Winterset, page 19
Mrs. Owensby looked up from kneading dough. She eyed my hair and dress with a knowing smile. “You look nice this morning.”
My face warmed, and I wished I would have left my hair alone and worn my drabbest dress.
“How did you sleep last night?” she asked.
“Better than I have in two years,” I admitted. Not only was my bed even more comfortable than I remembered from a mere week before, but knowing Mr. Jennings slept down the hall in the other wing and that he’d pledged to protect me made me feel safe.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Owensby said and served me a pastry and a steaming cup of chocolate.
A sound caught my attention, and I looked up from my meal.
Mr. Jennings’s valet stood in the kitchen, looking slightly startled at the sight of me. Although I’d seen Mr. Hanover before, he’d not seen me. We’d never met face-to-face.
He stepped toward the table. “Miss Lockwood, I presume?”
I nodded. “And you are Mr. Jennings’s valet.”
“Charles Hanover,” he supplied.
“How do you do, Mr. Hanover?”
“Call me Charlie,” he said. “Please.”
“All right. Would you care to join me, Charlie?” I gestured to the table.
“I should be glad to.” He took the seat across from me.
Mrs. Owensby set a plate of food in front of him, and he thanked her.
I wasn’t sure what I expected from Charlie . . . casual conversation, perhaps, but he only pulled out a small notebook and pencil and began writing. As he worked, I noticed a reddish-pink stain on the side of his right hand, like he’d smeared his hand through paint. Was he an artist like me? I glanced at his notebook. No, he was writing, not drawing. And when he set down his pencil and picked up his fork, I realized it was not a stain but a port-wine birthmark.
Charlie alternated between writing and eating for several minutes but said nothing.
“What are you working on?” I asked, and when he looked up, I indicated his notebook.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a poem.”
“You are a poet?”
“Hardly. My poems are terrible. I write only for enjoyment.”
“Like my art.”
He gave me a pointed look. “Not like your art. I have seen your sketches, Miss Lockwood. And they are very good.”
I could tell by the off-handed way he’d delivered the compliment that he hadn’t said it to flatter me, but it unsettled me all the same. He’d seen something personal, something I’d not shown him, and it made me uncomfortable. I supposed that made me hypocritical, but I couldn’t help it.
“Would you read me one of your poems?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“You have seen my art,” I reminded him. “It feels only fair.”
“All right.” He pushed the notebook to me. “But remember I warned you.”
I glanced down at his notebook and read:
A teapot’s hat was much too small
And did a jig upon the wall,
Where saucers hummed a merry tune,
As if they were the size of moons.
I looked at Charlie again.
“Mr. Jennings is right; your eyes are expressive.” He chuckled. “I told you my poems were terrible.”
I should probably have felt embarrassed for not hiding my thoughts better, but Mr. Jennings had told his valet my eyes were expressive? The thought made me smile.
I swallowed down my glee with a sip of my chocolate. “No, no. It is a well-written poem. I like the cadence. I’m not sure I understand it.” How did teapots jig upon the wall? And what made singing saucers the size of moons?
“That is because it does not make any sense.” Charlie smiled. “I write whatever comes to mind and move on. It’s a terrible poem but a fun exercise. Would you like to try it?”
“I’m not much of a writer.”
“I meant with drawing.” He handed me the pencil.
I glanced down at the notebook and ran my hand over the blank page. It had been so long since I’d had plain paper to draw on.
“You have ten seconds. Don’t think, just draw. Ready?” He indicated his notebook with a nod. “Begin.”
I lowered the pencil to the page and drew the first thing that came to mind. As luck would have it, a gentleman’s top hat. A very poorly proportioned one.
I laughed and showed Charlie.
“Interesting.”
“I know.” I grimaced. “It’s terrible.”
“That is not why I find it interesting. This looks like one of Mr. Jennings’s toppers.”
It did look like one of his toppers. My cheeks warmed. “Where is Mr. Jennings this morning?” I said, trying for nonchalance but achieving the opposite.
“Town,” Charlie said simply, either not catching on or commenting at my eager interest.
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t or wouldn’t? “He’s probably gone to buy another ridiculous hat.”
Charlie’s mouth tugged up at the corner. “Knowing him, you’re probably right.” He opened his mouth like he intended to say something more, but his attention focused on something over my shoulder, and he stood.
I followed his gaze behind me and saw Mr. Jennings standing at the kitchen door. My heart jumped at the sight of him. He looked so handsome in his greatcoat that I nearly missed the plethora of parcels tucked under his arms.
“Perhaps he did go to town to buy new hats,” Charlie whispered, and I laughed lightly.
“Something funny?” Mr. Jennings asked, glancing between Charlie and me.
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh, then looked at Charlie.
“I let Miss Lockwood read one of my poems,” he said. “She wasn’t impressed.”
Mr. Jennings smiled. “Ah.”
“What are those?” I glanced at the parcels.
