Page 20 of Winterset
“Wasengaged.”
“More intriguing still. What, pray tell, is my ghost’s name?”
She swallowed hard. “I dare not utter it, sir.”
“Ah. I see. You are afraid of her,” I said. “Never fear. I shall vanquish this ghost from the premises.” I opened my notebook, wroteVanquish ghost, and then showed it to Mrs. Owensby for approval.
“Y-you mustn’t do that.” Her voice trembled.
Gads!I had not mean to frighten the poor woman. Perhaps I’d taken my jesting too far. “My apologies, Mrs. Owensby. I did not mean to make light of something serious to you. However, I do need to survey the attic to ascertain the soundness of the roof. We will do our best not to disturb this ghost.”
“That would be in your best interest, sir. Winterset has a tragic enough history already.”
“Tragic? How do you mean?”
“You must know this house’s history.”
“Some of it,” I said, but in truth, I knew almost nothing about Winterset.
Mrs. Owensby appraised me, the downturn of her lips suggesting she thought me slow of mind.
Currently, I felt it.
Father never spoke of Winterset, not of its history nor of my maternal ancestors who had lived here. Not ever. Mother spoke of it fondly, though not often. And I hadn’t wanted to know; it was Father’s surname I carried and Father’s family I had so desperately wanted to belong to, not Mother’s. Winterset had always been both a blessing and a banishment. Something I had dreamed of but also despised.
I opened my mouth to explain but then closed it, remembering myself. I was master here and did not need to explain myself to my servants. Instead, I made a few more notes about needed repairs in the entrance hall:
Replace carpets
Repair uneven floorboards
Return Lockwood portraits
“Well,” Mrs. Owensby said. “I can tell you what I know of Winterset, if you’d like. But I must warn you, it isn’t all pleasant.”
“Please. Go ahead.”
With a nod, she led me across the entrance hall to the study. “Winterset Grange was built in 1485 and originally served as a monastic granary to Blackhurst Abbey up the lane. Sadly, the monastery was dissolved during King Henry VIII’s reign, and the crown seized and then sold all buildings.”
“Which is when my maternal ancestors came into possession of The Grange,” I said.
“No. Both the abbey and The Grange were sold to the Smythes. Two decades later, your ancestors bought Winterset, when Mr. Smythes’s financial indiscretions forced the sale. A blow to that family but a blessing to yours.”
“Indeed,” I said, though it was hard to think of it as such. I knew the pain that a father’s financial indiscretions caused; my own family seat, Summerhaven, had been beggared because of Father’s debts. The entailment had prevented its sale, and Damon had ultimately found another way to save the estate from complete ruin, but its impoverishment was painful.
“Upon the sale,” Mrs. Owensby continued, “The Grange was renovated into a proper manor house, tenant dwellings were erected to provide the new estate needed income, and finally, the grounds were improved.”
“An admirable undertaking,” I said.
“It was,” she agreed.
“Winterset’s history is not so horrific; I was prepared to hear a terrific tale.”
“Well, I am not finished,” Mrs. Owensby said. “During Queen Elizabeth’s reign, when religious tensions were high, especially here in the north, Winterset was renovated yet again and served as a safe house for Catholic priests suffering persecution from the newly formed Church of England. Sadly, at least one priest perished while hiding here.”
“That is tragic.”
“Aye,” she said, leading me from the study into the drawing room. “And during the English Civil War, your fourth great-grandmother perished protecting the manor from Roundheads.”
