Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
There was a ghost at Fenmore, and his name was Weston Howard.
Westley? Westmoreland? Westumberland? West-by-Northwest?
Whatever his name was, he was wandering around Fenmore as though it were his sole occupation in life. Silent but for his shuffling, wandering with weighted steps, his words silent except to his own ears.
If she were not irked by the manner in which he had presented himself to her that day, Ellie would have pitied him.
But hours spent moving from room to room in the estate without stopping for dinner or conversation or storming out to demand an explanation or to stay at an inn rather than be offended in such a manner . . .
It felt a little too brooding for someone with the inherent arrogance displayed by the new Lord Bickham earlier. A trifle melodramatic, a hint of a childish tantrum, an air of heavy sighs expressed for the sheer purpose of attracting attention.
Ellie had rather thought they would talk about the state of Fenmore once he’d seen to it. She hadn’t anticipated that he would take to . . . this.
Whatever this was.
She might have a better idea if she could see his face as he was doing his ghoulish haunting of the place, but she was not the prying sort. Curious, yes, but invasive? Never.
It was now time for bed, and she had not seen him or his irritating cousin.
They had not left the house, though, which was something to remember.
The rooms they had situated both in were in the best condition of any of the bedchambers, but that was not saying much.
The linens had been removed from all of the furniture the moment the letter had been received that the new Lord Bickham was coming, and the windows had been thrown open to air everything out.
Every surface had been dusted and cleaned, and so long as one did not pay attention to the faded nature of the wallpaper or artwork and the complete lack of finery in the rooms, it was not so bad.
The beds were lumpy, the floorboards were weak, the tapestries were moth riddled, and the only furniture apart from the beds were the small cupboards for basins and other necessities.
Those cupboards would not stand up to close inspection, being repurposed from the long-abandoned servants’ quarters.
But it was better than nothing, and she could only hope that they would not mention it.
Ellie and Mrs. Havens had worked hard to get the rooms up to snuff even that far, and Worsley had searched all of the unused rooms for the best furniture to bring out.
Ellie’s bedchamber wasn’t even in the same part of the house, finding no reason to make Worsley and Mrs. Havens fuss over an entirely separate part of the place for just her.
She slept in the room once belonging to the head upstairs maid, and it had been perfectly adequate for all her needs.
And being on the opposite side of the house in such a way, she wouldn’t have to worry about Lord Bickham growing frustrated as he tripped over his own petard after considering the truth of his new inheritance.
But she was not in bed at the moment, nor in the vicinity of her bedchamber.
She was in the parlor, sitting before the fire and mending her stockings.
Darning? She wasn’t certain what the technical term was, and she was certain her technique wasn’t perfect, but it was a sturdy stitch, and she never wore stockings for fashion.
Necessity and function were all she cared about, and she had learned enough to make her way in those matters.
The fire in this room was the best in the house, apart from the kitchens, and she was not about to set about lighting that monstrosity this late at night. Not for something as inconsequential as her stockings.
She hummed absently to herself as she stitched the cheap but sturdy fabric, needing to secure the toe region even more than previous times, or else she would create such a run in them that there would be no salvaging the accessory.
Were stockings an accessory? They weren’t a garment, that was certain. But an accessory, in her mind, was something that was optional to one’s ensemble, and stockings did not seem to be an optional item.
Who did one ask about these ridiculous things?
Surely this was a case where a mother would have come in handy.
But Ellie’s mother had been gone since her early childhood, passed away from a harsh and fast-acting fever that had also stricken Ellie, but without such disastrous results.
She had exactly two memories of her mother, both gentle and warm, and her father had told her more than enough stories to give her a fair account of the woman her mother had been.
The love they had shared. The dreams they’d held for their small family.
And because of those dreams, her father had never treated Ellie as anything less than a treasure. He had cultivated her mind far more than was fit for polite ladies. Indulged her curiosity. Trained her like an apprentice.
