Page 5 of Winterset
“And then what?” Mrs. Owensby asked, her voice gentle. “Even if we are successful in making Mr. Jennings leave, he would likely let the house or try to sell it.”
“If that happens, we will scare-off potential renters or buyers just as we did him.” It was not a perfect plan, it was not even a good plan, but I was desperate to hold on to my home and safety. To hold on to the promise I’d made Papa. I gathered Mrs. Owensby’s work-worn hands into mine. “I know I have asked for so much these past two years, but I cannot stay here at Winterset without your help. I promise I will not let harm come to you or Bexley. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
“It is notusI am worried about.” She looked down at our clasped hands, and her thumb traced over my charcoal-smudged knuckles. “Iwould protectyouwith my life, Kate.”
“As would I,” Bexley said, placing his hands around mine and Mrs. Owensby’s.
Tears filled my eyes. “It won’t come to that,” I assured them, blinking away my emotion and standing to pace. “Not if we make his life miserable here.”
Mrs. Owensby nodded. “His letter said he would arrive in four weeks. That should be enough time for a sufficient layer of dust and cobwebs to form.”
“And I could track mud throughout the manor and ruin the carpets,” Bexley suggested.
“No. Don’t do anything Mr. Jennings might blame you for.” My conscience could not bear it if anything happened to them because of me. “Besides, a dirty house is easily set to right. We must make him feel every discomfort the country has to offer.”
“Such as ... ?” Mrs. Owensby asked.
“Well, for starters, you should not do a thing to ready the house, seeing as neither you nor Bexley received a letter from Mr. Jennings informing you of his arrival, nor any money to pay for such provisions.”
Mrs. Owensby’s brow furrowed. “But we did receive word. And should he ask, the post-boy could confirm it.”
“Actually, the letter was addressed toMr. Moore,” I said. “A pity he wasn’t here to read it.”
“That is true,” Mrs. Owensby said. “But we opened the letter to discover the sender’s identity, and when we saw Mr. Jennings had sent it, we did read it.”
“Iknow that, but Mr. Jennings does not. Therefore, you must do nothing on his ridiculous list to prepare. Don’t remove the Holland covers from the furniture or make up his bedchamber. Don’t buy his precious soap or his delicious port wine. And once he is here, with all the work you will have to do with his unexpected arrival, Bexley will probably have to take on the duty of preparing Mr. Jennings’s meals.”
“I don’t know how to cook.” Bexley frowned.
“That is precisely the point.” I smiled.
“But what if his discomfort makes him dissatisfied with us?” Mrs. Owensby said. “He could release us from his service.”
“You need not worry about that,” I said. “Even if Mr. Jennings wishes to let you go, there is not much skilled help nearby to hire a replacement,nonewho know and care for this manor as you do. And if by chance hedid manage to find someone, you need only tell them of his treatment of you these past two years, and they would seek other employment.”
She nodded, appearing mildly reassured.
“At every turn,” I continued, “we will only help him seehisownpoor decisions and neglect.”
“Except for all the dismal meals,” Mrs. Owensby said.
“Yes, well, you are his housekeeper, not his cook, so even that will highlight his mismanagement,” I said. “If we work together, we will be rid of him quickly, and things can return to normal.”
My guardians nodded in understanding and agreement, silently vowing their support to do whatever was necessary to get Mr. Jennings to leave. Together we would make his life miserable, and he would return to his sophisticated life in the city.
And despite everything I had lost these past two years—my dear papa, my future, life as I’d known it—as we made a plan for my protection, I felt gratitude. Gratitude for the servants who had loved me my whole life and were now, in all respects, my family. Gratitude for Winterset. Gratitude that I was alive.
I would not give up these blessings so easily. I would not be turned out without a fight.
Oliver
Society could forgive a gentlemanmany faults so long as he possessed a title and a grand estate. Regrettably, I did not have—and never would have—a title, but I did have an estate, though it was not grand.
Winterset Grange.
Although the manor was old and far from London, at least it was mine.
Had Mother possessed brothers or the property an entailment, I would have been forced to earn a living—an unappetizing prospect for any man of gentle breeding, to be sure. Thankfully, there was neither. Which meant The Grange, as Mother lovingly referred to her childhood home, and all its possessions now belonged to me.
