Page 12 of Winterset
“Iam the cook, sir. Also the maid of all work.”
Of course my staff would also be victims of that scoundrel, Mr. Moore. I berated myself silently once again. “Good gracious, Mrs. Owensby. That is a great deal of responsibility. I shall hire more staff immediately.”
“No, thank you.”
“No, thank you?” I blinked at her in surprise.
“Yes, sir. I prefer to work on my own.”
“Now that I’m in residence, caring for Winterset will be an impossible task for one person.”
“Two, sir. But Bexley also serves as a footman and even helps me in the kitchen on occasion.”
I grimaced at the thought. Never in all my life had I heard of a butler serving beneath his station. And Mrs. Owensby certainly needed more help, but to insist on hiring more help when she did not desire it would likely offend her. Heavens. What should I do? This discussion would have to be revisited at a later date. “Only a brief tour,” I said. I did wish to eat tonight.
“Very well. We will start right here with the portraits.”
In requesting a tour, I had not meant that I wanted to view the manor’s details but rather the house in general—the main halls, the private rooms, maybe even the outbuildings, if time remained before nightfall. But if she wished to show me the particulars, I would oblige.
I followed her across the entry hall to view the portraits.
“As you can see,” she began, “more than five generations are represented in this room.”
“Impressive,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt.
“It is, sir. This wall displays a great many men and women of honor.”
“Indeed,” I agreed, although I did not know much about my mother’s ancestors. When Mrs. Owensby didn’t move on, I feigned interest, and with hands clasped behind my back, I bent to inspect the nameplate.Francis Lockwood, 1589. Lockwood? I frowned. Though my maternal line was somewhat of a mystery, I was certain there was some mistake. “This man is not my ancestor.”
“No, sir. He was your former tenant’s ancestor.”
“Do all these portraits”—I indicated the other paintings on the wall “—belong to the Lockwood family?”
“Aye.” Mrs. Owensby nodded proudly.
“Why do they still hang on my walls?”
“Because the walls in the dining hall and portrait gallery were already covered, sir.”
She must’ve understood my meaning: not why did they hangherein the entrance hall, but why did they hang inmyhouse at all? “Forgive me, Mrs. Owensby, but where aremyancestors’ portraits?”
“In the attic,” she said as though that should be obvious.
I took a deep breath. “These portraits should have been removed and replaced with my family portraits.”
“Had you sent word of your arrival, they would have been, sir.”
I had sent word of my arrival, only to Mr. Moore, although I was too taken aback to contradict her. I could only blink. Never in my life had a servant spoken this way to me. Had she meant to be impertinent? It would profit me nothing to reveal my mounting annoyance, so I said calmly, “Well, now that I am here, please have these packed and sent to Mr. Lockwood directly.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Mrs. Owensby said.
“Why is that?”
“Because Mr. Lockwood now resides in heaven, sir. And no matter how much you might want his ancestors’ portraits packed and sent away, I’m not sure how I would do that.”
I tried to contain my irritation. “Mrs. Owensby, you must know that I meant for the portraits to be sent, not to the deceased Mr. Lockwood but to his next of kin.”
“And surelyyoumust know Mr. Lockwood has no next of kin.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word as ifIwere a simpleton.
