Page 9 of Winterset

Oliver

Sunlight streamed through the window, and a scratching sound—rats?—roused me from a restless night’s sleep.

“Charlie,” I groaned, rolling over on my hard-as-rocks mattress. “Close the curtain.” But, of course, Charlie could not hear me because his quarters in my new house were below stairs with the other servants.

I wrestled back my covers and stumbled toward the window. After the day I’d had yesterday, I’d wanted to sleep as long as possible. Apparently, Winterset had other plans.

I grabbed the curtain to close it, but when I pulled, the rod broke and the curtains fell to the floor.

Devil take it!

I made several attempts to drape the curtain across the broken rod before giving up the fight and leaning against the window frame, exhausted. Last night, sleep had come in fits and starts, and thanks to Miss Lockwood’s portrait and her unsettling smile, it had not been at all restful.

The view from my bedchamber window was nothing special, just the overgrown grounds, but cloaked in morning mist, it appeared slightly less unpleasant than yesterday, likely because I could not yet see it clearly.

As a boy, I’d risen early every morning to watch the sunrise.

It was the most magical, hopeful time of day, but it had been many years since I’d risen early enough to view it.

Before arriving yesterday, I’d been excited to make Winterset the pearl of the north. But now that the estate had proved less a dream and more a nightmare, I wasn’t so enthusiastic.

I released a heavy breath, and the warmth fogged the frozen window panes. As I watched the sun rise, some of my agitation settled. Seeing the sun peek over the horizon, the newness of the day, made me feel more serene.

Perhaps I’d been too pessimistic yesterday.

I had been weary of a week-long journey and tired and hungry.

Perhaps the shock of seeing the condition of the courtyard yesterday had clouded my impression of the manor.

While I was still tired, having seen the sunrise, rude awakening notwithstanding, I felt more optimistic.

I had the sudden urge to see the manor by the light of day and take stock of everything that needed to be repaired.

Not wanting to wake Charlie, I dressed myself, grabbed my notebook and pencil, then crept down the darkened corridor toward the staircase. It was still early, so the candles had not yet been lit, but that was preferable, considering their off-putting odor I’d noticed last night.

I opened my notebook and wrote: purchase wax candles , then closed my notebook around my pencil and descended to the darkened entrance hall. When I reached the base, the dining hall door opened, and Mrs. Owensby stepped into the entrance hall.

“Good morning, Mrs. Owensby,” I said.

“Mr. Jennings!” She startled, clutching her heart. “You’re awake early.”

“As are you.”

“I’ve not yet seen your manservant. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“No need. I am well enough dressed for the day, am I not?”

“Indeed,” she said even as she eyed my unshaven face with a disapproving look that reminded me pleasantly of Mother. “But a servant should rise before his master. I will wake him and issue a lecture.”

“There’s no cause for a lecture,” I said. “My usual schedule has conditioned him to both rise and retire late. Let Charlie sleep.”

Mrs. Owensby’s disapproval deepened into a frown, but she said nothing more on the subject.

“Shall we get on with it, then?” I said.

“Get on with what , sir?”

“Our tour, of course.”

“Surely not before you’ve eaten breakfast.”

I touched my stomach, which was still protesting last night’s meal.

“After such a hearty meal last night, I have no appetite this morning. And I wish to see every inch of Winterset, so we best begin straightaway. We can start where we left off yesterday, on the ground floor, and work our way up to the attic.”

“You don’t wish to tour the attic.” She shook her head.

“Of course I do.” I didn’t know why that would surprise her. “I intend to survey every inch of this estate.”

“But the attic is ... well, it is haunted, sir.”

I fought a sigh, not wishing to endure another day of my housekeeper’s games.

Mrs. Owensby was like the matchmaking mamas in London, the way she persisted in toying with me.

Perhaps I should play along with her little games as I had with the matchmaking mamas.

Then, at least, we’d both have fun. “Tell me more,” I said, tucking my notebook under my arm and my pencil into my pocket. “Are you acquainted with this ghost?”

“Indeed, I am, sir. Well acquainted.”

“Capital.” I clapped my hands together, causing her to jump. “In that case, I would like an introduction.”

Mrs. Owensby’s brow furrowed. “I do not think she would be willing to accept your introduction. Now, if you will—”

“ She ?” I said, my attention piqued. “I have a female ghost living in my house?”

