Page 16 of Winterset
“Good evening, Mr. Hanover,” Bexley said, attempting a casual tone and subtly positioning himself to block Mr. Hanover’s view of me.
“And to you, Mr. Bexley,” Mr. Hanover replied, and although I could not see him, his voice painted a portrait of a polite young man, not much older than I.
“This is Mrs. Owensby, the housekeeper,” Bexley said.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Owensby.”
“Mr. Hanover,” Mrs. Owensby greeted, joining Bexley’s side.
“Charlie, if you please.”
“Very well, Charlie,” she said. “Now tell me, how long have you been employed by Mr. Jennings?”
“Fourteen years,” he said, and I detected pride in his voice.
“So long? You can’t be but five and twenty years yourself.”
“I am eight and twenty, same as Mr. Jennings. My contract with him was rather informal during his time at Eton. I did not come into proper employment until Mr. Jennings’s studies at Cambridge.”
“My, that is certainly a long time. Mr. Jennings must be a kind and fair master,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. He is not without his faults, but I would not wish to work for anyone else.”
What faults did Charlie hint at? Mr. Jennings had already proved himself a neglectful landowner, but did he possess more egregious vices?
“Well, Charlie, we are glad to have you join us. As you can see, we are not large in numbers, but we pitch in wherever needed, and we get by.”
“Yes, ma’am. I, too, am happy to help wherever needed.”
“With your master’s unexpected arrival,” Mrs. Owensby said, “we have need to put you to work straightaway.”
“Of course, ma’am. But first, I must ask, is that dinner tray intended for me?”
My gaze rose. The corner ofmydinner tray hung slightly over the edge of the worktable.
“I hate to presume,” he said when no one answered, “but after today’s travels, I am quite hungry.”
“Who else would it be for?” Mrs. Owensby said with false cheer. “Bexley, fetch the tray for Charlie, please.”
“No need,” Charlie said. “I can get it myse—”
“I insist,” she interjected. If he were to come around the worktable, he would see me.
Bexley walked to the worktable, and when he grabbed the tray, I wanted to cry. After a long day of hiding, I was also hungry.
“Charlie,” Mrs. Owensby said, commanding his attention away from my direction, “will Mr. Jennings be down to dinner soon?”
“Forgive me for not saying so earlier, but he is already waiting in the drawing room to be shown into the dining hall.”
Mr. Jennings wished to beshowninto the dining hall? Papa and I had always shown ourselves into dinner. Was Mr. Jennings so self-important as to stand on formalities even when dining alone? I looked heavenward and shook my head.
As Charlie sat at the servants’ table withmytray, Mrs. Owensby came around the worktable, where I crouched. She glanced in Charlie’s direction, then tipped her head toward the kitchen door leading to the dining hall.
I hesitated. What if Mr. Jennings had grown tired of waiting and shown himself into the dining hall?
Go, she mouthed.
I peeked around the edge of the worktable. Charlie was seated with his back toward me. Mrs. Owensby moved to block him from seeing me should he turn, and Bexley engaged Charlie in conversation, talking a touch too loudly, no doubt to cover any sound my exit might make.
