Page 5 of Winterset

Oliver

I rapped again on the weather-worn door, not knowing whether anyone was even inside to open it and receive me. Charlie still had not returned, but I hoped he’d found an entrance and, God willing, servants.

I’d provided funds to Mr. Moore to retain a housekeeper, a butler, several servants, and a grounds keeper to keep Winterset in good repair in my absence. But if none of the money I’d sent Mr. Moore to pay the servants had even made it to them, why would they have remained?

I raised my hand to knock yet again when the door groaned open on its hinges, revealing a grim-faced man.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said.

“I certainly hope so. I am Mr. Oliver Jennings, Winterset’s master.”

The man’s gaze sharpened as he looked me over, from hat-covered head to mud-encrusted boots.

And when he offered me no welcome, I said, “And who, sir, are you?”

“Bexley, sir. I am the butler.”

“A pleasure, Bexley.”

He did not return the sentiment, only a stony stare.

“Bexley, do you know what has become of Mr. Moore? The previous tenant’s butler.”

“ I was the previous tenant’s butler, sir.”

“Has a Mr. Moore ever been employed in any capacity at Winterset?” I asked.

“No, sir,” he answered, confirming my fears.

I swore beneath my breath. And although Bexley’s expression did not change at my directness, I got the distinct impression that he thought me slow of mind.

Perhaps I was.

Had I any sense, I would not have hired a charlatan such as Mr. Moore.

I had not expected a warm welcome, considering the state of things, but as a gentleman, I did deserve respect. It was not polite to leave a man of gentle breeding standing outside on a portico, let alone his own portico. “Might you move aside so I may enter my house, please?”

But Bexley did not move. In fact, he braced one shoulder against the door, defending against my entering. “Forgive me, sir, but how am I to know you are who you say you are?”

“A wise question, to be sure.” One which I wished I had asked Mr. Moore two years ago.

It galled my pride to prove to my servant who I was, but since he would not be moved, I produced the necessary paperwork from my breast coat pocket, which I’d kept on my person during the journey so as not to displace it, and handed the document to him.

Bexley looked over Winterset’s deed and my inheritance claim, then inspected the seal on the reverse.

I removed my seal from my watch fob ribbon and gave it to him to view so that he might confirm my identity.

Bexley thoroughly inspected that, too, and when he was finally satisfied, he handed back the items and said, “My apologies, Mr. Jennings.”

My initial reaction was to express my displeasure with him, but cutting a man down in order to build myself up was something Father would have done.

I did not wish for my servants to fear me as Father’s had him.

I wanted my servants’ respect, which meant I needed to emulate Mother’s attitudes and actions.

“I appreciate your apology, and I commend you for your judicious protection of Winterset. It speaks well of you.”

He blinked. “Thank you, sir. Do come in.” He opened the door fully to grant me access.

Behind Bexley stood a woman. The housekeeper, likely. She had a creased, careworn face and a cautious gaze.

Moving toward the threshold, my heart raced with hope that the manor’s interior would prove more promising than its exterior. Perhaps it was foolish, given the state of the gate and grounds, but Winterset was the desperate dream of my youth and my only hope for the future.

As I stepped inside, a floorboard groaned beneath my weight, an inauspicious greeting, to be sure. But knowing my servants watched me, I schooled my face into a neutral mask as I took in my surroundings.

The entrance hall boasted two floors. An arched corridor stretched the length of the landing, and a double staircase flowed like waterfalls along the outer walls to the modest entrance hall below.

The appointments were adequate, but the space itself was not as large, nor as stately as the manor I’d grown up in.

My boots sounded against the weathered wood floor as I walked to the center of the room.

Directly before me hung not a few gilded-framed portraits. Indeed, there were so many frigid faces staring at me that it felt as though the walls had eyes.

The oak-paneled walls and scarlet-cloaked windows made the space dark and dreary—fitting for my mood, perhaps, but not my vision. I could only hope that when the drapes were properly pulled back, light would flood the room to dispel the dismal darkness.

It was obvious that efforts had been made to maintain the manor.

There was not a speck of dust or dirt visible.

And the fact that two servants remained at all made me wonder if perhaps Mr. Moore had sent them money.

It did not make sense that he would, but why else would they remain here?

How could I ask them that, though, without making an even greater fool of myself?

