Page 44 of Winterset
Gads!I hadn’t even noticed. I stepped up into the conveyance and slumped into the seat.
“My driver will see you safely home,” Markham said.
“What about you? You’re as drunk as I am.”
“I’m not actually. I am going back inside to settle our tab. Go home and sleep it off. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at church. You may share my pew so all the matchmaking mamas can get a good look at you.” He closed the door, and the carriage jerked into motion, moving toward Winterset.
Kate
At least an hour hadpassed, maybe two, since Mr. Jennings had seen me in the library, and I still shook as I paced the attic. Had he not dropped his candle, he would have—well, I did not know what he would have done. Dragged me to the constable? Thrown me out in the rain?
I continued pacing.
Mr. Jennings would likely return any moment.
What was I to do?
I could not stay. He knew I was living in his house now. But neither could I leave; as dangerous as Mr. Jennings might be, Mr. Cavendish was infinitely worse. Mrs. Owensby’s plea that I reveal myself to Mr. Jennings and beg his protection echoed in my mind. But it was too late for that now. I’d stolen food, shelter, and his precious seal. Men had hung for less.
Noises came from outside. Gravel crunching as a carriage came down the drive and then a man’s voice. Mr. Jennings’s. Was he ...singing?
I rushed to the window and peeked outside, but with the thick cloud cover still left from the storm, it was too dark to see anything.
The singing grew louder as he neared the house. Was that French? No, Italian? It was impossible to tell because his words were slurred.
He was drunk.
I’d been certain he’d gone to town to fetch the constable, but it seemed he hadn’t visited the jail, only the tavern.
Perplexed, I crept down the attic stairs to the landing and peered through the rails.
Below, Mr. Jennings staggered into the entrance hall.
“Signora Owensby!” Mr. Jennings singsonged. “Venga in fretta!”
I fought a smile at his deep, lilting voice.
A moment later, a bedraggled Charlie entered the hall, no doubt startled awake by the singing. “Granger?” He held up his candle and, seeing his master in such a sorry state, burst out laughing.
“Does my singingamuseyou, Charlie?”
“Indeed it does, sir,” he said, and using his candle, he lit a few lamps.
“Well, at least you are honest, which is more than I can say for you.” He pointed at Mrs. Owensby, who had just entered the hall looking half asleep and in her nightclothes, and Bexley on her heels. “You are always talking in circles, you are.” Mr. Jennings turned in a circle, arms caged as if dancing a waltz.
Oh my. He was more than drunk; he was utterly possessed.
“I am tired of being toyed with,” Mr. Jennings said, stopping his drunken spinning; however, in an attempt to regain his balance, he all but ran into Mrs. Owensby.
“Sir,” Mrs. Owensby said, hand outstretched to steady him. “You are blee—”
He batted away her hand. “Do not try to placate me, Mrs. Owensby. I am in a foul mood. I refuse to be the cat to your mouse any longer. Or no, that isn’t right.” He paused, looking to be in thought. “You are the cat, and I am the ... the ...”
“Mouse?” Charlie supplied.
“Where?” Mr. Jennings’s gaze snapped to the floor. “Blasted things have been creeping through the walls at all hours, and now they have the gall to scamper across my floors in plain sight?”
“No.” Charlie sighed. “Youare a mouse.”
