Page 13 of Winterset
I did not know how much other masters knew of their tenants, but when I’d come into my inheritance two years previous, I’d been too deep in my cups to learn anything more about Winterset’s leaseholder than to ascertain whether or not he was current on his rent.
“Did Mr. Lockwood have any children?” I asked.
Mrs. Owensby hesitated. “None to speak of, sir.”
“There must besomeonewho will receive these portraits. A distant relative perhaps? I will have my solicitor search them out. In the meantime, these pictures are to be removed and my family portraits hung in their place.”
Mrs. Owensby made a show of wringing her apron.
“What is it, Mrs. Owensby?” I sighed inwardly.
“Removing the portraits of the dead will bring Winterset bad luck.”
I sighed inwardly. Was everything I said to be met with this much opposition? “Mr. Lockwood removedmyancestors’ portraits, did he not?”
“Aye. And that did not end well for him.”
I did not know the details of Mr. Lockwood’s death, only that he’d died, so I could not argue the point. “Well, we shall just have to hope that when the rightful portraits ofmyfamily are restored to their proper places, all will be made right.”
“I advise against it, sir, but if you insist—”
“I do.” I’d never been superstitious, and although I could tolerate those who were, this wasmyhome, and I would not have another family’s portraits hanging on my walls.
“I will inform Bexley,” she said with a submissive bow of her head.
“Very good.” I gestured that Mrs. Owensby should continue our tour. She did not put up a fight. A small, if not easily won, victory.
I followed in her wake but made it only a few steps when a young lady’s portrait arrested my attention. As I turned to view it, my bootcaught a hole in the threadbare carpet, causing my lower half to stop suddenly while the bulk of my body continued forward. Had it not been for my training at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, I would not have been quick enough on my feet to catch my fall.
“Are you all right, sir? That was quite a stumble!” Mrs. Owensby exclaimed as I composed myself. “You looked like a caught chicken, the way you flailed about.”
A noise that sounded almost like a laugh came from my right.
I glanced around the entrance hall but saw no one. “Is there someone else here?”
“O-only the portraits,” she stammered.
“Did you not hear something?”
“Winterset is over three hundred years old, Mr. Jennings. You will hear many sounds: the creaking of the gables. The scurrying of rats.”
“This was a voice. A young lady’s voice.” I was certain of it.
“Perhaps you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, her expression grave.
“Hearda ghost,” I corrected, and hearing the utter ridiculousness of my words, I shook my head. “I must be more fatigued from my journey than I realized.” I rubbed my forehead and returned my gaze to the portrait.
Dark curls, pale skin, and bright eyes.
I leaned forward to inspect the nameplate, but it was missing, the small nail holes where it had been secured now exposed. The only identifying mark on the painting was a date: 1818. The same year I’d left on my Grand Tour.
“Whose portrait is this?” I asked Mrs. Owensby, not taking my eyes off the portrait.
Her eyes flicked to the portrait and then quickly away. “Oh. Well, I suppose it belongs to you now.”
Was she being purposefully obtuse? “That is not what I meant.”
“Oh. Pardon me. I believe the artist’s name is Mr. Colstone.”