I continued surveying the space. Considerable refurbishments would need to be undertaken to bring this old maid into the nineteenth century. A burdensome task, considering much of my capital now lined Mr. Moore’s pockets.

“Might I take your coat and hat, sir?” Bexley asked.

I hesitated, not because I did not want to remove them but because he was not wearing gloves, and I didn’t want my new topper ruined.

Living so far from polite society, replacing it would be an impossible task. It was not as if I could step outside my door and walk to No. 6 St. James’s Street as I had when I’d resided in my rented rooms at Albany.

Yet I did not wish to offend my servant in our first hour of meeting, so I handed over my belongings, and he moved to put them away.

“Before you go,” I said, stopping him. “My valet, Mr. Charles Hanover, went around the house in search of an entrance earlier. Please find him and show him in, and then assist the coachmen in seeing that my belongings are unloaded and brought inside.”

“Certainly, sir.” Bexley bowed, my coat and hat in hand, and quit the room.

“Might I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Jennings?” the woman asked, not looking at me but at the floor.

Was she afraid of me? I ducked to meet her gaze. “Thank you, Mrs....”

“Owensby. I am the housekeeper. For more than two decades now.”

“Very good, Mrs. Owensby. A cup of tea will do nicely. But first, I would like a tour of the house.”

Her eyes widened. “The whole house, sir?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only that it is such a large house. And you are, no doubt, famished from your journey.”

“That I am. But the cook can see to that.”

“ I am the cook, sir. Also the maid of all work.”

Of course my staff would also be victims of that scoundrel, Mr. Moore. I berated myself silently once again. “Good gracious, Mrs. Owensby. That is a great deal of responsibility. I shall hire more staff immediately.”

“No, thank you.”

“No, thank you?” I blinked at her in surprise.

“Yes, sir. I prefer to work on my own.”

“Now that I’m in residence, caring for Winterset will be an impossible task for one person.”

“Two, sir. But Bexley also serves as a footman and even helps me in the kitchen on occasion.”

I grimaced at the thought. Never in all my life had I heard of a butler serving beneath his station.

And Mrs. Owensby certainly needed more help, but to insist on hiring more help when she did not desire it would likely offend her.

Heavens. What should I do? This discussion would have to be revisited at a later date.

“Only a brief tour,” I said. I did wish to eat tonight.

“Very well. We will start right here with the portraits.”

In requesting a tour, I had not meant that I wanted to view the manor’s details but rather the house in general—the main halls, the private rooms, maybe even the outbuildings, if time remained before nightfall. But if she wished to show me the particulars, I would oblige.

I followed her across the entry hall to view the portraits.

“As you can see,” she began, “more than five generations are represented in this room.”

“Impressive,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt.

“It is, sir. This wall displays a great many men and women of honor.”

“Indeed,” I agreed, although I did not know much about my mother’s ancestors.

When Mrs. Owensby didn’t move on, I feigned interest, and with hands clasped behind my back, I bent to inspect the nameplate.

Francis Lockwood, 1589 . Lockwood? I frowned.

Though my maternal line was somewhat of a mystery, I was certain there was some mistake. “This man is not my ancestor.”

“No, sir. He was your former tenant’s ancestor.”

“Do all these portraits”—I indicated the other paintings on the wall “—belong to the Lockwood family?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Owensby nodded proudly.

“Why do they still hang on my walls?”

“Because the walls in the dining hall and portrait gallery were already covered, sir.”

She must’ve understood my meaning: not why did they hang here in the entrance hall, but why did they hang in my house at all? “Forgive me, Mrs. Owensby, but where are my ancestors’ portraits?”

“In the attic,” she said as though that should be obvious.

I took a deep breath. “These portraits should have been removed and replaced with my family portraits.”

“Had you sent word of your arrival, they would have been, sir.”

I had sent word of my arrival, only to Mr. Moore, although I was too taken aback to contradict her.

I could only blink. Never in my life had a servant spoken this way to me.

Had she meant to be impertinent? It would profit me nothing to reveal my mounting annoyance, so I said calmly, “Well, now that I am here, please have these packed and sent to Mr. Lockwood directly.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Mrs. Owensby said.

“Why is that?”

“Because Mr. Lockwood now resides in heaven, sir. And no matter how much you might want his ancestors’ portraits packed and sent away, I’m not sure how I would do that.”