Mrs. Owensby blinked, her eyes unnaturally wide.

Oh yes. Teasing Mrs. Owensby was vastly more enjoyable than being teased by her. “You must tell me now whether she is married,” I said. “I should hate for her husband to call me out.”

Mrs. Owensby looked at the floor, worrying her lower lip.

“That said, if she is unmarried, that, too, would be a problem. Can you imagine the scandal if Society discovered I was residing under the same roof as an unmarried lady? Tell me now, Mrs. Owensby,” I said, adopting a serious tone, “is my ghost married?”

“No.” She shifted her weight side to side. “Well ... she was almost married, once.”

“How curious,” I said, playing along. “My ghost is engaged, then?”

“ Was engaged.”

“More intriguing still. What, pray tell, is my ghost’s name?”

She swallowed hard. “I dare not utter it, sir.”

“Ah. I see. You are afraid of her,” I said. “Never fear. I shall vanquish this ghost from the premises.” I opened my notebook, wrote Vanquish ghost , and then showed it to Mrs. Owensby for approval.

“Y-you mustn’t do that.” Her voice trembled.

Gads! I had not mean to frighten the poor woman.

Perhaps I’d taken my jesting too far. “My apologies, Mrs. Owensby. I did not mean to make light of something serious to you. However, I do need to survey the attic to ascertain the soundness of the roof. We will do our best not to disturb this ghost.”

“That would be in your best interest, sir. Winterset has a tragic enough history already.”

“Tragic? How do you mean?”

“You must know this house’s history.”

“Some of it,” I said, but in truth, I knew almost nothing about Winterset.

Mrs. Owensby appraised me, the downturn of her lips suggesting she thought me slow of mind.

Currently, I felt it.

Father never spoke of Winterset, not of its history nor of my maternal ancestors who had lived here.

Not ever. Mother spoke of it fondly, though not often.

And I hadn’t wanted to know; it was Father’s surname I carried and Father’s family I had so desperately wanted to belong to, not Mother’s.

Winterset had always been both a blessing and a banishment.

Something I had dreamed of but also despised.

I opened my mouth to explain but then closed it, remembering myself. I was master here and did not need to explain myself to my servants. Instead, I made a few more notes about needed repairs in the entrance hall:

Replace carpets

Repair uneven floorboards

Return Lockwood portraits

“Well,” Mrs. Owensby said. “I can tell you what I know of Winterset, if you’d like. But I must warn you, it isn’t all pleasant.”

“Please. Go ahead.”

With a nod, she led me across the entrance hall to the study. “Winterset Grange was built in 1485 and originally served as a monastic granary to Blackhurst Abbey up the lane. Sadly, the monastery was dissolved during King Henry VIII’s reign, and the crown seized and then sold all buildings.”

“Which is when my maternal ancestors came into possession of The Grange,” I said.

“No. Both the abbey and The Grange were sold to the Smythes. Two decades later, your ancestors bought Winterset, when Mr. Smythes’s financial indiscretions forced the sale. A blow to that family but a blessing to yours.”

“Indeed,” I said, though it was hard to think of it as such.

I knew the pain that a father’s financial indiscretions caused; my own family seat, Summerhaven, had been beggared because of Father’s debts.

The entailment had prevented its sale, and Damon had ultimately found another way to save the estate from complete ruin, but its impoverishment was painful.

“Upon the sale,” Mrs. Owensby continued, “The Grange was renovated into a proper manor house, tenant dwellings were erected to provide the new estate needed income, and finally, the grounds were improved.”

“An admirable undertaking,” I said.

“It was,” she agreed.

“Winterset’s history is not so horrific; I was prepared to hear a terrific tale.”

“Well, I am not finished,” Mrs. Owensby said.

“During Queen Elizabeth’s reign, when religious tensions were high, especially here in the north, Winterset was renovated yet again and served as a safe house for Catholic priests suffering persecution from the newly formed Church of England.

Sadly, at least one priest perished while hiding here. ”

“That is tragic.”

“Aye,” she said, leading me from the study into the drawing room. “And during the English Civil War, your fourth great-grandmother perished protecting the manor from Roundheads.”

“Truly?” I grimaced.

Mrs. Owensby nodded. “She loved and fought for this house until her very last breath.”

“How many have died here?” I asked.

“Too many. God rest their souls.”