Page 61 of Winterset
After hearing my “ghost” in the garden earlier today, I thought he would be less at ease. But he did not look the least bit disquieted. He seemed comfortable. Comfortable in a way only a man at home could be.
I frowned.
Mrs. Owensby entered the dining hall, carrying a platter of scrumptious-looking salmon. A savory scent filled the air as she set it on the table in front of Mr. Jennings.
If Mrs. Owensby meant to torture me, she was certainly succeeding.
It took her three trips to the kitchen to retrieve all of Mr. Jennings’s dinner, and although his face remained a neutral mask, I was sure he grew bored with waiting. He was a proper gentleman, after all, and likely not used to waiting. Despite Mrs. Owensby’s protests that he not hire more staff, it could not be long before he demanded a footman, a cook, a few housemaids, a gardener, maybe more.
What would I do when he did? How would I hide?
Once the table was set, Mrs. Owensby took her place next to Bexley, and Mr. Jennings served himself some food. He took a bite and closed his eyes as he chewed. I wondered if his reaction meant Mrs. Owensby had overseasoned or overcooked the salmon. Even if she did mean to punish me, she couldn’t have lost sight of our goal to make him leave.
“Mrs. Owensby,” he finally said slowly, his tone inscrutable. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Nota prank, then. At least, not on him.
Mrs. Owensby smiled, pleased. “Thank you, sir. I am glad you like it.”
“I more than like it. This may be the most delicious salmon I have ever tasted,” he enthused. “In fact, I should like you to make it for the dinner party, which I am to host in a fortnight.”
He was to host a dinner party?Here?He couldn’t!
“Well, actually,” Mr. Jennings continued, “I have agreed to host aghost-story reading, not a dinner party, but I daresay that if I invite guests—there should only be five—to Winterset, then I should also feed them.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Owensby agreed. “I suppose you should.”
“So,” he said, “I would like you to make the salmon then. It really is delicious.”
Though he could not see me, I scowled at him as he finished every. Single. Bite.
Mrs. Owensby moved to clear his plate. “Might I bring you dessert now? I’ve made trifle.”
My mouth watered at the mention of my favorite dessert.
“If it is half as good as the salmon, I should be delighted.” He smiled up at her.
She disappeared into the kitchen, returning only a moment later with the most delicious-looking dessert: layers of ladyfingers and creamy custard.
Mr. Jennings took a forkful and moaned. “This is ... incredible.”
Mrs. Owensby smiled. “That is kind of you to say, sir.”
“I only speak the truth. You all must have some. You, Bexley, and Charlie.”
Mr. Jennings wanted to share his meal with his servants? Such an unexpected and kind gesture.
“I couldn’t—” She started to protest.
But he held up his hand, cutting her off. “You can. You will. Not a single bite of this delicious creation is to go to waste.”
“As you say, sir,” she said, carrying the bowl to the kitchen. Hopefully, she would save me some.
Finished with his food, Mr. Jennings sat back in his seat with a contented sigh and stared straight ahead at the tapestry in front of where I stood.
“Bexley, do you know anything about that tapestry?”
“I believe it is quite old, sir. Dates back to the Tudor era, if I’m not mistaken.”
