Page 40 of Winterset
When I was young, Papa used to take me into the library during storms. He’d pull me into his lap and read to me until the storm stopped or I fell asleep, whichever came first. How I wished he were here now.
Clutching my blanket, I tried to calm my fears by repeating Papa’s promise: So long as I stayed within these walls, I was safe. But no matter how many times I repeated the mantra, I could not stop trembling.
Another bolt illuminated the sky, and unable to stand it any longer, I rose from my bed.
Mrs. Owensby’s earlier warning rang in my ears. It was dangerous for me to go downstairs at this hour. Although I’d heard Mr. Jennings retire to his bedchamber not long ago, he was likely not yet asleep. But the storm seemed a great deal more dangerous than he did at present. I did not like to disobey Mrs. Owensby, but the storm was severe. It sounded like a bolt could come crashing through the roof at any moment. I could not stay here.
I crept down the attic stairs, pressed my ear to the door, and listened. The house was quiet, so I sneaked down the stairs to the library and quietly closed the door.
The storm was quieter inside this room with the noise dampened by all the books lining the walls. Lightning flashed, illuminating the study table in the center of the room, the overstuffed armchairs by the hearth, and the rolling ladder on the bookcase, but only for a moment. Thunder rolled in the distance, but it was not so loud in this room. I felt safer here, closer to Papa, if only in my memory.
I ran my hands over the books. I should take one or two more while I was here. The pages of my current “sketchbook” were almost full, and who knew when I would be able to come down here again. I always selected my books from the uppermost shelves. They seemed to be the least often read and, therefore, the least likely to be missed.
Without slippers, the ladder rungs were cold beneath my bare feet, and my white linen nightgown tickled the tops of my toes. I felt along the books for the slip of paper marking the last spot I’d retrieved a book and pulled out the next. The book was thin, so I grabbed another. Taking two books at a time left a considerable gap on the shelf.
Perhaps, I should—
But before I could finish the thought, there was a noise at the door. The turning of the knob.
My gaze darted to the door, which was slowly being pushed open, and then swept around the room, looking for a place to hide. The secret passageway was the only place, but I could not descend the ladder quickly enough to conceal myself.
The door creaked open to reveal Mr. Jennings, candlestick in hand. Everything happened in rapid succession: lightning flashed, our eyes locked, Mr. Jennings jumped back, and his candlestick fell to the floor, catching the carpet on fire.
Oliver
I quickly stamped out thefire. It took only a moment, but by the time the flames were extinguished, the ghost was gone.
“Blast!”
She’d been wearing white and floated several feet from the ground. I’d never believed in such things, but now ...
“Is someone there?” I called. But of course, there came no reply.
I squinted into the darkness, searching for some explanation, but there was nothing to explain the lady in white nor the wide eyes that had flashed in the darkness.
On the opposite side of the study table, near the bookshelf where I’d seen the ghost, was a bellpull to call the servants. I could hear them in the kitchen, talking as they went about their end-of-day duties, so I knew they were still awake. I walked over and took hold of the bellpull but then hesitated. This would be the second night in a row I’d alarmed the servants, claiming a ghost. They would think me mad.
Ghosts did not exist.
And yet I’dseenher.
I was most assuredly going mad. I needed a break from this house and everyone inside it.
I also needed a drink.
Astrongdrink.
The village tavern wasn’t far, but even so, I could not safely set out in this weather. I returned to my bedchamber and dressed warmly. I waited there for the lightning to subside, which thankfully took only twentyminutes or so, then I went to the stables, saddled and mounted my horse, and guided him to the tavern.
The tavern was tiny but bustling with energy. Men, likely waiting out the storm, sat at tables, drunk with cheap ale. Serving girls scrambled to get them their drinks. There was not a single open seat, only a few stools at the bar. I moved in that direction, pressing through a sea of bodies.
I made it only a few paces when somebody shoved me, and I stumbled forward into a man with a missing front tooth, causing his drink to slosh slightly over the side of the cup.
The man scowled me. “You lost, gent?”
I didn’t dignify his question with a response. In London, I’d encountered more than a few working men who hadn’t liked sharing “their” space with a gentleman. I’d learned the best way to handle men like this was to ignore them. I turned toward the bar, but he grabbed my arm, whipping me back to face him.
He’d put his glass down on the nearest table, and his fists were now raised for a fight.
