Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The young woman in the west parlor was a gorgeous creature in the earthiest sense that West had ever seen.
Natural and easy, nothing of cosmetics or trussed-up finery, nothing practiced at all.
She was as she was, fresh and bright, her hair long and dark, contained only in a loose plait over one shoulder.
Freckles dusting her nose and the apples of her cheeks.
Bright blue eyes the color of an English sky.
A trim yet full figure neatly encased in a simple-enough frock, free from any adornment or fuss.
She might have been sprung from some fairy garden and ought to be wearing a crown of flowers, in his opinion.
She was staring at him presently with those blessedly blue eyes wide and completely startled, her cheeks flushing with surprising speed.
“Wasn’t aware there was going to be guests of the female persuasion at Fenmore,” Fred drawled lazily. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Miss Wood Nymph got the most deliciously dark furrow down the center of her brow, her gloveless hands gripping into fists at her sides. “I am no guest. I have been living at Fenmore for nearly three years at the discretion of Lord Bickham, as his intended, while he was on the Continent.”
“Late,” West corrected without thinking.
Her vibrant eyes moved to him with a dangerous flick. “What?”
Oddly enough, his left knee seemed to wince at the single word. “Late Lord Bickham,” he explained. “I am now Lord Bickham.”
If he anticipated shock or amusement, he was sorely disappointed. She had no reaction at all.
“Thank you for the introduction, my lord,” the nymph replied, dipping into the slightest curtsy known to man. “And the needless clarification. I am well aware that my intended is deceased.”
“Intended?” Fred cried in a sort of dismay that bordered on the dramatic.
West would have thought it actually dramatic, had either of them known about the engagement prior to arriving.
The girl only raised a brow at him, something so superior and patronizing in the simple action.
“How long have you been engaged to my late half brother?” West asked the young woman. “And I do beg your pardon, but your name is . . .?”
“Nearly three years,” she said in the same calm, dry tone she had used before.
“And my name is Elena Williams. If you doubt my assertions, feel free to confirm it with Mr. Tuttle-Kirk in London, or Mr. Davies in Buxton. I have been engaged to Leonard Howard and, being an unfortunate orphan girl, was offered a home here at Fenmore while he was abroad. There was never anything untoward in it.”
West smirked at her indignant argument. “Don’t recall saying there was, but thank you for the assurance of your propriety.”
Her delicious furrow deepened, her brows snapping low enough to bring a vicious dog to mind.
“I won’t pretend to know how things are done elsewhere, my lord, but I was personally raised with the understanding of manners between people of decent upbringing, particularly when they are first acquainted.
Not only in the words spoken, but the tone with which they are expressed.
And in deed as well, for I believe you will find the master’s bedchamber prepared for you. ”
“Was I rude?” West considered that for a moment before looking back at Fred. “Was I?”
Fred shrugged. “Tactless, perhaps. If she’s been living here, you could be kinder.”
“Do you always consider your own thoughts and actions in committee?” Elena asked with the sort of dry tone that had to be appreciated.
“Only for dramatic effect,” he shot back. “Now, this might be crass and downright rude, but how long are you staying now that I am taking up residence?”
Her bright eyes narrowed. “I think we should discuss such matters after you have seen the estate and had rest from your travels. You have not been here for some time, and much has changed.”
West scoffed loudly and waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing could have changed about Fenmore so greatly that I would need assistance to manage it.”
Elena’s rather average—even if they were a lovely shade of pink—lips curved into a smirk he was unprepared for. “You have not seen it yet, have you?”
An unpleasant buzzing began to ring about his ears and in various spots on his limbs. “No,” he admitted slowly. “We dismounted from our horses and entered the house, then followed Mrs. Havens here.”
She shared a look with the housekeeper that West has trouble interpreting, then looked back at him, nodding with that same infuriating smirk on her mouth.
“Then we most definitely should not discuss anything of importance until you have. And as you seem the sort to not believe or trust in anything you cannot see with your own eyes and comprehend with your own mind, I will not explain anything until you bear witness for yourself. Provided you believe I am capable of explanation worth valuing at all. Good day, my lord.”
Then, with that barely there, brief bob of a leg, she strode from the room, chin set and smirking like the day was her own personal victory.
West blinked after her, then looked at Fred. “What was she on about?”
“Why the devil would I know?” his cousin replied.
Fair point.
Turning to the housekeeper—who had known him from a very young age—West repeated the question.
Mrs. Havens had a peculiar smile on her face. “Because Fenmore is not the place you remember, my lord.”
“No?” He frowned, thinking back to the ride in. The hills and trees and lake had been the same, as far as he could tell. The house had been older, but no great changes had been noticeable. Nothing had drawn his attention, and . . .
Hmm. For someone whose eyes had been tracking every detail with the sort of hunger reserved for a feast or a beautiful woman, he hadn’t thought much of what was missing. He was simply thrilled to recognize pieces.
Had things been missing? It was neither the planting season nor the harvest, so he would not have seen anyone working the fields.
What had Leonard done to the place?
“Did . . . did Leonard make marked changes?” West inquired, trying to keep his tone even, though he knew that an almost childlike worry was seeping in.
Mrs. Havens seemed surprised by the question. “Your brother was almost never here, sir.”
He nodded in understanding, given that was what Elena had said. “Lately?”
“No, sir. From the beginning.”
The air rushed out of West’s lungs as he stared at this woman who had seen him from the first moment of his birth, who had no reason to lie to him, and who had no reason to protect Leonard, especially after his death.
“He . . . what?” West managed as he sank onto a chair nearby.
Mrs. Havens took on an almost pitying look. “He preferred London and abroad, sir. He came by for a few days a year, apart from the last five years.”
