Wynter's Way

By Karla Stover

In the 19th century, a twenty-two year old, unmarried woman was on the shelf—already an old maid, destined to live on the charity of a family member. For Jane Heath, this is not an option. Disappointed in love and determined to make a life for herself, she takes a job at Wynters Way, the remains of a burned manor house deep in the country near the little town of Yearsley. The Wynters family is returning from India and Jane is hired to make their home habitable.

From the day she leaves home, Jane begins encountering the locals: a mute named Billy, a little person named Bright who is destined to become her closest friend, and the aggravating local doctor. And as if her job isn’t difficult enough, Wynters Way feels inhabited by the presence of a mysterious family member, one the Wynters won’t talk about. What are the strange sounds Jane hears? Bright says they’re just birds on the roof and mice in the wainscoting. But that doesn’t explain pockets of frigid air that suddenly appear, or the scent of apple blossoms only Jane encounters.

Wynters Way combines life in a country house from the housekeeper’s perspective with a love story and a family mystery with a solution destined to change lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773629193

Karla Stover

Karla Stover graduated from the University of Washington in 1995 with honors in history. She has been writing for more than twenty years. Locally, her credits include the Tacoma News Tribune, the Tacoma Weekly, the Tacoma Reporter, and the Puget Sound Business Journal. Nationally, she has published in Ruralite, Chronicle of the Old West, and Birds and Blooms. Internationally, she was a regular contributor to the European Crown and the Imperial Russian Journal. In addition, she writes monthly magazine columns, “Walk Abouts” for Senior Scene and “The Weekender” for Country Pleasures. In 2008, she won the Chistell Prize for a short story entitled “One Day at Appomattox.” Weekly she is the host of “Local History With Karla Stover” on KLAY AM 1180, and she is the advertising voice for three local businesses. Her books, Let’s Go Walk About in Tacoma came out in August 2009 and Hidden History of Tacoma: Little Known Stories From the City of Destiny, in March 2012.

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Wynters Way

By Karla Stover

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-919-3

Kindle 978-1-77362-920-9

WEB 978-1-77362-921-6

Print ISBN 978-1-77362-922-3

Copyright 2017 by Karla Stover

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part pf this Publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in Any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) Without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

To my husband who never lets me down, my father who has written his own story, and my mother. I miss her every day.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

When I think back to my first day at Wynters Way, I don’t see the dark, foreboding stone building generally blocked from the sun by a copse of ancient trees. I forget how an insidious growth of moss clung to the slate roof, and how the remains of the burned wing forever attracted ravens which screeched at dusk. Instead, I remember standing outside the Crooked Billet Inn watching spirals of mist coiled up off the cobblestones will o’ the wisps and then disappeared. And how though it was barely dawn, the sun, hovered on the horizon, seeming not to want to come up. Perhaps it was tired from making July such an unusually hot month.

I waited under a Big Belly Oak tree near one side of the inn watching a boy harness a team of fresh horses to the stage coach I was about to board. Near the stable, my older brother, Thomas, talked to the coach’s driver. I had pleaded with my parents not to come and see me off, but Father insisted that if they weren’t there than my brother would be.

All set, Jane, Thomas said. Apparently satisfied that the coachman would watch out for me, he began handing my luggage up to be loaded on top. My soon-to-be fellow passengers—two men and a woman—came out of the inn and stood at varying distances from me and from each other.

I hugged my brother. Thomas, please go home now. But he set his lips in the stubborn way I knew.

You don’t have to do this, he said.

I know I don’t have to but I want to.

We stepped out of the way, letting the others board first. As they did, the leather thorough braces supporting the carriage’s body protested. I need this; I need to find my place.

Your place is at home.

Don’t spoil this for me, Thomas.

He sighed and scowled. Well, remember, you can always come home.

I know that. I took the coachman’s hand. He helped me to a seat across from the woman. And you remember to write."

The driver closed the carriage’s door. He hauled himself onto the driver’s box and released the brake lever. A guard with a chronometer stepped out of the way and I smiled and waved at Thomas as we pulled out of the yard.

No sooner had we done so than I became painfully aware that the vehicle’s springs were old and well-used. While I wiggled to get comfortable, I glanced at my fellow travelers. Two young men sat across from each other, each with newspaper pages that they occasionally traded back and forth. A middle-aged lady, sitting next to one of the men, smiled and nodded at me. The men wore dusty suits and heavy boots. Neither had removed their hats. The woman had on a green straw bonnet with an abundance of ribbons, feathers, and flowers, and neatly-darned gloves. Her bright blue eyes twinkled above plump, rosy cheeks. I wondered if she lived near Wynters Way.

