Page 23 of Winterset
Although Mrs. Owensby had not expressly said it, her concern was apparent: she viewed me as an unwise and unworthy master.
How could she not?
I hadbeen foolish. Not in the way she was accusing me of, but I had been a fool.
Mrs. Owensby watched me as if waiting for a response. But as my servant, she was not owed an explanation, and I wouldn’t provide her one. The burden of my mistakes was mine alone to bear.
“Thank you for the tour, Mrs. Owensby.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sure it has given you much to consider.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
Mrs. Owensby returned to her tasks in the kitchen, and I glanced around the entrance hall. With the curtains now fully opened, the space did not seem so dismal as it had yesterday in the low light. The hall was still smaller than I preferred, but the stained-glass windows lining the landing, the intricately carved banisters, and the glittering chandeliers made the space feel somewhat refined.
Even the portraits were not so fearsome as yesterday. I walked to the spot to view Miss Lockwood’s portrait, wanting to see the beautiful face that had haunted my dreams last night, but the wall where her picture had hung was vacant. Where had it gone?
“Mrs. Owensby,” I called. Once she’d returned to the entrance hall, I indicated the vacant space on the wall and asked, “Where is Miss Lockwood’s portrait?”
“It was removed, sir. As you requested.”
In a way, I was pleased that my servants had carried out my instructions, but why did they have to start with the one portrait I actually wanted to see again? “Why do the others still hang here?”
“It will take Bexley some time to accomplish the task. He must remove, carry, and store each painting in the attic one by one.”
Sadly, that did make sense.
“Shall I make you finger sandwiches for luncheon?” Mrs. Owensby asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
With a nod, she turned toward the kitchen.
“One last thing, Mrs. Owensby,” I said, and she turned back. “Please send Charlie to my study. I would like to instruct him to move my things. I will sleep in the master’s quarters tonight.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself, sir. I can instruct him for you.”
I’m sure she could, but she would likely instruct Charlie to move my belongings to the stable. “No, thank you. I am quite particular and prefer to give him the instructions myself.”
Mrs. Owensby nodded with resignation, then continued toward the kitchen.
Alone again, I went to the study and closed the door. It was a modest-sized room with oak bookshelves lining the far wall and a large desk occupying the space directly in front. To the right, a fireplace, and to the left, a bow window. The walls were papered in a dark-green damask print and decorated with paintings of local landscapes. Had Miss Lockwood painted these too? I searched for the artist’s signature but could not find it anywhere on the canvas.
I stood behind the desk next to the leather chair but didn’t sit.
Such a small thing, sitting. But I’d dreamed of this moment—of being master—more than any other. For as long as I could remember, Father could always be found sitting in his study, poring over his ledgers, reading a book, smoking his pipe, and I’d come to associate this type of room with authority, manhood, ownership.
I didn’t feel worthy to sit behind this desk. Not yet. Not unless I decided to take up the duty.
With an exhale, I braced my hands on the desk and hung my head.
And that was how Charlie found me.
“Long morning?” he asked.
“Thelongestmorning.” I pushed off the desk to stand at my full height. “Winterset is in even worse repair than I’d imagined. The entirety of the east wing should be condemned.”
“Surely not,” he challenged with a smile and sat in the chair before my desk.
