Page 10 of Winterset
I might have done so, but then another knock came at the door, sharp and insistent.
“The priest hide,” I said. “Behind Papa’s portrait. Help me inside.”
With a nod, we hastened across the entrance hall. My hiding spot would likely be the first thing Mr. Jennings laid eyes on when he stepped inside the manor, although he would not know it, as the priest hide was concealed by clever paneling and Papa’s portrait.
Mrs. Owensby pressed the timber, and it swung out, exposing the small space within the wall.
The dark hide was much smaller than I remembered. Was there even room for me to climb inside?
When I was a young girl, Papa and I played hide-and-seek. Back then, it had been a most diverting game. But now, I dreaded experiencing this hide’s true purpose: protection. Like the Catholic priests who’d hidden here three hundred years before, I now hid to protect my life.
“Quickly now,” Mrs. Owensby said.
I crept slowly forward.
Bexley cleared his throat as if to hurry me.
Knowing I must obey or be found out, I climbed inside the priest hide and closed my eyes.
Oliver
I rapped again on theweather-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,anda 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.”
“Iwas 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 alonehis ownportico. “Might you move aside so I may enter my house, please?”
But Bexley didnotmove. 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?”
