Page 66 of Winterset
I searched for the right words, but his casual manner disarmed me.
“Perhaps you can explain why you are hiding in my house,” he supplied when I did not speak.
“This is the only home I’ve ever known,” I said. “After Papa died, I had nowhere else to go. I am sorry for staying—”
“Are you?”
Was I?
Everything I’d told him was true. I had nowhere else to go, but was I sorry I’d stayed? No. I wasn’t. I loved Winterset. It was my home. “I am sorry for the circumstance that demanded I take from you,” I amended.
“And that circumstance is ... ?”
Of course he wanted to know my reason for hiding here. He deserved to know, considering this was his house. But where to start? What to say? Even thinking about that night, about Papa, made me feel unsteady, and I began to sway, or perhaps that was only because I hadn’t eaten anything besides a few apples and some water in three days.
“I fear you are about to fall over, Miss Lockwood. Won’t you please sit down?” He stepped toward me, hand outstretched.
I shrank away.
Mr. Jennings dropped his hand and swiftly stepped back, bumping into the desk. He navigated behind it, keeping his eyes on me as he did so, and tugged the bellpull.
No. Not yet. He couldn’t have the constable called. I hadn’t had time to convince him to punish me and not my servants.
I opened my mouth to plead my case.
“Wait a moment, please,” he said.
How could I beg his mercy if he would not allow me to speak? Perhaps that was his purpose. He was done hearing from me. How could I blame him? I’d stolen so much from him. And worse, I’d essentially just told him I wasn’t even sorry for it. “Please, sir—”
“Not yet,” Mr. Jennings said, not unkindly but sternly enough to stop me from speaking.
A moment later, Mrs. Owensby entered the study. “You rang, sir?”
“Yes. Good morning, Mrs. Owensby. As you can see, I require an introduction.” Mr. Jennings gestured to me.
Mrs. Owensby looked at me, and I expected her expression to be scathing because I’d disappeared for two days, but she did not look upset. She looked relieved.
“I would be happy to, sir,” she said. “Mr. Jennings, allow me to introduce Miss Katherine Lockwood, daughter of your late tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood. Miss Lockwood, this is Mr. Jennings, second son of the late Earl of Winfield and—”
“That will do, Mrs. Owensby,” he interrupted her. “Thank you.”
My brow furrowed. That was it? Why didn’t he ask her to fetch the constable?
“You may go now,” he said. “But please leave the study door open and remain close by in the entrance hall.”
With a nod, Mrs. Owensby did what he said.
“Now,” he said, turning to me. “Mrs. Owensby assures me you have a good reason for hiding here. I would very much like to know what it is.”
“Mrs. Owensbytoldyou I was hiding here?” I glanced over to where Mrs. Owensby was pacing the length of the hall, wringing her apron in her hands.
“Not exactly,” Mr. Jennings said. “I discovered your hiding spot. She merely confirmed your existence. But that is beside the point. You were about to tell me why you were hiding in my house,” he prompted.
“I was not, actually.”
“You weren’t?” he said, sounding surprised.
“No, sir. I am only here to ask you to spare the servants,” I said. “To beg your mercy. They don’t deserve punishment.”
