Page 36 of Winterset
It had most likely fallen off my fob ribbon while I’d been riding yesterday.
Another failure.
Blast! I slapped my hand against the wall and then leaned into it and closed my eyes.
A gentleman always keeps track of his belongings. Father’s voice crept into my mind unbidden, and I drove it away with a shake of my head.
There was too much to do today to waste time wallowing: the attic still needed to be inspected, the Lockwood portraits stored, and the drive cleared.
Exhaling, I pushed myself from the wall and walked down the corridor to the attic door. I opened it and found a slender, spiral staircase. There was no rail, but a thick rope hung in the center of the spiral. I gripped it for stability and started up the stairs.
A scurrying sound came from above.
“Mrs. Owensby?” I called, but there came no response. It was likely only a rat.
At the top of the stairs, I let go of the rope and stepped into the attic.
The space had only a few small windows, so it was darker than the rest of the house. It was also quite cluttered. Broken pieces of furniture were strewn about the space, old rolled carpets littered the walkway, and bulky picture frames were tilted against the wall. There did not seem to be any sense in how things were stored.
I tilted a few of the portraits away from the wall and glanced at the nameplates mounted on the bases.
Ah. Mother’s family portraits.
Thankfully, they appeared unharmed. I continued down the long line, viewing the portraits, and after seeing no less than twenty, I realized I was searching for Miss Lockwood’s portrait.
It had not yet been rehung, as I’d instructed yesterday, but I’d thought of her likeness, her bright eyes and coy smile, more than once. Ironic, considering I’d had her portrait removed toavoidthinking of her.
I turned my attention to inspecting the ceiling.
With hardly any room overhead, I ducked under beams as I moved through the cramped space. For once, luck was on my side. There were no signs of water damage or rotted wood. The windows, too, appeared in good condition, with no evidence of mold or rot around the casement.
I exhaled in relief, my breath fogging the autumn-chilled window, and something caught my eye. I exhaled again, slowly this time. In the middle of one of the diamond-shaped panes was another swirl similar to the flower design I’d found drawn in the dust on the lid of the pianoforte.
I stared at it for a few seconds, then wiped it away. Mrs. Owensby had likely made both designs while moving about the house.
The window boasted a view of the garden, or rather, the tall hedge maze that I assumed led to the garden. I was sure it was as overgrown and ill-tended as the rest of the grounds, so I was glad it was hidden from view.
I turned my attention to the attic floor to assess the severity of the rodent infestation. I walked the entire length of the attic, my eyes sweeping side to side, but I strangely saw no signs of rodents. There were no droppings, nests, or chew marks, which was unexpected, considering how often I’d heard them in the walls the past three days.
I turned to make my way back down to the attic door, but I must have turned too swiftly because the toe of my Hessian boot caught the corner of a traveling trunk, leaving behind a large scuff on my boot.
“Deuces!” I sat on the trunk and tried to buff the mark with my sleeve, but the scar was too deep. Groaning, I gripped the edge of the trunk to stand and felt something rough beneath my fingers.
I ran my thumb over the rough spot, wiping away the dust, and there, on the lid, were carved the initialsKL.
Katherine Lockwood.
My back grew warm, like someone was watching me. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was there.
Who had I expected to find? Miss Lockwood?
What a fool I was. Sometimes, she felt so real, though, so alive. Perhaps it was only because Mrs. Owensby was determined to keep the young lady’s memory alive, but there were times when it almost felt as though Miss Lockwood were standing in the room with me.
I lowered myself onto one knee before the trunk and opened the lid.
It was filled with women’s clothing. Miss Lockwood’s, presumably. A blue dress folded neatly on top, the fabric surprisingly fresh and clean. I held it up to the light to admire—er,examine. It was lovely. And so petite.
“Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby’s voice called up the stairs.
