Page 35 of Winterset
Mrs. Owensby had surely redacted the list in my notebook, but there was no possible way she could have played the pianoforte or opened my window while she was sleeping belowstairs. Perhaps I had dreamed that the sound was coming from the pianoforte? But no, the servants had heard it too. It was baffling.
The only possible explanations were that I was going mad, or a ghost was indeed haunting my house. That I even considered the latter a possibility probably indicated the former. Had King George known he was going mad as it had happened?
There must be a simple explanation that did not include phantoms. This house and the people who lived within it held secrets, and I intended to discover every one.
I set my biscuit on the tray and rose from the sofa. The pianoforte lid was still open, so I peeked inside, but nothing was amiss. I circled the instrument but found nothing out of the ordinary.
I sat on the bench and stared down at the keys. I hadn’t played in years.
As a young boy, Mother had insisted both Damon and I take lessons, wishing for our home to be filled with music. Damon had practiced regularly and quickly become proficient, but I hadn’t progressed. I’d sat at the pianoforte for hours, but I’d pouted more than I’d practiced.
I placed my fingers on the keys.
I was only six when Father had had enough of my pouting. He’d just come inside from riding. He’d struck my knuckles so hard with his crop that they’d bled.
My knuckles still bore scars.
When I’d screamed in pain, Damon had come running. As the first son, he’d always borne the brunt of Father’s teaching tactics, but as the spare, I had often been beneath Father’s notice.
From that day on, whenever I’d practiced, Damon had sat beside me. He’d shown me the mathematics behind the music, and I’d learned to love playing. Not because I’d suddenly found the instrument diverting but because my brother had sat beside me.
And then he’d gone away to school, and when he’d returned, everything had been different.Hehad been different—more like Father, cold and cruel. And when he’d sat at that bench, he’d played not for pleasure but for praise.
I withdrew my fingers from the keys.
It would do me no good to think about the past. I’d once thought Damon and I would repair our relationship, but too much had passed between us now for our relationship to be mended.
I closed the lid and was about to rise from the bench when I saw something on the top of the piano. A swirl in the thin layer of dust, swirling around a smaller central circle. It almost looked like a flower.
Could Miss Lockwood’s ghost have drawn this? Mrs. Owensby had said she had been an artist, but ... Ghosts could not draw. They did not even exist.
Perhaps Iwasgoing mad.
I stood and stalked to my study. It was time to get to work.
Thankfully, nothing appeared out of sorts this morning. I walked to my desk and pulled out a paper from the top drawer to draft a letter tothe local magistrate, informing him of my unfortunate experience with Mr. Moore.
I did not think Mr. Moore would be apprehended, and I did not wish for the magistrate to view me as a fool, but I could not hold back the information knowing it might save another man from the same fate as me.
Once the letter was finished, I folded the paper and reached for my seal. But I felt only my watch and key.
Thinking the seal might be stuck under the fob ribbon, I stood, smoothing the fabric. But the clasp where my seal usually hung was empty.
Had I removed it yesterday before I’d discovered my notebook? No. I hadn’t gotten that far. My pulse began to race.
I could not lose my seal. It was an irreplaceable family heirloom and had been entrusted to my care.
I moved the heavy oak desk, lifted the threadbare carpet, and shook the velvet curtains but found nothing. Dropping to my hands and knees, I scoured every inch of the floor, wondering if it had fallen and rolled out of sight. But my search was fruitless.
Standing, I took a deep breath to calm my emotions. It had to be here. Where had I last seen it?
Could it have come off my fob ribbon when I’d removed it last night? I’d been in such a hurry to get to the drawing room that it was possible I’d knocked my things off my bedside table, and it had become detached.
I took the stairs two at a time, then ran to my bedchamber. I all but skidded into the room.
There was nothing on the night table nor on the ground below it. I glanced under the bed, but the floor there, too, was bare.
Frantic now, I overturned my mattress and searched under every piece of furniture. But I did not find my seal. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere.