“Those are the reasons I missed our breakfast this morning. Come, I’ll show you.”
Curious, I followed him to the drawing room. He closed the pianoforte lid and spread out the parcels upon it. Each was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He unwrapped the first parcel and looked at me excitedly as I opened its contents.
“Oh!” I gasped, tears filling my eyes at the sight of so many paints and brushes. I touched them reverently.
“Would you like to open the rest?” He pushed one toward me.
I quickly opened one to discover a new sketchbook and pencils. The next parcel contained canvases. The one after that held the plain wall papers I’d requested.
“I went to the store to buy only the paint and papers for the walls, like we talked about yesterday,” he admitted. “But then I couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation, about how much you love to paint and sketch, and I realized you probably needed some supplies, and . . .” He glanced down at all the materials, then sheepishly at me. “I may have gotten carried away. If any of these are wrong—”
“Not wrong,” was the most I could manage around the lump in my throat. “Forgive me,” I said, blinking back tears. “It’s just been such a long time since I’ve had any art supplies. I feel like I’ve been reunited with a long-lost friend.”
He handed me his handkerchief. “If I have forgotten anything, you need only ask.”
“You have left nothing undone.” I dabbed the corners of my eyes. “But even if you had, I am already so deeply in your debt. This is incredibly generous of you, Mr. Jennings. No one has ever done anything so thoughtful for me. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” he said. “Oh! I almost forgot.” He produced one last parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to me.
I eagerly untied the twine and opened the package. A sweet, citrusy scent filled the air.
“Lemon drops? These are my favorite!”
“Mrs. Owensby might have mentioned that when I asked her what your favorite confection was this morning.”
I touched his arm in gratitude. I couldn’t help it!
Mr. Jennings looked down at my hand.
I quickly let it drop and stepped back, feeling self-conscious. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
He gave me a warm smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jennings. For the supplies, the sweets, for everything.”
“It was nothing.”
“Not to me.” I held his gaze, hoping to convey just how much this meant to me. How much I appreciated these gifts, how much I appreciated him. But I held his gaze a moment too long, and it felt almost intimate. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, and I looked away. “When can we get started on the wall?”
“Whenever you would like,” he said.
“Now. I wish to start now.”
“Then we will. I must warn you, though, that it will take at least a day of preparation to remove the ruined papers and rotted wood and likely another day to replace it with good wood.”
“Why, Mr. Jennings, that sounds like a challenge. If we all work together—you, me, Bexley, Charlie, and Mrs. Owensby—I believe we can have it done by dusk.”
“Dusk?” He shook his head. “Perhaps by dawn, if we work all night.”
“Then we better get started immediately,” I said.
Mr. Jennings smiled fully, the dimple in his chin making a rare appearance. “Yes, we’d better. I will get the others so we can get started.”
Oliver
“You were right,” I said to Miss Lockwood, amazed. “I did not think it possible, but you were right.” It had taken the five of us all day, but we had done it: we’d stripped the old papers off the wall, removed and replaced the rotted wood around the window, and even rehung the plain wall papers, and all by dusk.
Miss Lockwood grinned up at me. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible either, but I am thrilled that we did.”
“As am I. It will take some time for the papers to dry, but you should be able to start painting them in a day or two.”
“I can’t wait!” She clapped her hands excitedly.
“In the meantime, are you ready for dinner?”
She glanced down at her dress and then at me. “Not in the least.” She laughed, pulling scraps of wall paper off her dress and out of her hair. “And . . . neither are you.”
I looked down at my shirt sleeves and waistcoat. I’d removed my coat earlier so I would not ruin it. Curled pieces of the wall paper looked an awful lot like feathers. “Why did you not tell me I looked like a half-plucked chicken?” I ruffled my fingers through my hair, and so many scraps fell to the ground that it looked like it was snowing.
“You don’t,” she giggled.
“Oh, don’t I?”
“No, you look more like you are molting,” she said, and I shook my head at her, smiling. “I am quite hungry though.”
“So am I. What do you say we throw propriety out our newly fixed window and eat dinner as we are?” I suggested, wanting to preserve the easiness we’d built between us.
“Yes! Please.”
I offered her my arm, and she readily took it. Progress.
In the dining hall, a simple dinner was already set on the table: finger sandwiches and fruit. Mrs. Owensby had worked alongside us most of the day, so something quick and simple was just the thing.
Famished, we sat and served ourselves.
“Mm,” Miss Lockwood moaned. “Finger sandwiches have never tasted so good.”
“Delicious,” I agreed, and then neither of us said anything more until we’d had our fill.
Usually, Miss Lockwood excused herself as soon as she finished eating, but tonight, she sat back in her chair with a satiated smile.
I did not want to hope, but perhaps she was not ready to bid me good night. It was not late. And although I was physically exhausted, I was not mentally tired. I tried to think of something we might do together so she would linger with me a little longer. “Would you care to join me for a game of . . . chess?” I proposed the first two-person game that came to mind.
