Page 21 of Winterset
“Truly?” I grimaced.
Mrs. Owensby nodded. “She loved and fought for this house until her very last breath.”
“How many have died here?” I asked.
“Too many. God rest their souls.”
My stomach knotted with guilt. I’d descended from a long line of passionate people. People who had worked to buy and build up Winterset. People who had protected the property and those who had dwelled upon it with their lives. I’d never felt a fraction of the feelings my maternal ancestors had. I’d never loved anything enough to be willing to sacrifice, much less die for it.
Would I ever?
I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside, it was overcast and dreary, a stark contrast to the inside, where the walls were papered in blue with tiny gold peacock plumes painted in a pattern. Sadly, upon closer inspection, the paper below the window was water-damaged.
Repair water damage, western wall
Remove wall papers in drawing room
Repair window casement
We continued our tour of the ground floor, viewing first the library, then the study, and finally, the dining hall. Every room required repair.
Next, Mrs. Owensby led me through the kitchen and downstairs to the servants’ quarters, where she, Bexley, and Charlie slept. The rest of the servants’ rooms were vacant and, with all my money now needed for repairs, likely would be for some time.
We climbed the servants’ stairs in the kitchen to the first floor.
Winterset boasted four bedchambers, two in the western wing and two in the eastern wing. Mrs. Owensby led me to the eastern wing first. The first bedchamber she showed me was the one I’d occupied last night, thus I didn’t spend much time inspecting it. I’d already experienced its dilapidated condition firsthand. I glared at the lumpy mattress and the broken curtain rod, then made a note to replace both.
The second bedchamber was in even worse condition, with peeling wall papers and warped floorboards. I should probably save myself some time and money and declare this side of the house condemned and be done with it.
The wings were connected by a corridor, which also served as a portrait gallery. As we passed through it, I didn’t pay much attention to the artwork—more portraits belonging to the Lockwood family—andinstead focused on the hall itself. Save a few squeaky floorboards, it appeared in good repair. What a fine billiard hall this space would make. Large enough to host a good-sized party but not so large as to prohibit conversation.
I addedRepurpose the gallery into a billiard hallto my list, then followed after Mrs. Owensby. But instead of continuing to the western wing, she moved toward the stairs.
“What about the western wing?” I asked.
“That won’t be of interest to you. Only two more bedchambers. And besides, it is past time for luncheon.” As if the conversation were over, Mrs. Owensby began descending the stairs.
But I did not follow her.
When I was a boy, Father had forbidden me from entering Summerhaven’s east wing. For much of my life, I’d felt like a stranger in that house. I would not be made to feel so here in my own home.
I strode toward the west wing.
“Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby called after me, but I did not stop, determined as I was to discover what she was obviously hiding. “Mr. Jennings?” Her footfalls closed in behind me.
Before she could catch up to me, I opened the first bedchamber door and was met with a shock of sunlight. I held up a hand to block the bright light, then blinked, adjusting to it.
My gaze roamed the room, taking everything in.
It was a fine room. Finer than the one I’d slept in last night.Muchfiner. The walls were painted soft white, the ceiling high, the window wide.
Mrs. Owensby caught up to me, slightly out of breath.
“For the record,” I said, turning to meet Mrs. Owensby’s gaze, “I find this room ofgreatinterest.”
For once, she was silent.
Standing in the center of the room, I surveyed the space. The furniture was draped with Holland covers, which I removed, unveiling a four-post bed in the middle of the room, a vanity and mirror near one corner, and an escritoire under the window. The mistress’s room, likely. “This was Mrs. Lockwood’s bedchamber, I presume?”
