” I said.

“Kate,” he repeated, his voice soft and sincere. “I am so sorry for what you’ve endured. But I swear to you, you have nothing to fear from me. I will never let any harm come to you. No one should bear such a burden alone.”

He stood and moved closer, pausing a step away from me.

The hesitation in his eyes spoke volumes.

He was giving me the space to trust him.

When I didn’t recoil, he slowly knelt before me.

“I cannot imagine the strength it took for you to survive this, to carry on when your world was crumbling. But you are not alone anymore. I will protect you.”

His words washed over me, a balm to the wounds I’d kept hidden for so long. There was no pity in his eyes, only compassion and kindness.

Tears welled in my eyes again, but this time, they weren’t born of pain or fear; they were the tears of a woman who had finally found a safe harbor after years adrift.

“Thank you,” I whispered and reached for his hands, needing the reassurance of human touch.

Oliver’s hands were warm, his grip secure. “We’ll face this together,” he promised. “You have my word.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” I asked. We’d only known one another a short time, and for half of it, I had made his life miserable.

“Because I know what it is to feel alone. To feel unseen,” Oliver said quietly.

And for the first time since Papa died, I felt something other than guilt or fear.

A fragile hope.

Oliver knew everything now, and yet he didn’t turn away. Instead, he drew closer, offering protection, understanding, and empathy. As he held my hands, I allowed myself to believe that a future beyond the nightmare I had been living might be possible.