No one spoke until the coach jerked and swayed before settling into a rhythm on a dusty, pitted dirt road. Then the woman leaned forward. I'm Mrs. Flathers. The hat’s furbelows bounced as she nodded her head, from Yearsley. She fixed her gaze expectantly.

I'm Jane Heath and I'm going to Yearsley myself, or at least nearby.

That’ll be the new housekeeper, then, at Wynters Way, I’ll warrant. She watched my consternation with a slightly cocked head, looking like a robin after a worm. Silas said you was coming, and you've a no nonsense look about you.

I beg your pardon. I was taken aback. This was to be my first taste of the common knowledge of village affairs—that incredible knowledge of your having a cold before you sneezed—that small communities seemed to possess. But Mrs. Flathers sat back in her seat and pursed her lips, and I realized, immediately, that I'd refuted her friendly overtures.

I beg your pardon, I said again. I wasn’t prepared to be recognized immediately as a new member of the community. Please forgive me. I slept poorly last night, and this rocking motion is distressing. Actually, I wasn't distressed at all, and found the movement somewhat relaxing. However, I leaned forward, fixed her with my own earnest gaze, and saw her thaw.

We've not seen Miss Isabel, nor Mrs. Phyllis neither, since they went to India when Miss Phyllis married that Harrington fellow. Mr. Geoffrey came when the wing burned and left that man, Silas, but ain't been back since. Will be nice having the house lived in again. Quite lively they was, as young‘uns, with all their comings and goings. Will be nice to have that again, too.

I’m not sure how lively things will be, I said. I believe Mr. Harrington passed away in India, and Miss Wynters and Mrs. Wynters-Harrington have decided to return home and keep house for Mr. Geoffrey. We're to be a small establishment, with Mr. Wynters in the army and away most of the time.

It'll be you and Silas, then, and per’aps a boy for the yard and a girl or two for the house. She nodded as if the size of the staff had been decided. One of the men, who had obviously been listening, folded his sheet of newspaper, leaned back against the faded leather, and closed his eyes. The other looked out a window on the door.

Please tell me about Silas, I said.

Not much is known. The story is that he worked with old Mr. Wynters, him that became the captain, until he lost a leg. After that, he paupered around for a while, finding jobs here and there. Met up with Mr. Geoffrey in foreign parts and decided was ready to settle down. Mr. Geoffrey sent him here when he came after the fire to be the gaffer. Been at Wynters Way ever since. Her pronouns were scattered around rather recklessly but I assumed it was Silas who’d lost the leg and was now the gaffer.

She stopped and fanned her face with her hand. It’s maftin in here. After a moment, she continued. Walks on a peg and is seen all over. Don't know when he sleeps. Raises a garden and has bee hives. Markets what he don’t use himself. The honey’s champion. Right comfortable he is. Don’t know how he’ll take to having things shook up.

I can understand that, but he must have known the house would be occupied again. I rolled my neck to work out some kinks. How old a gentleman is he?

Hard to say, ain't changed none that I can see, nor slowed down none, neither. See him of a night, watching for poachers and what. Are you church or chapel, then?

I smiled at the abrupt change. This was a trade, her information for mine. Hull St. Mathews. It's a very old church in Little Ginnells, where I live—lived.

She nodded and I decided to tell her the things I wanted the community to know. I grew up in Little Ginnells, not far from the Crooked Billet Inn where we caught the coach.

It looked to be a lively town.

I laughed. And smelly, too, sometimes, from all the butcher shops and fish stalls. It’s a small market town. When I say, ‘in Little Ginnells,’ I mean we resided right in the city proper, in a neighborhood called the Rambles. My father has a little book store and a small boy’s school. He mostly teaches merchant’s sons.

I looked out the carriage window and saw, in my mind’s eye, Father, at the front of the room where he taught, moving calmly from desk to map to chalkboard, patiently trying to pass on a gleaning of his store of knowledge. To emphasize his points, Father shifted books, well-loved and much fingered, from shelf to desk, back and forth until, at the end of the day, they covered every spare surface. I thought about walls hung with a picture of the queen, and maps of her domain, and the Union Jack, and dust particles sliding down the shafts of sunlight that beamed into the room, and disappeared on the carefully combed hair of his students, hair which became more and more rumpled as the day wore on. In quiet times, I remembered the mice in the wainscoting, the soft sound of pages being turned, and the muffled cried of hawkers outside. I loved the classroom, with its diagrams and drawings, and long narrow tables where specimens of nature, fossils and bones crowded each other, cheek by jowl, and where a wired replica of the universe was suspended from the ceiling with a piece of string.

There now, dearie. Mrs. Flathers said, seeing that tears threatened. Tis but a day’s ride away.

I nodded, leaned back, and through the carriage’s dusty isinglass windows, watched the landscape pass—rolling hills with the occasional copse of trees as far as I could see. Stone walls dividing fields of grazing sheep. Cattle standing in or grazing near small streams, and enormous horses which drowsed wherever they found shade.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen such big horses.

