Page 14 of Winterset
“Mrs. Owensby, who is thesubjectof this painting?” My question came out more curtly than I intended, but I needed to know the young lady’s name.
“Oh. Why did you not ask?”
“I thought Ihad.”
Mrs. Owensby smiled as if we’d had a happy misunderstanding, though the mirth in her eyes gave me the distinct impression that she was toying with me. “Why, that is Miss Lockwood.”
“Miss Lockwood?” I directed a pointed look at Mrs. Owensby. “Mr. Lockwood’s daughter?”
“Aye. She is beautiful, is she not?”
“She is ... sufficient,” I said, but in truth, I was spellbound. Although I’d danced, and even flirted, with many beautiful women both in London and on the Continent, I hadneverseen this young lady’s equal. Miss Lockwood was more than beautiful. She was captivating. Something about her big bright-blue-green eyes, her curls cascading down her delicate neck, her heart-shaped mouth—lips that almost smiled but didn’t quite—utterly enthralled me. “She laughs at me.”
“Aye. That she does, sir.” And so did my housekeeper.
“What is Miss Lockwood’s Christian name?” I asked.
Mrs. Owensby’s brow rose. “My, but you are forward.”
I dragged my gaze away from the portrait to look at my housekeeper. “This is a painting, Mrs. Owensby, not a person. I am only inquiring because earlier, you said Mr. Lockwood has no next of kin, yet this portrait proves that he does.”
“I did not say he had no children, sir.”
“You did,” I countered, pointing at her.
“No. I said Mr. Lockwood had no next of kinto speak of.”
Were we truly arguing over semantics? I heaved a weary sigh and rubbed my temples. If every conversation with Mrs. Owensby was going to be this exhausting, I would need to develop a great deal more patience or, better yet, assign Charlie to the task.
“Mr. Lockwood did have a daughter,” Mrs. Owensby continued, “but she is ...” Her sentence stalled as she bowed her head and circumspectly crossed herself with a whispered prayer.
“Miss Lockwood is deceased?” I could not believe it. Someone so young and lovely as she could not possibly be gone.
But Mrs. Owensby sniffed in acknowledgment.
“Forgive me,” I said, feeling badly for making my housekeeper cry, and I quickly handed her my handkerchief. “I did not know.”
She took it and blew her nose—several times—then offered it back to me.
“Please. Keep it.” I held up my hand, and as she tucked the handkerchief into the front of her apron, I tried not to grimace. “Shall we continue our tour?” I suggested, hoping to extricate myself from this most uncomfortable situation. Then, realizing she was likely to continue in the same detailed way as before, I added, “Though I should only like to view the remainder of the ground floor tonight.”
“As you say, sir,” Mrs. Owensby said, and as she turned to lead me away, I thought I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
It was not until later, when I stood in my pitiful excuse for a bedchamber with Charlie, dressing for dinner, that I realized Mrs. Owensby had not told me the young lady’s name.
Kate
As soon as the entrancehall fell quiet, I shifted in my seated position in the cramped priest hide to relieve some discomfort in my back, but I found no relief.
It felt like an age since I’d climbed inside this cramped hiding spot, and every part of me ached, my lungs most of all. Winterset’s walls were so damp and dusty that I was sure I was breathing air that had sat stagnant for more than two centuries.
Best not to think about it.
Instead, I envisioned Mr. Jennings—what was it that Mrs. Owensby had said?—oh yes:Flailing like a caught chicken.
My mouth tugged up at the corners, but I denied myself the pleasure of laughing. After my slip earlier, it had been a minor miracle that Mr. Jennings had not discovered me. Mrs. Owensby would surely box bothmy ears for the mistake.
At least Mrs. Owensby had played her part perfectly. She’d not lied to Mr. Jennings, at least not overtly, and still, she’d made him believe me dead. I did not know how she had managed it, but I was grateful.
