Page 100 of Winterset
When Markham finally dropped his gaze and started up the stairs, I said, “Welcome to Winterset, Lord Markham.”
“I have been waiting a long while to hear those words,” he said.
“Two weeks is not so long.” I gave him a good-natured laugh.
“No, indeed. I’m just impatient for some entertainment.”
“Well then, let us not delay any longer. Mrs. Owensby is preparing us a fine meal, and then we shall have our reading.”
“Capital,” Markham said and offered the younger Miss Arabella his arm.
Bexley stood at the door to take my guests’ coats, but when the moment arrived to do so, he stood stock-still, eyes wide and mouth ajar, gaping at my guests.
Gads!My guests were not even inside yet, and already, my servants were acting strangely.
“Bexley.” I cleared my throat. “The coats, if you please.”
Bexley shook his head as if coming to his senses and took the proffered items before quickly disappearing inside to stow them.
“My staff is a little out of practice,” I jested, trying to lessen the discomfort and earning a few laughs from my guests.
“So it seems,” Mrs. Dalton said. “We should be glad to host you next, Mr. Jennings.”
“You are too kind,” I said, but I would not be accepting any future invitations from them.
I led my guests inside, and their gazes roamed the entrance hall. Not much had been done to improve this space, save for replacing the carpets and candles, but contrary to my first impression, not much had actually been needed in this hall. Winterset’s entrance was not as grand as some larger houses, but it was impressive.
Moonlight poured through the centuries-old stained-glass windows, illuminating the images and casting shadows along the arched corridor that ran the length of the landing. And on the ground floor, candelabras highlighted the hand-carved banister of the double staircase and the gallery of gilded frames.
“You have a fine home, Mr. Jennings,” Mr. Dalton said.
“Very fine, indeed,” Mrs. Dalton said, glancing around. “Lacking a few feminine touches, but I suppose you are wise to let the future Mrs. Jennings”—she glanced meaningfully at her daughter—“see to such things.”
Miss Dalton smiled up at me as though already envisioning herself in the role.
My stomach twisted at the thought. “This way.” I directed my guests to the drawing room to wait for dinner to be announced.
“Oh my!” Miss Dalton gasped. “Mr. Jennings, this room is ...” Her sentence stalled as she eyed the threadbare carpets, moth-eaten tapestries, and gruesome paintings. We’d hung the most graphic ones on either side of the stage.
“Terrifying?” I supplied.
“Well,yes.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
She stared at me like I’d gone mad.
“Is it not the perfect setting for our reading?” I asked.
Mr. Dalton laughed. “You mean to say you did all this”—he swept his hand over the room—“on purpose?”
“What is a ghost story without a haunted room to read it in? Please, have a look around.”
The Daltons readily took my invitation, walking to where the historical relics were displayed on the pianoforte.
Only Markham remained at my side. He lowered his voice. “Hope you are ready for a quick courtship, old boy.”
My gaze cut to him.
