Page 11 of Winterset
“A wise question, to be sure.” One which I wished I had asked Mr. Moore two years ago. It galled my pride to prove to my servant who I was, but since he would not be moved, I produced the necessary paperwork from my breast coat pocket, which I’d kept on my person during the journey so as not to displace it, and handed the document to him.
Bexley looked over Winterset’s deed and my inheritance claim, then inspected the seal on the reverse.
I removed my seal from my watch fob ribbon and gave it to him to view so that he might confirm my identity.
Bexley thoroughly inspected that, too, and when he was finally satisfied, he handed back the items and said, “My apologies, Mr. Jennings.”
My initial reaction was to express my displeasure with him, but cutting a man down in order to build myself up was something Father would have done. I did not wish for my servants to fear me as Father’s had him. I wanted my servants’ respect, which meant I needed to emulate Mother’s attitudes and actions.
“I appreciate your apology, and I commend you for your judicious protection of Winterset. It speaks well of you.”
He blinked. “Thank you, sir. Do come in.” He opened the door fully to grant me access.
Behind Bexley stood a woman. The housekeeper, likely. She had a creased, careworn face and a cautious gaze.
Moving toward the threshold, my heart raced with hope that the manor’s interior would prove more promising than its exterior. Perhapsit was foolish, given the state of the gate and grounds, but Winterset was the desperate dream of my youth and my only hope for the future.
As I stepped inside, a floorboard groaned beneath my weight, an inauspicious greeting, to be sure. But knowing my servants watched me, I schooled my face into a neutral mask as I took in my surroundings.
The entrance hall boasted two floors. An arched corridor stretched the length of the landing, and a double staircase flowed like waterfalls along the outer walls to the modest entrance hall below. The appointments were adequate, but the space itself was not as large, nor as stately as the manor I’d grown up in.
My boots sounded against the weathered wood floor as I walked to the center of the room.
Directly before me hung not a few gilded-framed portraits. Indeed, there were so many frigid faces staring at me that it felt as though the walls had eyes.
The oak-paneled walls and scarlet-cloaked windows made the space dark and dreary—fitting for my mood, perhaps, but not my vision. I could only hope that when the drapes were properly pulled back, light would flood the room to dispel the dismal darkness.
It was obvious that efforts had been made to maintain the manor. There was not a speck of dust or dirt visible. And the fact that two servants remained at all made me wonder if perhaps Mr. Moore had sent them money. It did not make sense that he would, but why else would they remain here? How could I ask them that, though, without making an even greater fool of myself?
I continued surveying the space. Considerable refurbishments would need to be undertaken to bring this old maid into the nineteenth century. A burdensome task, considering much of my capital now lined Mr. Moore’s pockets.
“Might I take your coat and hat, sir?” Bexley asked.
I hesitated, not because I did not want to remove them but because he was not wearing gloves, and I didn’t want my new topper ruined.
Living so far from polite society, replacing it would be an impossible task. It was not as if I could step outside my door and walk to No. 6 St. James’s Street as I had when I’d resided in my rented rooms at Albany.
Yet I did not wish to offend my servant in our first hour of meeting, so I handed over my belongings, and he moved to put them away.
“Before you go,” I said, stopping him. “My valet, Mr. Charles Hanover, went around the house in search of an entrance earlier. Please find him and show him in, and then assist the coachmen in seeing that my belongings are unloaded and brought inside.”
“Certainly, sir.” Bexley bowed, my coat and hat in hand, and quit the room.
“Might I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Jennings?” the woman asked, not looking at me but at the floor.
Was she afraidof me? I ducked to meet her gaze. “Thank you, Mrs....”
“Owensby. I am the housekeeper. For more than two decades now.”
“Very good, Mrs. Owensby. A cup of tea will do nicely. But first, I would like a tour of the house.”
Her eyes widened. “Thewholehouse, sir?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Only that it is such a large house. And you are, no doubt, famished from your journey.”
“That I am. But the cook can see to that.”
