Page 15 of Winterset
At long last, Mrs. Owensby returned to release me. Without a way to keep time in the dark priest hide, I’d estimated that it would be nearing sundown, but when the panel was pressed open, I was surprised to find that it was full dark. The only light in the entrance hall came from the candle in Mrs. Owensby’s outstretched hand. I crawled out, my legs weak from being held in one position for so long.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Owensby whispered, helping me stand.
I started to nod, but even my neck was sore. Drat! I would have to be more selective in where I hid in the future. Winterset had several priest hides—twelve, that I knew of. Some, like the one I’d hidden in today, were tiny and tight, and others, like the one in the attic, were quite large. Well, notlarge, but big enough that Bexley had furnished it with a bed and a bedside table for my few things because that would be my new bedchamber for the time being. It was small, but my mattress was at least comfortable, which was more than I could say for Mr. Jennings’s mattress. Still, he was getting the better bargain; he would sleep in a proper bedchamber tonight.
“We must get you a plate of food and sneak you up the servants’ stairs before Mr. Jennings or his manservant come down for dinner,” Mrs. Owensby said quietly.
Famished, I readily agreed. But before following after her, I removed my portrait from the wall and pushed it inside the priest hide, where it would be safe from Mr. Jennings’s critical gaze.Sufficient, indeed.
With a sigh, Mrs. Owensby shook her head and turned toward the kitchen.
I followed closely behind, Mrs. Owensby’s lone flame our only source of light.
How disconcerting it felt being resigned to the shadows. This morning, I’d walked freely through these rooms. Now I was a visitor. The happy halls I’d known my whole life were suddenly fearsome and foreign.
As we neared the kitchen, a foul scent filled the air, like burned bread and spoiled meat. I lifted a hand to my nose. “What is that horrible smell?”
“Thatis Mr. Jennings’s dinner,” Mrs. Owensby said. “I think Bexley is almost done. He has been boiling the beef for the better part of two hours.”
“Twohours?” Mr. Jennings’s dinner would closer resemble saddle leather than food.
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ve prepared a tray of finger sandwiches, fruit, and cheese for you to enjoy.”
We entered the kitchen to a veritable circus; pots bubbled and boiled over, bread burned in the oven, and a mess of ingredients were strewn across the worktable. And at the center of it all was Bexley, red-faced and frantic.
“I c-cannot be sure,” Bexley stuttered, “but I think I may have r-ruined Mr. Jennings’s dinner.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Owensby grinned. “I daresay you did.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to hide my amusement. I’d not meant for Bexley to cook Mr. Jennings’s dinner quite so poorly. I did not wish for Mr. Jennings to stay, but neither did I want for him to starve. There was nothing to be done about it now though. The least I could do was make Bexley feel better. “I can hardly wait to see Mr. Jennings’s face when he eats it.” Or tried to eat it anyway.
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Owensby scolded, tidying the worktable. “You, Katherine Lockwood, will be safely tucked away in the attic long before Mr. Jennings comes down for dinner. Do you understand me?”
“I’d prefer to eat my meal here in the kitchen with you.”
“And with Mr. Jennings’s manservant?” She huffed a laugh. “I think not.”
I’d forgotten about Mr. Jennings’s valet.
“Speaking of, you must take your tray and go up the servants’ stairs to your new bedchamber before Mr. Hanover comes down to dinner,” she said.
Bexley began plating the beef on a serving platter, and a piece fell to the floor. He quickly retrieved it and moved to add the soiled meat to the platter.
“Bexley.” I held out my hand, stopping him. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to knowingly feed Mr. Jennings soiled food. “You must throw that piece out.”
Bexley blinked at the piece of meat, seemingly surprised by what he was about to do, then tossed it aside. He rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “If I should never cook another meal again, it would be too soon.”
“My kitchen agrees with you,” Mrs. Owensby said, surveying the chaos.
“But it was a valiant first attempt,” I reassured him, and I was about to offer him words of comfort when footsteps sounded on the servants’ staircase.
We stilled to listen, and my heart began to gallop.
These stairs connected the house’s upper floors to the kitchen and servants’ quarters below, which likely meant Mr. Jennings’s valet wascoming to the kitchen for dinner and that Mr. Jennings himself was finished dressing and would soon be entering the dining hall, which was also connected to the kitchen.
I was trapped.
Mrs. Owensby’s panicked gaze shot to mine. “He’s much earlier than we expected. Quick, Kate!” She motioned for me to hide behind the worktable even as she stepped in front of it.