To my relief, her eyes lit up. “I would love to.”
In the drawing room, she led me to the corner where the chessboard was neatly stored. I set it on the small game table, trying to ignore the pang of self-doubt that tugged at me. It had been ages since I’d last played, and I was never particularly adept. The game had always been Damon’s strong suit, not mine. I should have suggested a different pastime.
We arranged the pieces, the familiar clinking of wood against wood filling the quiet room. Miss Lockwood went first, confidently advancing a pawn. I mirrored her move, though with far less conviction. With each turn, I felt more and more like a schoolboy fumbling through a lesson than a gentleman engaging in a friendly game. She captured my rook with ease, and my queen was left unprotected far too soon. My strategy, if it could even be called that, was quickly unraveling.
Miss Lockwood, ever gracious, did not comment on my missteps, but I noticed the way her gaze lingered on the board, her lips pursed in quiet observation. As she reached to move her next piece, she paused, her fingers hovering above a pawn. “Do you enjoy playing chess, Mr. Jennings?” she asked, her tone gentle but inquisitive.
“I . . . don’t,” I said, feeling a tinge of embarrassment.
“So you suggested it because . . . ?”
“I thought you might enjoy it,” I said sheepishly.
Miss Lockwood’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “May I tell you a secret?” She leaned forward, motioning for me to do the same. “I don’t care to play chess either.”
Her candidness made me chuckle. “Then why did you agree?”
“Because I thought you enjoyed the game.”
Relief washed over me, and I relaxed into my chair. “What a pair we are, Miss Lockwood. What games do you enjoy? Cards?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Very much.”
“Shall we switch games, then?” I suggested.
She bit her lip.
“Unless you are tired,” I said.
“I’m not tired. Well, I am. But that’s not it. It’s just . . .” She sighed and stood. “It will be easier if I show you.” She retrieved the playing cards from the cupboard and handed me the stack.
I glanced down at the cards. She’d painted them. Miniatures. “Who are they?” I asked.
“People I used to know. Their faces were starting to slip from my mind, and I didn’t want to lose them completely, so I used the last of my paint to create their images. I made sure the numbers and suits are still visible,” she said. “But I am sor—”
“Don’t apologize,” I stopped her. “I’m not upset. I’m impressed, by your talent and your ability to survive so long in isolation.”
Even in the flickering candlelight, I could see her cheeks flush. I indicated her vacant seat, and to my relief, she resumed it.
I spread the cards out on the table to look at her paintings. I recognized a few faces: the vicar and the baker, but most were unfamiliar. They were lovely. “How long did these take you to make?”
“About a month. I painted one or two a day. Once they were completed, it made playing patience much more fun. I imagined whichever person was on the card as though they were sitting across from me, and I felt less lonely.”
I could hardly bear to think of her sitting alone, painting the faces of the people in her town whom she planned never to see again. I stared down at the cards so Miss Lockwood could not see the emotions I was sure were written on my face.
“Do you have a favorite game?” she asked.
“Several,” I said, “but perhaps we shouldn’t play with these.” They were too precious. I gently stacked the cards and set them aside.
“Nonsense,” she reached for the deck. “They are just a few silly pictures. If you are worried about dirtying your hands, you needn’t. I used watercolor, so the paint cannot rub off. The pigment has soaked into the paper fibers.”
That wasn’t why I was worried. I did not want to ruin them. But Miss Lockwood’s eyes pleaded with me to agree to a game. To tell her through my actions that I wasn’t vexed. So I said, “I’m not particular. Do you have a favorite game?”
Her shoulders relaxed. “What about whist? Papa and I used to play it after meals.”
“I enjoy playing whist.” I carefully shuffled the cards. “My brother, best friend, and I used to play all the time before—”
“Before . . . ?” Miss Lockwood prompted.
“Nothing. Just before.” The memory of playing cards with Damon and Hannah had slipped so suddenly into my mind and then out my mouth that I hadn’t had time to censor it.
“Are you and your brother close?” she asked.
I dealt the cards. “We used to be when we were young.”
“Not now?”
“No.”
“Why not? What happened?”
“That is a very long and uninteresting story,” I said.
“I doubt that. Will you tell me about him?”
Uncomfortable, I rearranged my cards. I had no desire to talk about him, but maybe my vulnerability would inspire hers, and I relented. “What would you like to know?”
“To start, his name.”
“Lord Winfield. However, he refuses to use his proper title and insists everyone continue to call him by his courtesy title Lord Jennings.” It was so like him to think himself above Society’s customs.
“Those are his titles,” Miss Lockwood said. “But what is his name? What do you call him?”
“Nothing, if I can help it.” I’d meant my words to sound teasing, but even to my ears, they sounded petulant.
Miss Lockwood’s lips scrunched to one side in confusion, or perhaps reproof.