Those be draught horses, Mrs. Flathers said. There be plenty around Yearsley, that’s for sure and certain.

The land looks dry.

Been a hot summer.

Rain’s coming. Mrs. Flathers and I both jumped when one of the dozing men spoke. The wind’s changed and the leaves are turning up, a sure sign.

He went back to sleep and Mrs. Flathers uncovered a small basket she’d tucked under her skirt. She took out a ploughman’s lunch, and the combined smells of cheese and onions filled the coach. Outside, the July sun climbed and beat down. Dust swirled up from the wheels and horses' hooves, finding its way inside. I leaned against the wall of the carriage’s and closed my eyes, remembering how I’d come to be in this uncomfortable carriage on the way to a long-empty, half-ruined house.

* * *

My mother, contrary to the dictates of the times, had a thriving business. She was an herb woman. The knowledge of herbs passed from mother to daughter stretched back through the generations of our family, back to those troubled times when a breathing cow's breath was believed to cure lung ailments, and a dog was used to lick away a sty. A candle-lit workroom, a misshapen shadow seen against the wall late at the night, of such things did people whisper—and tell tales. And yet, no charges of witchcraft were ever brought against any of my ancestors, a testimonial, perhaps, to the streak of charm that was also passed on from mother to daughter, but which, sadly, skipped me in favor of my brother.

One afternoon when, the heat was so oppressive dogs snapped for no reason if someone walked too near, and the smells of decaying vegetables and rotting fowl seemed to fight for dominance, I idled about the area of Father’s bookstore where my mother sold herbs, tinctures, and lotions. It was cooler than our upstairs rooms; Father was at the lending library, and Mother was helping at a birthing. My younger sister and brother, Caroline and Charles, had packed a picnic and gone to the river with their friends. I sat near the open door watching the foot traffic and fanning myself. I felt neat and businesslike in a new blue dress with white buttons and tatted trim. When voices interrupted my near somnolence, I looked up with a smile. It became only slightly less welcoming when I saw who spoke. Ann Ellis and Augusta Turner were good customers and paid promptly for their purchases, but their haughty demeanors hurt my pride. And despite the heat, they looked cool, though Miss Turner did have sweat rings under her arms. She wore a lavender day dress with a square neck, and sleeves that ended at the elbow. The skirt had a draped panier. A lavender bow of the same material trimmed her straw hat, and she carried a parasol. She had lovely ash blond hair, beautiful skin, and a dainty figure, and somehow managed to be the most undistinguished young lady I'd ever encountered. I could never put my finger on why, with all her attributes, she cut such a plain figure.

Ann Ellis was just the opposite. The Ellis’s weren’t as wealthy as the Turners were, but she was clever and it made all the difference. That day she wore a Zouave jacket which ended above her waist and under it a yellow cuirass bodice and cotton skirt with a green drape. The style showed off her small waist, and the colors complimented her rich gypsy-like coloring. With her slanted eyes and narrow heart shaped face, Miss Ellis wasn't conventionally pretty, but most men didn't seem to notice. Next to the two of them, my blue and white gown suddenly seemed plain. I felt as if I had serviceable embroidered on my bodice.

For a time, they wandered about picking up and putting down one item after another. Then, while returning a small container of rosewater to the shelf and picking up one of lavender, Ann Ellis turned to her companion. Did you hear that the Wynters manor is being opened again?

Augusta Turner turned in apparent surprise. Why, where did you hear that? Wynters Way has been closed for years. After old Captain Wynters died, the family left for the continent. I don’t even remember who of the Wynters is left. She set the lavender aside to be purchased and continued, What dreadful condition the demesne must be in, not to mention the house.

There's been a caretaker to patrol the grounds, but what’s left of the house has been shut up. I remember how charming it all was, even after their finances went into decline. There was a dignity about the place.

Old Mrs. Wynters, the captain’s mother, invited Mother and me to tea there, once. She entertained us in a small solarium and I've wanted a room with tall glass windows ever since. Augusta smiled. It had windows from floor to ceiling. Ivy was allowed to cover parts of some of them. That was when her granddaughter, Phyllis, was a girl and Phyllis liked to see birds nesting amongst the leaves, but most of the glass was kept clear so the room was full of light. Plants bloomed there even in winter. Mind you, the house has been rumored to be haunted for years. Not that Mrs. Wynters would have known. Toward the end she was hardly able to leave her bed. She died not long after that tea but she told mother once that if the legends true, the ghosts had to be family since the Wynters had lived there for so long. And being family, they wouldn't hurt her.

