Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“I cannot take it anymore! Not one bleeding second more!”
Fred looked up from his book in the library—one of the few rooms they had fully opened up—and glanced around in confusion, avoiding West’s eyes pointedly.
“Fred!” he yelled, his face and neck feeling as hot as the ire racing through him.
“I heard you, dammit.” Fred snapped his book shut and rubbed at his brow. “I just wasn’t sure this wasn’t a dream at first, since I am the one prone to dramatic outbursts and not you.”
It would have been concerning to hear that point if West were not already raving within his own mind about how unnatural his particular chaos felt.
Hours of helpless, confusing, infuriating chaos, and his mind could not untangle any of it.
“Would you care to tell me what, precisely, you cannot take?” Fred queried in a particularly polite tone. “Preferably while sitting so I do not become dizzy or overexert myself watching you pace.”
“This is not about you,” West growled as he stormed from one side of the room to the other. It was not pacing. It was irate marching in an attempt to rid his body of the fire of fury pulsing in his blood.
Very different.
“Of course not,” Fred replied dryly. “Nothing ever is.” He gestured for West to go on as he sat back and crossed an ankle lazily over his knee.
West huffed a tense breath, lengthening his strides to try and assuage the rising tide of panic. “It’s Elena! She’s absolutely everywhere!”
Fred made a face. “That’s not actually possible, if you wish for me to be the completely logical and reasonable one.”
A snarl lit West’s features and a matching feral sound rumbled in his throat as he looked at his cousin.
“Apologies.” Fred held up his hands in a calming gesture. “I shall avoid that avenue of discussion. Proceed, please.”
“The supper at the inn last night,” West began again. “The Fultons went on and on about how wonderful the saintly Miss Ellie has been, how she’s restored the faith in the Fenmore family and estate, graced the village with her presence, probably delivered all of the babies—”
“I didn’t hear that one,” Fred broke in with true curiosity. “Did she really?”
West tipped his head back and roared, “I am exaggerating!”
Fred scoffed and slumped back in his chair. “Well, don’t do that. I cannot help you with this if the facts are clouded by dramatics.”
“I am proving a point,” West told him as he began his march again.
“Which is?”
“They adore her!”
“And that is a problem why?”
West laughed a hard, coarse laugh and looked at his cousin. “Because she is not Lord Bickham of Fenmore. I am. She was engaged to my half brother, and he is dead. She is nothing to this estate, but to hear the locals and the village, you would think she turned water to wine.”
Fred sniffed his own sort of chuckle. “If only. I could use some.”
Ignoring that remark—mostly because West could also use some strong wine at the moment—he turned his mind back several hours, still confounded and irritated beyond his limits.
“Then this morning, I was up early to prepare myself for going out to view the farms and meet the tenants, have some of those conversations to give me the true understanding and insight as to what Fenmore has been dealing with and how bad things have gotten.” West ran a hand through his hair, gripping a little tightly to appease his angst. “Elena came down the stairs dressed in . . . in . . . She wore . . .”
“The imagination runs rampant when words are inadequate,” Fred murmured wryly, a crooked smirk on his face.
West closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “Trousers, Fred. She was wearing trousers. And a men’s coat. And high boots.”
Silence followed the revelation, which was never a good thing where Fred was concerned. Opening his eyes, West turned towards his cousin expectantly.
Fred was staring off at nothing, looking perplexed and focused at the same time.
“Well?” West demanded when his cousin said nothing.
“Hush,” Fred whispered, his hand extended as though calming a wild horse. “I am trying to picture this. Tell me, how did the trousers fit? And did the boots encase her precious legs well?”
West almost gasped, which would have turned him into some gossipy old harpy in a drawing room. He fought for any sort of words to utter in dismay, in shock, in horror, in abject disgust, but there was nothing to hand.
“Fred,” he managed weakly, the protest limp and floundering.
Still, his cousin clearly understood what could not be said, shrugging and smiling with an almost wicked edge. “She’s a pretty little thing, West. I’m only human. So, how did she look in them?”
“Too comfortable,” West admitted, not willing to think about any other aspect. “She clearly does this a great deal, and she got into an argument with me about the appropriateness of wearing them and of my having opinions on anything she does, in fact.”
Fred nodded with calm precision. “Fair. She has no ties to you, nor you to her, so there is no true hierarchy here.” He lowered both feet to the floor and sat forward eagerly. “What did she do, dressed like that?”
West groaned and began to pace—actually pace this time. “She went out to the fields to talk to the farmers.”
“What?” Fred cried out, the sound as dramatic as a child learning they’d have no dessert.
“Not what you’d expected?” West asked him with a light laugh of true amusement.
Fred shook his head. “Not at all. I thought she’d have gone out riding, perhaps even bareback.”
West snorted. “On what horse?”
Now it was Fred who gaped like a fish, clearly not having considered that, just as West had been mistaken that morning.