West’s breath stuttered and he looked at Fred in confusion. His cousin seemed just as bewildered as he was. “But . . . but he loved this place. He fought me so hard for it when Father passed.”
“You didn’t have a right to it,” Fred pointed out, moving to take a seat on the sofa.
“But he knew I wanted it,” West snapped harshly.
“He told me not to come back, that it was no longer a family home, but his home. I told him I would give up the inheritance left to me in exchange for Fenmore. Leonard was a greedy ba— man,” he corrected with a quick look to Mrs. Havens.
“He should have wanted the money. And instead, he argued.”
Mrs. Havens nodded once. “I recall. But, sir, the moment he inherited in truth, he abandoned Fenmore. Brought all of the staff here he could down to the London house for a permanent staff. Took the best furniture there as well. Left all concerns to the estate manager.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Williams, correct?” West smiled in some satisfaction. “Mr. Tuttle-Kirk mentioned him in the letter.”
A startled cough escaped the housekeeper. “No, sir. Mr. Williams has only been working with Fenmore for two years and six months. Mr. Rokesby Jr. was the estate manager for most of your brother’s time as baron.”
“Half,” West murmured without thinking. “Wait, Rokesby Jr.? That moron who had to be reminded every year of the difference between wheat, barley, and oats in the fields?”
Mrs. Havens nodded, keeping a tight smile on her face. “Yes, sir.”
“The one who never managed to drive a team without sending his entire rig into one of the ditches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one who—”
“We get the point, man,” Fred interrupted loudly, heaving a sigh that spoke of either an existing migraine or an approaching one. “You think of a story, she confirms the story, and yes, the idiot you are recollecting is, in fact, the one she is talking about. Move on!”
Fred almost never barked without reason, and his innate amusement was gone, so West opted to continue. He needed his cousin to keep his head, if only to ensure that West could keep his head.
“If Leonard was never here,” West said, a deep, sinking feeling of dread curling within his stomach, “then who has been taking care of the house and the tenants?”
Mrs. Havens gestured towards the empty doorway to the parlor. “Miss Williams, sir. When she came to stay. Before that? No one.”
West closed his eyes, growing slowly but steadily cold.
He had figured that Leonard had not taken care of the place in the manner or with the skill that West would have, but he had never imagined complete abandonment and neglect.
Why fight for something so fiercely and then do nothing with it?
What had he been doing with the funds from the estate and the inheritance bestowed upon him?
“I am going to turn things around here,” West vowed boldly, finding the same cocky smile he had worn when the letter had arrived and that had carried him all the way back to Derbyshire. “Leonard was an idiot, wasn’t he, Fred?”
“The very definition,” Fred chimed in.
Nodding, West turned back. “He wouldn’t have known what to do with this place if it had come with a volume of step-by-step instructions for care.
I spent all that time with Father in my youth learning the minute details of caring for Fenmore, down to the very brick and acre.
And I have spent years studying agriculture and land management.
I had thought to someday purchase a fine estate of my own and create something masterful, but now I have Fenmore!
Whatever Leonard has done, I can turn it all around. ”
It was a speech of boasting, he would not deny that, but how else was he supposed to extend encouragement and confidence to those within Fenmore’s care and employment? His certainty in his own skills and knowledge, his vow of dedication, would be just the thing to start him off well.
“Am I supposed to applaud on your behalf?” Fred asked in a loud whisper. “My next action as your supportive friend and relation is unclear.”
Both West and Mrs. Havens ignored him, and West was unsettled by the fact that she looked neither relieved nor inspired by what he had said.
On the contrary, she looked rather . . . flat.
“Your audience is not impressed,” Fred told him, as though it were helpful.
“Shut up,” West snapped without looking at his maddening cousin. “What is it, Mrs. Havens?”
Her brow furrowed and her mouth tightened, concern and thought clearly washing across her face.
“Speak freely,” West encouraged.
The housekeeper heaved a sigh and straightened her shoulders.
“I think you misunderstand the state Fenmore is in and has been in, sir. For many years, the only people here were myself and Mr. Worsley and the scullery maid, Molly. Then Molly left for a better opportunity three years ago. We occasionally saw the elder Mr. Rokesby, then the younger when he took over, but that was all. When your brother came for his annual visits, he did not stay here. He stayed in the village inn. He thought Miss Williams was a silly chit for asking to stay here until they wed, but it suited him to have her ensconced away at a place he cared little for. Your brother was not only an idiot, sir, if I may say so. He was a careless idiot. Literally did not care what became of this place or of us, so long as you did not have an inch of it. This is, in fact, one of the only inhabitable rooms in the house.”
That wasn’t possible. His father had lived and breathed for this place, spent far too many hours slaving over ledgers and farms in an attempt to improve them all.
There were sixteen large bedchambers, and another seven smaller ones, plus the old nursery.
The ballroom had been one of the most delightful, elegant, refined rooms in at least ten miles.
The instruments in the music room had been his mother’s pride and joy.
The workmanship throughout the entirety of the house was pure art and had long been admired by many.
This was a grand house, not necessarily in size, but in scope and in taste.
Nothing too excessive, but a place capable of both comfort and awe.
And she was telling him that it was, in effect, abandoned and suffering from neglect?
“And that does not touch upon the state of the tenant homes and farms,” Mrs. Havens added.
Gads, he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Even Fred had no commentary on that.
“What has happened here?” West breathed, actually afraid for the details that could follow.
“You should look around,” Mrs. Havens advised softly, but firmly.
More of a direction than a suggestion. “And tomorrow, talk to some of the old families. Go into the village. Go to Buxton. Learn what has been kept from you. If you truly mean to start well as Lord Bickham, you should fully grasp what you will be taking on.”
West had never been afraid of words more in his life.