Ann Ellis laughed. What a dreadful thing to say. Is Captain Wynters’ wife still alive?He was married twice and both women passed on. The first wife was mother to Geoffrey and Phyllis and no one seems to know much about the second.

Mr. Geoffrey is still unattached I believe? Ann unconsciously smoothed her skirts and straightened her cuffs. She had been out two seasons now and her prospects were fading.

Yes, it will be Geoffrey, his sister, and their Aunt Isabel. They've taken a parlor at St. Mathews House to interview for a housekeeper. Geoffrey, of course, is with his regiment and will be in and out, but I dare say he should be bringing home some interesting friends.

While I wondered how Miss Turner became so well-versed in the affairs of the Wynters family, the ladies exchanged looks that spoke of the dearth of attractive, eligible bachelors in Little Ginnells, and turned to me make their purchases.

They put their selections on the table and I took their coins, trying to be pleasant. Augusta was rather nice, when alone. Ann was another kettle of fish, holding up her skirts, carefully so they wouldn't brush the floors. Holding them up so every passerby could see her ankles, if so inclined—showing her contempt for many things in many little ways. Not that she was opposed to flirting with Thomas when circumstances allowed. She could mince around and be cloyingly sweet if it was to her advantage. Clearly, she had her eyes set on opportunities at Wynters Way.

After supper, taking a parasol and saying I was going for air, I slipped out and strolled to St. Mathews House. On a nearby post, someone had nailed a sign which said that Miss Isabel Wynters and Mrs. Phyllis Wynters-Harrington would be seeing applicants for the position of housekeeper on Friday, week, from 2:00 until 4:30.

A weight I didn’t know I carried lifted from my heart. Wynters Way was not so far away as to entirely remove me from my family, but not too close either, being a day's journey by coach rather than rail since it was off the regular train line. What fun to open those rooms after so many years of closure, to make them not only habitable but attractive.

I found a place to sit, and stared unseeingly at the throngs of people crowding the dusty road. Clearly, my chances of obtaining the position were thin; I had no experience. But I tried to muster up persuasive arguments. No, I had never been a housekeeper before, a paid one that is, but then this wasn't to be a regular establishment where the duties of the housekeeper were clearly defined. Undoubtedly, more would be required. I could cook, sew, clean, read aloud in an interesting way, and write with good script. I was strong and honest and healthy. I would have to make these attributes plain, since a letter from the Vicar would be my only reference. In a flight of fancy, I saw myself in a dark dress, with keys at my waist, showing visitors into the solarium where pots of flowers bloomed profusely, sun shone through the windows, and chairs clustered graciously for intimate conversations.

Still, if I was offered the position, a decision to leave home was not an easy one to make. Charlotte’s and my little bedroom would become hers alone, for once I left I could never come back, at least not to live. My essence would be gone, eliminated by rearranged furniture and her scattered belongings. The crowded dining room table, Charles clattering lids in the kitchen and getting in everyone's way, the cheerful banter and good, intelligent conversations all gone, and for what—the opportunity to run away from the embarrassment and pain of spinsterhood to find some kind of useful life for myself? However, even as I turned these thoughts over in my mind, I knew I’d made my decision. If not this position, then another. An opportunity was bound to present itself. When it did, Forest fortuna adiuvat, fortune favors the brave.

On the street in front of me a little boy crept up on a lady carrying two baskets of produce, and tickled her on the neck. She whirled around but he was gone. I laughed and she gave me a dirty look before hurrying on. But I was only partially laughing at her; I was also thinking Father would be proud that I remembered some of my Latin.

Chapter Two

On the day of the interviews, I wore a plain dark dress, with a no-nonsense hat, and carefully-cleaned shoes. I carried the Vicar's reference letter in a sewing bag. If I had to wait, the handiwork would keep my hands busy and my mind calm. It might also give me the opportunity to display my sewing ability, of which I was proud, and had worked hard to perfect. It would please Caroline, too, if I fixed the tear in her new apron before mother could see it and fuss. Somehow, I managed to get out of the house before anyone saw me, and as I walked, I mustered my arguments again, holding conversations in which I was perfectly poised and in total control, always giving always the right answers. I tried, unsuccessfully, to dampen my soaring hopes. Worthy, prideful work, a change of scenery, an escape from what had become, at best, a loving prison, that was what I sought. My thoughts beat against my brain in the way a trapped fly beats against a window pane.

St. Mathews House, where the interviews were being held, was a former church converted into a guesthouse. I climbed a short flight of stairs and stopped at the registration desk to let my eyes adjust, and to ask directions. A man showed me to a small parlor where sun beat through the crown glass set in arched windows. The bright light revealed dust motes in the stiflingly hot room. Perhaps this establishment could use the strong arm of an eager worker, I thought.

Some half-dozen ladies waited, looking as much alike as rooks on a wall in their