Page 6 of Winterset

I tried to contain my irritation. “Mrs. Owensby, you must know that I meant for the portraits to be sent, not to the deceased Mr. Lockwood but to his next of kin.”

“And surely you must know Mr. Lockwood has no next of kin.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if I were a simpleton.

I did not know how much other masters knew of their tenants, but when I’d come into my inheritance two years previous, I’d been too deep in my cups to learn anything more about Winterset’s leaseholder than to ascertain whether or not he was current on his rent.

“Did Mr. Lockwood have any children?” I asked.

Mrs. Owensby hesitated. “None to speak of, sir.”

“There must be someone who will receive these portraits. A distant relative perhaps? I will have my solicitor search them out. In the meantime, these pictures are to be removed and my family portraits hung in their place.”

Mrs. Owensby made a show of wringing her apron.

“What is it, Mrs. Owensby?” I sighed inwardly.

“Removing the portraits of the dead will bring Winterset bad luck.”

I sighed inwardly. Was everything I said to be met with this much opposition? “Mr. Lockwood removed my ancestors’ portraits, did he not?”

“Aye. And that did not end well for him.”

I did not know the details of Mr. Lockwood’s death, only that he’d died, so I could not argue the point. “Well, we shall just have to hope that when the rightful portraits of my family are restored to their proper places, all will be made right.”

“I advise against it, sir, but if you insist—”

“I do.” I’d never been superstitious, and although I could tolerate those who were, this was my home, and I would not have another family’s portraits hanging on my walls.

“I will inform Bexley,” she said with a submissive bow of her head.

“Very good.” I gestured that Mrs. Owensby should continue our tour. She did not put up a fight. A small, if not easily won, victory.

I followed in her wake but made it only a few steps when a young lady’s portrait arrested my attention.

As I turned to view it, my boot caught a hole in the threadbare carpet, causing my lower half to stop suddenly while the bulk of my body continued forward.

Had it not been for my training at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, I would not have been quick enough on my feet to catch my fall.

“Are you all right, sir? That was quite a stumble!” Mrs. Owensby exclaimed as I composed myself. “You looked like a caught chicken, the way you flailed about.”

A noise that sounded almost like a laugh came from my right.

I glanced around the entrance hall but saw no one. “Is there someone else here?”

“O-only the portraits,” she stammered.

“Did you not hear something?”

“Winterset is over three hundred years old, Mr. Jennings. You will hear many sounds: the creaking of the gables. The scurrying of rats.”

“This was a voice. A young lady’s voice.” I was certain of it.

“Perhaps you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her expression grave.

“ Heard a ghost,” I corrected, and hearing the utter ridiculousness of my words, I shook my head. “I must be more fatigued from my journey than I realized.” I rubbed my forehead and returned my gaze to the portrait.

Dark curls, pale skin, and bright eyes.

I leaned forward to inspect the nameplate, but it was missing, the small nail holes where it had been secured now exposed. The only identifying mark on the painting was a date: 1818. The same year I’d left on my Grand Tour.

“Whose portrait is this?” I asked Mrs. Owensby, not taking my eyes off the portrait.

Her eyes flicked to the portrait and then quickly away. “Oh. Well, I suppose it belongs to you now.”

Was she being purposefully obtuse? “That is not what I meant.”

“Oh. Pardon me. I believe the artist’s name is Mr. Colstone.”

“Mrs. Owensby, who is the subject of this painting?” My question came out more curtly than I intended, but I needed to know the young lady’s name.

“Oh. Why did you not ask?”

“I thought I had .”

Mrs. Owensby smiled as if we’d had a happy misunderstanding, though the mirth in her eyes gave me the distinct impression that she was toying with me. “Why, that is Miss Lockwood.”

“Miss Lockwood?” I directed a pointed look at Mrs. Owensby. “Mr. Lockwood’s daughter?”

“Aye. She is beautiful, is she not?”

“She is ... sufficient,” I said, but in truth, I was spellbound.

Although I’d danced, and even flirted, with many beautiful women both in London and on the Continent, I had never seen this young lady’s equal.

Miss Lockwood was more than beautiful. She was captivating.

Something about her big bright-blue-green eyes, her curls cascading down her delicate neck, her heart-shaped mouth—lips that almost smiled but didn’t quite—utterly enthralled me. “She laughs at me.”

“Aye. That she does, sir.” And so did my housekeeper.

“What is Miss Lockwood’s Christian name?” I asked.

Mrs. Owensby’s brow rose. “My, but you are forward.”

I dragged my gaze away from the portrait to look at my housekeeper. “This is a painting, Mrs. Owensby, not a person. I am only inquiring because earlier, you said Mr. Lockwood has no next of kin, yet this portrait proves that he does.”

“I did not say he had no children, sir.”

“You did,” I countered, pointing at her.

“No. I said Mr. Lockwood had no next of kin to speak of .”

Were we truly arguing over semantics? I heaved a weary sigh and rubbed my temples. If every conversation with Mrs. Owensby was going to be this exhausting, I would need to develop a great deal more patience or, better yet, assign Charlie to the task.

“Mr. Lockwood did have a daughter,” Mrs. Owensby continued, “but she is ...” Her sentence stalled as she bowed her head and circumspectly crossed herself with a whispered prayer.

“Miss Lockwood is deceased?” I could not believe it. Someone so young and lovely as she could not possibly be gone.

But Mrs. Owensby sniffed in acknowledgment.

“Forgive me,” I said, feeling badly for making my housekeeper cry, and I quickly handed her my handkerchief. “I did not know.”

She took it and blew her nose—several times—then offered it back to me.

“Please. Keep it.” I held up my hand, and as she tucked the handkerchief into the front of her apron, I tried not to grimace.

“Shall we continue our tour?” I suggested, hoping to extricate myself from this most uncomfortable situation.

Then, realizing she was likely to continue in the same detailed way as before, I added, “Though I should only like to view the remainder of the ground floor tonight.”

“As you say, sir,” Mrs. Owensby said, and as she turned to lead me away, I thought I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

It was not until later, when I stood in my pitiful excuse for a bedchamber with Charlie, dressing for dinner, that I realized Mrs. Owensby had not told me the young lady’s name.