Page 22 of Winterset
“It was,” Mrs. Owensby said. “At least, before she died in childbirth. But most recently, this bedchamber belonged to Miss Lockwood.”
At the sound of her name, I glanced around the room like I might find the young lady. But of course, that was impossible.
I turned in a slow circle, taking in the beauty of the space.
It would be a long while before a lady—my wife—would occupy this space. If ever one would.
Such a shame for a space as fine as this to go to waste. Perhaps this room would make a fine room for my hats.
Turn the white room into a hat room
And then, next to the four-post bed, I noticed a second door. “What is through there?” I asked, pointing.
“It’s, uh, well ...” Mrs. Owensby stammered, and as I moved toward the door, she followed on my heels.
I discovered the door led to an intimate sitting room, which contained two overstuffed chairs and a small circular table. There was no direct access to the corridor, only the two bedchambers it discreetly connected.
I continued through the sitting room to another bedchamber. Paneled in English oak and furnished finely, this final room was, by far, the largest and grandest bedchamber at Winterset. And like the mistresses’ bedchamber, in far finer repair than the rest of the manor.
“This is the master’s bedchamber.” I frowned at Mrs. Owensby.
“It is, sir.” She was not even trying to hide her disrespect.
“Then why, Mrs. Owensby, was I made to sleep in the smallest bedchamber last night?”
“Because it is thefarthestbedchamber from the master’s bedchamber, sir.”
I frowned, puzzled. “Do explain.”
“I-I thought you would not wish to sleep in the same room that Mr. Lockwood died in,” she said.
Out of respect for Mr. Lockwood? Or because she was being mindful of any reservationsImight have? I wasn’t squeamish about death, but she might be. “The period of mourning has long since passed,” I said. “And seeing as I am Winterset’s master, I would like my things moved to the master’s bedchamber. Directly.”
She nodded, appearing resigned.
With the main house tour complete, she led me back through the long gallery toward the stairs. I still wanted to see the attic, but not withher as my guide. It would keep until later, when I could explore in solitude.
As we walked, I glanced at the art dotting the walls. There were so many portraits and all of the same man. “Who is this man?” I asked Mrs. Owensby.
“That is your previous tenant, Mr. Lockwood, sir.”
“And why are there so many portraits of him?”
“His daughter, Miss Lockwood, was an artist. She enjoyed capturing his likeness.”
That suddenly made the portraits much more interesting. I stopped to inspect one of the paintings. It was not as perfect as the professionally painted ones that hung in the entrance hall, but Miss Lockwoodhadbeen skilled.
Hands clasped behind my back, I continued down the gallery, glancing at each portrait.
She’d painted her father from every angle: straightforward, in profile—both sides—and even one from above, which showcased a bald spot. An odd detail to commit to canvas, and it made me slightly uncomfortable. There was something too real, too raw.
A pity her talent would never be fully developed.
How would she have painted my portrait? What would she have seen in me?
Mrs. Owensby cleared her throat, and I stepped away from the portraits to follow her out of the gallery. We didn’t speak as we retraced our steps through the corridor nor as we descended the grand staircase.
But when we reached the entrance hall, Mrs. Owensby turned to me with an earnest look. “Winterset has been a most beloved home and haven to many generations,” she said, her tone somber. “And now it is entrusted to your care. I hope you will do whatever is necessary to see her properly cared for, sir.”
