Page 71 of Winterset
With little time left before Mr. Jennings would arise, I focused my efforts on tending to some of the easier items on the list of repairs he’d made in his notebook, starting with improving the entrance hall’s appearance. I tied back each of the curtains to allow light to stream throughthe stained-glass windows and rolled the old, threadbare carpets. Bexley would have to help stow them in the attic and bring down the better carpets, but the space looked better already.
At half past six, I heard Mrs. Owensby beginning her chores in the kitchen, pots and pans clanking as she began breakfast. In the dining hall, I heard Bexley setting the table.
I hurried to help him.
“Ah, good morning, Kate. You’re up early.” Bexley smiled.
“I couldn’t sleep. Rather than fight it, I thought it would be better to get up and work.”
“Work?” Bexley’s bushy brow furrowed.
“Yes. Speaking of, I need your assistance with something in the entrance hall.”
“Certainly.” He set down the silverware and followed me to the entrance hall. He glanced around the room, which was both brighter and better kept than it had been yesterday. “Youdid all this?”
I nodded, feeling pleased with myself.
“It looks wonderful, Kate. I daresay Mr. Jennings will be pleased to see the manor looking so wonderful, but I don’t know that he’ll be pleased to learn thatyoudid it.”
“I hope he will warm to the idea. It may be the only way I can stay at Winterset long-term,” I said, and Bexley gave me a sad smile of understanding, confirming my fears. “Besides, it feels good to be useful again.” If Mr. Jennings would allow me to stay, it would be a small price to pay to ensure my safety.
“What is it you need my help with?” Bexley asked.
“I need these carpets moved to the attic and the better carpets brought back down.”
“I would be happy to,” Bexley said.
“Thank you, Bexley. I will finish setting the table.”
It did not take long to lay out Mr. Jennings’s place setting at the head of the table, and it was a good thing, too, because he was due downstairs any moment. I needed to make myself scarce.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Owensby was up to her elbows in flour, and a sweet scent swirled in the air.
“Breakfast smells amazing.” I took a deep breath. “How can I help?”
“No need. Almost done.”
With a nod, I sat at the servants’ table to wait.
Mrs. Owensby eyed my paint-stained smock. “Shouldn’t you take your breakfast in the dining hall with Mr. Jennings?”
Although Bexley had brought out two place settings to put on the dining table, I’d laid out only one. “I’d rather take my meals here in the kitchen,” I said.
She seemed unsure but said nothing and returned to her task.
It wasn’t long before heavy footfalls pounded down the grand staircase and through the dining hall. The kitchen door swung open, and Mr. Jennings stood on the threshold. “Miss Lockwood is mi—” He cut off his sentence when he saw me sitting at the servants’ table.
I stood to greet him as a servant would and said, “Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well?”
He frowned. “I did, thank you. But when I awoke this morning and walked down the corridor to come downstairs, I noticed your bedchamber door open, and I saw your bed had not been slept in. Where did you sleep, Miss Lockwood?”
“The attic,” I said.
“Why would you—” He shook his head sharply, and a curl fell across his forehead. He promptly pushed it back. “May I have a word with you, please?”
“Certainly, sir.” I straightened.
“In the drawing room,” he clarified and propped open the kitchen door.
