Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I have been reliably informed that supper here will be unremarkable and not up to our standards, and that we would be better served dining in the village at the inn.”
West looked up almost blearily from his ledgers at his cousin, who seemed far more alert and active than he had been earlier.
His eyes could not examine numbers for one more minute, but he was still trying to determine the best course of action for proceeding with the farms, the fields, the livestock—anything and everything.
All he needed to know was step one, and right now, he was looking at steps twenty and onward.
He was seeing what steps had been taken to get where the estate was now, marveling at the genius and the risk that had been undertaken, but was not entirely certain where Williams had hoped to take things.
And not all of the reports were here, if the man made the same sort of reports and notes that West would have done had he been in charge.
And he could not escape the feeling that he was trying to grab hold of the wind, so to speak.
Or that the ground was constantly shifting beneath his feet. Everything he thought he knew was wrong, everything he had anticipated from the day he’d understood his new position was false, and the dream he hadn’t dared to dream was nothing at all like what he’d dreamed.
No one, not one soul, would possibly understand the depth of his devastation. His parents were gone, and they were the only other people who had been so devoted to Fenmore.
He needed to save this place, and he didn’t know what to do first.
“Supper?” West rasped, the word taking a moment to register in his mind.
Fred froze, blinking uneasily. “Oh dear heavens. You’ve lost your sanity to the ledger gods.
” He nodded with the utmost pity. “I’ve seen them take my father a time or two.
I promise, we can get it back. I don’t want you to worry about a thing.
You just leave it to Cousin Freddie, and I’ll set you to rights. ”
That barely unleashed a cough of laughter from West’s chest, but it did reorient him to the situation, which was an improvement.
He rubbed at his eyes with a free hand and felt his pen being removed from his other.
Before he could raise a question, strong hands were shoved beneath his arms and hauling him out of his chair.
“What the devil?” he cried roughly, flailing in his cousin’s hold.
“Hush, now, it’ll be well soon enough,” Fred assured him in the most condescending tone known to man.
“Let me go, you idiot.” West drove an elbow back, but Fred dodged it easily, removing his hands.
West stumbled with the sudden loss of that support, eventually finding his feet without bringing about any damage to himself or the room.
“Now,” Fred announced, brushing lint off West’s shoulders like the roughest valet ever, “you are already more presentable than most of the people we passed in the village yesterday upon our arrival, so there is no need to change. I have checked, and there is no carriage here, so we will be riding.”
“No carriage?” West repeated in surprise, the timbre of his voice reaching worrisome heights with the revelation of yet another failure in his estate.
“What about Prescott? He was Father’s coachman from the day he inherited, and for many years for my grandfather! And he had three sons! What happened?”
Fred covered West’s mouth with a firm hand, the immediate scent of leather and chalk filling his senses.
His cousin’s eyes were wide with perhaps the first true sign of concern yet.
“That is quite enough,” he scolded. “I have not accompanied you out to Derbyshire to see you turn lunatic like this. I do not know what happened to Presley—”
“Prescott,” West mumbled beneath his palm.
“—but someone surely will,” Fred went on without pausing. “We can discuss all of those details tomorrow. You are done with ledgers, my dear Lord Bickham. For tonight, for tomorrow, and for three days at least until you have context and visual understanding.”
Something about that statement made the cogs and noise of West’s mind slow and groan to a stuttering halt, the sudden vacancy weighty and painful.
“Fine,” he mumbled reluctantly, wishing like hell he could simply go to bed and forget this entire mess and not feel weak and haggard in the morning for it.
They said very little to each other as they moved out to the makeshift stables—something else that would need to be renovated entirely—and mounted up, riding into Fencrest Village less than half an hour later.
Fred must have done his own exploring at some point during the day, as he reined them in before the inn without asking for direction or looking around for it.
West prided himself on being only slightly unsteady after dismounting, exhaustion and mental fatigue warring within him in an attempt to determine which would drive him to either drink or sleep first.
Perhaps both.
Actually, as he tried to force his eyes to focus on the entrance to the building before him, he thought it would most definitely be both.
Drink here, sleep there.
