Page 24 of Winterset
I slipped off my coat, laying it over the back of my chair before loosening my cravat and cuffs. “The manor is in utter disrepair. There is water damage in the drawing room, a ghost in the attic, and I cannot be sure, but I think I hear rats in the walls.” Not to mention the candles. I could not stand their stench.
“A ghost?” Charlie grinned. “It can’t bethatbad.”
“It is. And I don’t know how I’m going to change anything in the future. My money is nearly gone, and with it, any hope I had of marrying this century.”
“I’m suresomeonewould have you. A dairymaid, perhaps?”
I glared at him, unamused. “Thank you for that.”
“Anytime, Granger.” Charlie sank further into his seat, lacing his hands behind his head and giving me a self-amused smile.
“I detest it when you call me that.”
“That is preciselywhyI call you that.”
I did not truly hate the moniker; it was a great deal better thansir, which propriety demanded he address me in public, but in private, I preferred for him to call me by my given name, as would a true friend.
“Well, what will you do?” Charlie asked, sobering.
“Had I the funds, I would return straightaway to my bachelor lodgings in London.”
“You may not like what you’ve found here, but I know you, Granger. You won’t give up so easily.”
I didn’twant to give up, partly because of my pride—no man liked to fail—but also because I had nowhere else to go. And what about the rest of the estate? I didn’t even know yet what state the tenant cottages were in. If they were in as poor condition as the manor, it would ruin me.
I blew out a breath and dragged a hand through my hair. “I need to track down Mr. Moore and get my money back,” I said.
Charlie nodded. “How should we go about it?”
How indeed.
Fool that I was, I hardly even remembered what the man looked like. How could I hope to find him? I pursed my lips, thinking. “My letters to Mr. Moore were addressed and delivered to the postmaster in town. Perhaps he has identifying information on the man who picked them up.”
“We shall question him, then.” Charlie glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s not too late today; let us ride out, survey the tenant cottages, and then visit the postmaster.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Let’s go directly after luncheon.” I felt a bit better for having a plan in place.
Kate
My stomach growled.Loudly.
I didn’t know the precise time because my attic “bedchamber” did not have a window, but given the severity of my hunger, it had to be well after breakfast, maybe even luncheon. I cursed Mr. Jennings for robbing me of both my dinner last night and my breakfast this morning.
I also blamed him for my boredom.
I didn’t even have any light to draw by; I’d not anticipated having to hide for so long this morning, so I’d burned my candle to the bottom while drawing.
Last night, Mrs. Owensby had made me promise to stay in this priest hide until she came to fetch me. She did not want me to have any near run-ins with Mr. Jennings again. Since there was no knowing where he would be lurking, I laid in my little attic bedchamber, staring at the sliver of light that snuck in beneath the door.
Would it be so great a crime if I opened the door a crack? I wouldn’tleavethe priest hide, so my promise would still be intact, and then, at least, I would have enough light to sketch by.
I rolled out of bed and felt my way in the dark for the hidden knob on the wall. Once found, I opened the small panel door, which took me toanothersmall chamber: the decoy priest hide. Crossing to the wall opposite, I came to another hidden knob that led me to the main attic.
It was an ingenious design: the real priest hide being hidden behind the false one. Care had even been taken to make the first priest hide, the decoy, appear as a real room, with a small window and bed. In the past, when priest hunters had searched the house and found the first priesthide bedchamber, they had not thought to look for another one directly behind it. Or at least, that was the idea.
I opened the door, but the tiny window in the decoy room did not let in enough light to see much of anything, so I cracked open the second door, which opened to the rest of the attic. That let in a little more light, but not enough. If only I had not promised to keep it closed. Drat! The minimal light would have to suffice.
Sitting on my bed, I grabbed Papa’s book and my bit of charcoal and opened to my unfinished drawing of the daisy weed. The flower was still pressed between the pages, but it didn’t look at all like it had when I’d begun the sketch; it was dry and thin and flat. The petals were translucent, and the stem was a stiff spine. I’d have to complete the picture from memory.