“The fields?” Fred repeated with a wince.
West nodded, finally calmer and moving to a chair. “The fields. I went along, of course. She practically ignored me the entire time, but she was polite enough to introduce me to the farmers.”
“And how did that go?”
“She . . .” He paused, considered the experience again, and slowly shook his head.
“She knows much more than she let on. Not just the farmers themselves, but the condition of the fields. The recent reports from Williams. The crop rotation schedule, and why that exists. She asked their opinions on the prospects of livestock, which Williams has been angling for if this harvest is successful. She was actively engaged, Fred. Listening and learning and offering fair opinions. They asked her opinions, and she had good ones. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to make of it.”
“So what you are saying is that Elena is just as impressive as everybody says.”
West scowled, folding his arms like a moody child. “So it seems. But she’s not ladylike, Fred. She’s not . . . she’s not what Leonard would have liked.”
Fred clapped his hands together. “Thank God for that!”
“It doesn’t make sense, Fred!” West tried again.
“Neither did Leonard, and yet . . .” Fred shrugged. “What is your real concern?”
“They like her more than me,” West said reluctantly, his pride undeniably pricked.
Fred snorted without sympathy. “They know her better than you.”
“But I surely ought to be able to command some respect.”
“Why?”
West fell silent at the simple question, not because it confused him, but because he did not know how to answer it.
Because he was one of the family.
Because he was now a baron.
Because he owned their farms.
Because this was all his.
Because he was a man.
Because . . .
Fred laughed once more, this time without humor. “Exactly.”
West cleared his throat, looking away. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I noticed. So Miss Ellie, if I may presume to call her that, has impressed everyone and anyone who knows her, and you don’t like that because you want them to like you that way.” Fred laced his hands together and rested them on his stomach. “Have I got that right?”
“Yes,” West grumbled.
“Jealousy is unbecoming.”
“Loyalty is what I want.”
“Loyalty is built, not given.” Fred rolled his head from side to side against the back of his chair.
“You think Elena immediately fell into her position of high honor here? I am willing to bet they thought her a simpering miss with flighty instincts and a taste for fussy things. I doubt anybody took her efforts seriously at first. From what I’ve seen, with that fire of hers, she was just determined enough to keep at it until they could no longer resist her.
The question you need to ask yourself is why. ”
West had been following his cousin’s logic up to that point, but found himself lost by the end. “Why what?”
Fred held up an indicating finger. “Why does she care so much if none of this is hers?” He held up another finger.
“Why did she stay here if she had to live in these conditions?” A third finger.
“Why did she work so hard to connect with those who are, objectively, beneath her?” A fourth.
“Why did Leonard get engaged to her if she was very much not his sort of girl?” And his final, fifth finger.
“Why did they not marry if she was here for three years?”
“All good questions, and all fair ones,” West murmured as he began to rub at his chin in thought. “And all I need answers to.” He pursed his lips before grinning broadly.
“What?” Fred asked warily, pointing a finger at his smile. “What is that for?”
West only shook his head. “I think I know how to get some answers about our Miss Ellie, but it may require some provocation.”
Fred groaned and covered his face with both hands. “Heaven help us!” Then he peered between his fingers. “How?”
“Well, for one, I talked to the Fultons about their oldest daughter and husband coming to work here at Fenmore. She as a cook and he as gamekeeper.” West sighed in satisfaction at the idea that had come to him during the night, and how satisfactorily the preliminary discussions with the Fultons had gone.
“They cannot speak for their daughter and son-in-law, of course, but they were encouraging. I will meet with Mr. and Mrs. Andrews tomorrow.”
“Please tell me that Mrs. Andrews has been cooking at the inn,” Fred pleaded, biting his lip.
West nodded in slow, pleased delight. “She has. The Fultons can spare her simply because she is married and the Andrewses have been looking to start out on their own since the wedding a year ago, but have yet to find something promising outside of the village.”
Fred mouthed something as he closed his eyes, seemingly praying for a moment. Then he straightened, seeming to sober. “Why would this provoke Elena?”
“A hiring decision without consulting her when she has been running things here,” West suggested. “It might not be a direct attack, but it might prickle. And I’ll strongly encourage her into a particularly ladylike activity tomorrow just to see how she reacts.”
“Let me know before you do. I want to be safely out of her line of fire.”
West waved off the suggestion. “It will be fine, don’t worry.”
Fred cocked his head. “Why are we provoking her?”
“I need her to reveal things about herself. Or her past. Or whatever understanding there was between her and Leonard. Something to investigate so I can determine if she is swindling all of us or if she can be trusted.” West drummed his fingers against his arms, an absent action to mimic the drumming of his thoughts.
“Something is not adding up, and I need to know what it is.”
“We still need to get her out of the house soon,” Fred pointed out. “Before the politer side of local society decides to call upon you.”
“I know. But not until I know just how close to keep her or how far away to send her.”