On the lumpy, barely tolerable, practically offensive mattress on an ancient frame with tattered tapestries in a room with no furniture, apart from that bed and a mismatched cupboard for washing.
He hadn’t even checked if the window worked, mostly because he was afraid of exposing the glass to his eyes and seeing the amount of filth upon it.
Faintly, he wondered if the makeshift stables might have more comfortable bedding than what he was using.
But that might offend Elena or Mrs. Havens or Worsley, and he could not afford that. They were the only ones who had any idea what had gone on at Fenmore while he was away.
He needed them.
Even the firebrand who had taken over the place.
“Stop.”
West blinked and looked at his cousin, whose sharp word had actually startled him. “What?”
“You’re thinking too much and it’s upsetting you. We are escaping that. Stop.” He inclined his head towards the door of the inn. “Inside.”
West entered as instructed, and Fred followed, the taproom clean, orderly, quiet, and the most un-tavern-like establishment he had ever frequented that acted under the same understanding.
Perfect.
He wouldn’t over imbibe in a location like this, particularly when the lights were high and the owners pleasant.
Nothing like the rougher establishments they had visited in London, in Edinburgh, in Liverpool, or in Dublin.
He did not need a rough establishment. He needed a polite place to eat and drink and think of other things, not a place to indulge in morose thoughts and depressing prospects.
A pleasant-faced woman approached while wiping her hands on a towel. “Evening, gents. Drinks or eats?”
“Both,” Fred said politely. “What is available this evening?”
“Pork pie, cold ham, mutton stew, scotch collops, fresh bread, roast potatoes, aged cheese, and apple pie.” She glanced between the two of them. “Passing through or staying?”
“Staying,” Fred answered for them both. “Not here, though. Recently returned. Well, he is. Newly inherited, actually.”
West exhaled harshly, tempted to cuff his cousin on the back of his head for the completely unnecessary rambling that just spewed forth from his mouth. But that was Fred, unafraid to tell anyone more than they needed to know and completely unashamed of it.
“Inherited, eh?” The woman’s eyes flicked to West and raked him over quickly. Her expression told him that she was not particularly impressed by him. “Fenmore?”
“Yes, ma’am,” West murmured humbly.
She raised a brow. “Not so high an’ mighty as you were expecting?”
“Never thought it was, but I didn’t expect . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Could I have the pork pie and an ale, please?”
The woman clucked her tongue with surprising sympathy, nodding. “Aye, and I’ll bring you some warm bread. Same for you, son?”
Fred nodded eagerly, saliva nearly visible in the corners of his mouth. “And cheese?”
She almost smiled, so very nearly there, and nodded. “Let me get that for you boys, an’ then me and my husband can fill you in on the dealings with Fenmore as far as we can see.”
West brightened, but only a little, given it was not inclined to be a good discussion. “You can?”
She rapped her knuckles on the table. “Aye, son. We’ve been here nigh on twenty years, and there ain’t much we don’t know about this village or the estates about.
You seem a fair sort, but that could just be your manners and lack of posturing.
We’ll get some good food in you and then talk. We’ll tell you straight.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” West told her with all the humility he could muster.
“None of that, now,” she scolded with a look. “Helen Fulton is the name. You call me Prue or Mrs. Fulton.” She nodded and turned away, moving towards the door that presumably led to the kitchen.
West cleared his throat as he looked towards his cousin, but Fred shook his head firmly, holding up a halting hand.
“No, there will be no conversing for a time. Lay your head down on this wonderful, clean, sturdy table. Rest yourself until Mrs. Fulton returns, at which point we will eat. Once you have eaten to my satisfaction, you may have a reprieve from rest to discuss the estate with the people who know.”
“A reprieve from . . . rest?” West repeated in confusion.
Fred nodded sagely. “Yes. You are supposed to be resting entirely, but this opportunity has presented itself, and I will allow it.”
“I am so confused.”
Fred put a hand on West’s head and forced it gently down to the table. “Rest, Cousin. Clear your mind. Inhale the stench of old wood and ale.”
For reasons West did not fully understand, he allowed this motion and exhaled with such weight, his shoulders dropped markedly from their tensed position. “That is not known to be a relaxing combination.”