Page 17 of Winterset
I quickly but quietly tiptoed across the kitchen toward the servants’ entrance into the dining hall. Mrs. Owensby glanced inside the room and, after confirming it was vacant, ushered me inside. “Hide behind the tapestry in the small alcove where the display cabinet used to be,” she whispered. “Stay there until Mr. Jennings has retired upstairs for the night. I’ll fetch you when it’s safe.”
I shook my head. “I will go upstairs before you show him in and hide in the attic.”
“Don’t be foolish. The drawing room where he waits has a clear view of the staircase.”
As much as I longed to retire to my bed, she was right. Crossing the entrance hall to the stairswouldbe foolish.
Mrs. Owensby pulled back the tapestry to reveal the small alcove, and I stepped inside.
The alcove was taller than the priest hide in the entrance hall, but it lacked depth, so I would have to stand.
Once the tapestry was back in place and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized the cloth had several small holes that allowed light to shine through. I’d never noticed the imperfections in all the years I’d sat in this hall, but there they were. As I stood staring at the worn tapestry, I felt like I was seeing it for the first time. Were there other things I’d failed to see as they really were?
I leaned forward to peer through one of the holes. I had an unobstructed view of the dining hall, specifically the head of the table where Mr. Jennings would be seated. Indeed, it would be almost as though I were sitting, or rather standing, directly across the table from him, only better because I would be able to see him, but he would not be able to see me.
But what if I sneezed? Or fainted from fatigue? Mr. Jennings would discover me, and then—
I cut off the thought, but my heart continued racing. I closed my eyes, attempting to calm myself, and breathed deeply.
So long as I stayed hidden, I was safe.
Bexley’s voice carried from the entrance hall. He was again speaking loudly, no doubt to warn me of their coming. I leaned forward to watch through one of the holes. A few moments later, the door opened, and Bexley led Mr. Jennings into the dining hall.
I sucked in a silent breath at the sight of him.
This man invading my home washandsome.
His face was all smooth lines and sharp angles. He had a straight nose and a square jaw. He even had a cleverly clefted chin. Whether he had a complete set of teeth, I wouldn’t know until he began his dinner, but he did have hair. And it was lovely hair too: loose, golden curls that were perfectly twisted and neatly styled but not overly so.
His features were so finely formed. He really was as handsome as a man carved of marble.
A pity that sculpture was my least favorite medium of art.
Statues were too perfect to be interesting to me. Stone, like Mr. Jennings’s face, lacked a certain humanity. The symmetry was nice to look at, to be sure,but there was nothing uniquely interesting about his features that made me wish to commit his likeness to paper.
His face held no strength, no story that demanded to be told. To me, it was a person’s imperfections and the strength they exuded that captured my attention.
Mr. Jennings’s gaze—I could not tell what color his eyes were from this distance—swept the dining hall, taking in everything: the molded ceiling, the paneled walls, the gilded chandelier, and finally, the tapestry, behind which I hid.
Did he approve of his new home, or was he disappointed? His face was impassive as he sat at the table.
I wished for him to like Winterset enough to finally take care of her but not so much that he would want to stay in residence.
It was a dichotomous, confusing feeling, to be sure.
Bexley and Mrs. Owensby entered with the food dishes and set them on the table before Mr. Jennings.
Mr. Jennings stared at the food being placed before him, his spine stiff. “Thank you for this ... meal, Mrs. Owensby,” he said, and I noted the absence of praise.
“Actually, sir, Bexley prepared your meal tonight.”
Mr. Jennings’s gaze shifted to Bexley. “Youcooked this meal.”
“I did, sir.”
“While I was giving you the tour of the ground floor,” Mrs. Owensby offered as explanation.
“I see,” Mr. Jennings said, and he dropped his gaze to his plate and stared forlornly at his dinner.
