Page 7 of Winterset

Kate

As soon as the entrance hall fell quiet, I shifted in my seated position in the cramped priest hide to relieve some discomfort in my back, but I found no relief.

It felt like an age since I’d climbed inside this cramped hiding spot, and every part of me ached, my lungs most of all. Winterset’s walls were so damp and dusty that I was sure I was breathing air that had sat stagnant for more than two centuries.

Best not to think about it.

Instead, I envisioned Mr. Jennings—what was it that Mrs. Owensby had said?—oh yes: Flailing like a caught chicken .

My mouth tugged up at the corners, but I denied myself the pleasure of laughing. After my slip earlier, it had been a minor miracle that Mr. Jennings had not discovered me. Mrs. Owensby would surely box both my ears for the mistake.

At least Mrs. Owensby had played her part perfectly. She’d not lied to Mr. Jennings, at least not overtly, and still, she’d made him believe me dead. I did not know how she had managed it, but I was grateful.

At long last, Mrs. Owensby returned to release me.

Without a way to keep time in the dark priest hide, I’d estimated that it would be nearing sundown, but when the panel was pressed open, I was surprised to find that it was full dark.

The only light in the entrance hall came from the candle in Mrs. Owensby’s outstretched hand.

I crawled out, my legs weak from being held in one position for so long.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Owensby whispered, helping me stand.

I started to nod, but even my neck was sore.

Drat! I would have to be more selective in where I hid in the future.

Winterset had several priest hides—twelve, that I knew of.

Some, like the one I’d hidden in today, were tiny and tight, and others, like the one in the attic, were quite large.

Well, not large , but big enough that Bexley had furnished it with a bed and a bedside table for my few things because that would be my new bedchamber for the time being.

It was small, but my mattress was at least comfortable, which was more than I could say for Mr. Jennings’s mattress.

Still, he was getting the better bargain; he would sleep in a proper bedchamber tonight.

“We must get you a plate of food and sneak you up the servants’ stairs before Mr. Jennings or his manservant come down for dinner,” Mrs. Owensby said quietly.

Famished, I readily agreed. But before following after her, I removed my portrait from the wall and pushed it inside the priest hide, where it would be safe from Mr. Jennings’s critical gaze. Sufficient , indeed.

With a sigh, Mrs. Owensby shook her head and turned toward the kitchen.

I followed closely behind, Mrs. Owensby’s lone flame our only source of light.

How disconcerting it felt being resigned to the shadows. This morning, I’d walked freely through these rooms. Now I was a visitor. The happy halls I’d known my whole life were suddenly fearsome and foreign.

As we neared the kitchen, a foul scent filled the air, like burned bread and spoiled meat. I lifted a hand to my nose. “What is that horrible smell?”

“ That is Mr. Jennings’s dinner,” Mrs. Owensby said. “I think Bexley is almost done. He has been boiling the beef for the better part of two hours.”

“Two hours ?” Mr. Jennings’s dinner would closer resemble saddle leather than food.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ve prepared a tray of finger sandwiches, fruit, and cheese for you to enjoy.”

We entered the kitchen to a veritable circus; pots bubbled and boiled over, bread burned in the oven, and a mess of ingredients were strewn across the worktable. And at the center of it all was Bexley, red-faced and frantic.

“I c-cannot be sure,” Bexley stuttered, “but I think I may have r-ruined Mr. Jennings’s dinner.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Owensby grinned. “I daresay you did.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to hide my amusement.

I’d not meant for Bexley to cook Mr. Jennings’s dinner quite so poorly.

I did not wish for Mr. Jennings to stay, but neither did I want for him to starve.

There was nothing to be done about it now though.

The least I could do was make Bexley feel better.

“I can hardly wait to see Mr. Jennings’s face when he eats it. ” Or tried to eat it anyway.

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Owensby scolded, tidying the worktable. “You, Katherine Lockwood, will be safely tucked away in the attic long before Mr. Jennings comes down for dinner. Do you understand me?”

“I’d prefer to eat my meal here in the kitchen with you.”

“And with Mr. Jennings’s manservant?” She huffed a laugh. “I think not.”

I’d forgotten about Mr. Jennings’s valet.

“Speaking of, you must take your tray and go up the servants’ stairs to your new bedchamber before Mr. Hanover comes down to dinner,” she said.

Bexley began plating the beef on a serving platter, and a piece fell to the floor. He quickly retrieved it and moved to add the soiled meat to the platter.

