Page 74 of Winterset
“Would you like anything else, sir?” she asked.
“Nothing, thank you. But do you know if Miss Lockwood is joining me this morning?”
“Miss Lockwood took a tray in her bedchamber this morning.”
“Oh. Did she say why?”
“No, sir.”
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Owensby.”
Was she avoiding me? The thought gnawed at me as I forced myself to eat. Something in our conversation last night must have unsettled her.
I had no desire to dine alone, so I quickly ate and went to my study. There was so much that needed to be done, so many issues that required my time and attention, but I could not concentrate. My thoughts circled back to Miss Lockwood and the exchange we’d had the previous day. Our conversation had started strained when I’d discovered her acting as a servant, but it had ended pleasantly enough. At least, I thought it had. Perhaps I was mistaken.
I retraced our conversation. Over breakfast yesterday, we’d discussed the specifics of our arrangement. Miss Lockwood had insisted on stayingin the attic as if she were still a ghost. I refused, and she suggested she sleep belowstairs, but that idea was equally unacceptable. She wasn’t a servant, and I wouldn’t treat her as one.
We discussed other possibilities, including us both sleeping in our respective rooms, but the antechamber that connected our rooms presented a problem: It wasn’t proper. An unmarried man and an unmarried lady could not sleep in connecting rooms meant for a husband and wife, and I did not want to make her uncomfortable.
Our discussion went nowhere until Mrs. Owensby intervened, suggesting we sleep in separate wings. Her suggestion had some semblance of propriety, so we agreed. I insisted Miss Lockwood take the mistress’s bedchamber in the eastern wing, where she would be more comfortable, and I would sleep in the western wing, where I’d slept my first night at Winterset. As this was not a permanent situation, my belongings would remain in the master’s bedchamber to avoid causing the servants unnecessary work; moving my clothing only to move them back again in a few weeks or months, whatever it would take to secure a new living situation for Miss Lockwood, would be foolish. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but we were both satisfied.
Or at least, I’d thought we were. She’d seemed so happy yesterday as the servants had moved her belongings back into her bedchamber. She’d taken a dinner tray in her room and retired to bed early last night, but I’d supposed that was only because she’d been tired. She’d awoken so early to play the part of a servant. But now it was morning again, and she remained in her bedchamber. Had I misjudged her emotions?
I dragged my attention back to my notebook, but the words blurred before my eyes.
Deuces! I needed a distraction. I tugged the bellpull, summoning Charlie to my study.
Not five minutes later, he appeared at the door. “You rang, sir?”
“None of thissirbusiness today, please. I need you to play the part of my friend today, Charlie.”
He stepped inside and closed the door.
“Is something wrong?” Charlie asked, sinking into an armchair.
“No. Nothing. I’m just thinking.”
“About ... ?”
Miss Lockwood, I thought, but I said, “Winterset.”
“Right,” Charlie said, his smile as wide as the Thames. “Wintersetis what has you out of sorts this morning.”
I blew out a breath, but it did nothing to lessen the pressure building inside me. “I can’t stop thinking about her. Her situation, that is. I want to get to know her so she trusts me enough to help her. But how can I do that when she is avoiding me?”
“You could write her a note,” Charlie suggested. “Invite her to do something with you that she enjoys.”
“The last time I wrote to a lady, it did not go so well.” Amelia Atherton had denied my marriage proposal outright. And now that I thought about it, most of my relationships with ladies, while enjoyable, never ended well. Or I should say, theyalwaysended. “I don’t want to make a mess of things with Miss Lockwood. Given our unusual situation, it would be foolish. Besides, words are your forte, not mine.”
“I’m not suggesting you write Miss Lockwood a sonnet, Granger.” He smirked. “Only an invitation. Your unusual situation presents certain challenges, to be sure, but one invitation won’t mess things up. It might even make her feel more at ease. I will fetch your stationery.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you,Your Grace.”
“You are most welcome,Granger.”
Ten minutes later, and just as many drafts, I’d written Miss Lockwood a short note inviting her to walk with me that afternoon and handed it to Charlie to deliver.
An hour passed, and I anxiously paced the entrance hall. Charlie assured me he’d delivered the invitation, yet I’d received no response from Miss Lockwood. At a quarter past twelve, she finally appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a simple blue gown and pelisse with her hair pinned into a chignon. She looked lovely.
