Page 2 of Winterset
Too curious to be creative, I replaced my slippers and bonnet and made my way to the garden door. I wound my way through the tall hedgerow maze, and at the exit, I glanced around the edge, surveying the courtyard. Ivy covered the front gate like a curtain, which suited my purposes, but it pained me to see the overgrown carriageway, the shuttered windows, and the filthy fountain.
Certain I would not be seen by passersby, I hugged my art supplies to my chest and walked from the hedgerow to the house. Like always, I entered through the servant’s door. The familiarity of the kitchen was always a comfort. But rather than the typical warm welcome from Mrs.Owensby, I was instead greeted by a cloud of thick smoke and the scent of burning bread.
“Mrs. Owensby!” I called, rushing into the kitchen. “Bexley, help! Quick!”
In the hearth, a pot bubbled over, steaming and spewing soup onto the hot coals. In the brick oven, bread burned, black smoke curling out of the opening. I hurriedly retrieved the baking peel, snatched the loaf from the oven, and set the blackened lump on the worktable.
With still no sign of Mrs. Owensby or Bexley, I then grabbed the poker from the hook next to the hearth and pushed the cast-iron arm holding the soup pot out of the fire.
Situation in hand, I went in search of the servants.
“Mrs. Owensby?” I called as I climbed the kitchen stairs, my voice carrying up to the vaulted ceiling in the dining hall. “Bexley?”
Though they gave no response, I heard their hushed voices and followed the sound to the entrance hall, where I found them huddled together. “There you two are,” I said.
Mrs. Owensby startled and spun to face me. “Kate.” She held one hand to her bosom and used the other to tuck something into the back of her apron. “You mustn’t sneak up on an old woman.”
“You are not old, and I did not sneak. On the contrary, I have been calling out for you both for help. The pot was bubbling over, and the bread is ... well, coal.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. Owensby said and moved immediately toward the kitchen.
“I saw to it,” I said, stepping in front of her to block her escape. “What were you two up to?”
“Up to? What are we always up to, dear? Cooking, cleaning ...” Her sentence stretched, and she glanced at Bexley for assistance.
Bexley cleared his throat and added, “Polishing.”
“Really?” I said, suspicion mounting. Bexley hated polishing the silverware and always left that chore until the end of the week. It was only Tuesday. I glanced over my shoulder into the dining hall and saw that the table was barren. They were definitely up to something nefarious.
“I saw the post-boy,” I said. “What did he deliver?”
Bexley’s Adam’s apple rolled with a swallow, and Mrs. Owensby shifted uncomfortably beside him. “A missive,” he said simply.
“I am sure. What did it contain?”
“Nothing you need mind, dear.” Mrs. Owensby patted my shoulder like I was a small child, not a grown woman, and her fingers brushed my hair.
I flinched.
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “I would love to style your hair for you.”
As kind as her offer was, I could think of nothing worse.
Well, that was not precisely true—I could think of many things much worse—but having my hair touched was not something I would enjoy.
I fingered my hastily woven plait and felt a twinge of sadness. It felt like another lifetime ago that Molly, my former lady’s maid, had stood behind me at the vanity and tamed my curls into an intricate coiffure. How I missed her.
I pushed away the memory and met Mrs. Owensby’s gaze. “That is kind of you, Mrs. Owensby. Thank you. But taking pains in my appearance when I do not grace anywhere but these halls would be a waste of both our time.”
With a knowing nod, she withdrew her hand. “If you will excuse me,” she said. “I must see if I can salvage dinner.”
As she walked past me, I wickedly plucked the letter from the back of her apron and started up the western side of the double staircase.
“No, Kate,” Mrs. Owensby called, her footsteps hurrying after me. “You mustn’t! Bexley, stop her!”
Bexley, despite his age, obediently sprang toward the steps to intercept me. But I was faster and well ahead of him.
The missive felt soft and smooth in my hands. It had been an age since I’d had the use of paper so fine. Hopefully, the writer would be brief so I could use the rest of the paper as a canvas.