“Bexley.” I held out my hand, stopping him. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to knowingly feed Mr. Jennings soiled food. “You must throw that piece out.”

Bexley blinked at the piece of meat, seemingly surprised by what he was about to do, then tossed it aside. He rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “If I should never cook another meal again, it would be too soon.”

“My kitchen agrees with you,” Mrs. Owensby said, surveying the chaos.

“But it was a valiant first attempt,” I reassured him, and I was about to offer him words of comfort when footsteps sounded on the servants’ staircase.

We stilled to listen, and my heart began to gallop.

These stairs connected the house’s upper floors to the kitchen and servants’ quarters below, which likely meant Mr. Jennings’s valet was coming to the kitchen for dinner and that Mr. Jennings himself was finished dressing and would soon be entering the dining hall, which was also connected to the kitchen.

I was trapped.

Mrs. Owensby’s panicked gaze shot to mine. “He’s much earlier than we expected. Quick, Kate!” She motioned for me to hide behind the worktable even as she stepped in front of it.

“Good evening, Mr. Hanover,” Bexley said, attempting a casual tone and subtly positioning himself to block Mr. Hanover’s view of me.

“And to you, Mr. Bexley,” Mr. Hanover replied, and although I could not see him, his voice painted a portrait of a polite young man, not much older than I.

“This is Mrs. Owensby, the housekeeper,” Bexley said.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Owensby.”

“Mr. Hanover,” Mrs. Owensby greeted, joining Bexley’s side.

“Charlie, if you please.”

“Very well, Charlie,” she said. “Now tell me, how long have you been employed by Mr. Jennings?”

“Fourteen years,” he said, and I detected pride in his voice.

“So long? You can’t be but five and twenty years yourself.”

“I am eight and twenty, same as Mr. Jennings. My contract with him was rather informal during his time at Eton. I did not come into proper employment until Mr. Jennings’s studies at Cambridge.”

“My, that is certainly a long time. Mr. Jennings must be a kind and fair master,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. He is not without his faults, but I would not wish to work for anyone else.”

What faults did Charlie hint at? Mr. Jennings had already proved himself a neglectful landowner, but did he possess more egregious vices?

“Well, Charlie, we are glad to have you join us. As you can see, we are not large in numbers, but we pitch in wherever needed, and we get by.”

“Yes, ma’am. I, too, am happy to help wherever needed.”

“With your master’s unexpected arrival,” Mrs. Owensby said, “we have need to put you to work straightaway.”

“Of course, ma’am. But first, I must ask, is that dinner tray intended for me?”

My gaze rose. The corner of my dinner tray hung slightly over the edge of the worktable.

“I hate to presume,” he said when no one answered, “but after today’s travels, I am quite hungry.”

“Who else would it be for?” Mrs. Owensby said with false cheer. “Bexley, fetch the tray for Charlie, please.”

“No need,” Charlie said. “I can get it myse—”

“I insist,” she interjected. If he were to come around the worktable, he would see me.

Bexley walked to the worktable, and when he grabbed the tray, I wanted to cry. After a long day of hiding, I was also hungry.

“Charlie,” Mrs. Owensby said, commanding his attention away from my direction, “will Mr. Jennings be down to dinner soon?”

“Forgive me for not saying so earlier, but he is already waiting in the drawing room to be shown into the dining hall.”

Mr. Jennings wished to be shown into the dining hall? Papa and I had always shown ourselves into dinner. Was Mr. Jennings so self-important as to stand on formalities even when dining alone? I looked heavenward and shook my head.

As Charlie sat at the servants’ table with my tray, Mrs. Owensby came around the worktable, where I crouched. She glanced in Charlie’s direction, then tipped her head toward the kitchen door leading to the dining hall.

I hesitated. What if Mr. Jennings had grown tired of waiting and shown himself into the dining hall?

Go , she mouthed.

I peeked around the edge of the worktable. Charlie was seated with his back toward me. Mrs. Owensby moved to block him from seeing me should he turn, and Bexley engaged Charlie in conversation, talking a touch too loudly, no doubt to cover any sound my exit might make.

I quickly but quietly tiptoed across the kitchen toward the servants’ entrance into the dining hall.

Mrs. Owensby glanced inside the room and, after confirming it was vacant, ushered me inside.

“Hide behind the tapestry in the small alcove where the display cabinet used to be,” she whispered.

“Stay there until Mr. Jennings has retired upstairs for the night. I’ll fetch you when it’s safe. ”

I shook my head. “I will go upstairs before you show him in and hide in the attic.”