He might not have been able to give her power over their own home or lands, but he had certainly saw to it that if she ever had a house of her own, she would be fully capable of seeing it flourish.
Perhaps she was a dreadful dancer, lacked all musical skill, and could only draw things with harsh edges and rough details, but she never felt as though she were betraying herself, her family, or the things that had been wished for her.
In fact, the only times she truly wore a mask were when she was forced to be the consummate lady.
Those occasions had been few and far between after her father had passed just after her eighteenth birthday, thank the heavens, and the most marked of those occasions had been when she had gone to the dinner party in London where she had met Leonard.
Now she might need to don that mask again, if only to find herself another husband who would dismiss her to some far country estate.
As maddening as Leonard had been, though almost the entirety of their relationship had been maintained by letter, she had never had to act as his wife or perform as his wife. There was a private delight in that, and she was unlikely to be so fortunate in the future.
What man, having entered into an engagement, would not want to see the thing done and claim his rights, if not the dowry due to him?
Not that Ellie’s dowry would be of much use to anyone now. Technically, she was a widow, and technically, her dowry was wrapped up in Fenmore, and most technically of all . . . it was almost gone.
Ah, proxy weddings. The very best way to be married if a wife wished to have all the independence of a married woman without the fuss and bother.
The dejected, heavy steps were suddenly more audible to her, and not from the creaking floors overhead, but the long, nearly bare corridor just outside of this very room.
Ellie nearly groaned, pausing in her darning to wallow in her reluctance for a moment. She had truly hoped to avoid facing the maddening lout until the morning. Or afternoon, if he were the sort to lie about in bed all morning.
But no, it would seem he needed to include someone else in his crushed expectations and forlorn prospects.
“What has happened here?” his low and now hoarse voice inquired from the door.
Ellie glanced over, not bothering to rise.
West looked as though he had spent three days drinking himself into a stupor, and yet it had only been a matter of hours and there was no alcohol to be had. He had aged two decades in that time, the dark shadows beneath his eyes and stooped set of his broad shoulders giving him a sickly appearance.
Some small and soft part of her heart gave, and she forced her voice to be gentle in spite of her words. “You will have to be more specific, my lord. A great many things have happened, and I can only personally account for the last three years.”
To her surprise, he did not grow even a little bit defensive. Was that the power of one’s tone?
He only nodded and came further into the room before dropping himself into one of the plush chairs—worn and patched in several places—and staring into the fire without any sign of life in his eyes.
They were so dark right now. Not that she had paid any attention to their color earlier, but there was a vacancy to them that seemed to eclipse any discernable shade.
It was strange that he was alone, as his cousin had seemed joined at the hip with him when they’d arrived. Had the irreverent and outspoken companion left this brooding version of his lordship to himself at last? Given up on spreading cheer or villainy or whatever might have been suggested?
Ellie had it on good authority that the tavern in the village was exceptional, and if one ventured further into Buxton, there were at least two other establishments that might have been perfect for drowning one’s sorrows.
Yet he was here, morose and drooping.
What was she to do about that?
“When I was a child,” West began, his voice scratchy and raw, “we spent most of our time here at Fenmore. London for visits, perhaps occasionally jaunting off to some other county for an adventure with cousins or the like, but everything else was here. The rolling hills, the groves of trees, the orchards, the fields, swimming in the lake and fishing in the trout stream. It was a young boy’s fantasy life.
Lessons were an even more abysmal prospect than they might have been because out of doors was so exciting.
And when I learned to ride, it got even better to be out and about. ”
Ellie did her best to remain still, even as she continued to darn her stockings, but she desperately wanted to ask him why he was confiding in her like this.
He did not care for her, she did not care for him, and there were greater matters than the brokenness of his nostalgia to contend with.
But she was not entirely heartless—he had received a shock in arriving here, and that must take time to process.
It would seem that men did have emotions. What a thought.