Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Morning came far too early for West, particularly after a late night at the assembly rooms.
An interminable and late night at the assembly rooms.
He had danced enough to be polite and conversed enough to be pleasant, and all of the acting had given him such a headache that even sleep had not relieved him of the pressure and pain.
Of course, the fact that he could not sleep in longer than any other morning, regardless of the hour at which he’d gone to bed, did not help the state of his head either.
He had opted to go out for a long walk, rather than ride, for the excuse of good exercise and fresh air.
The day was fine and the weather had not yet turned cool for the autumn, thank goodness.
He wanted to feel the ground beneath his feet and ache with the efforts of his sojourn later.
He had been out of practice with dancing, and while the activity had worn him out, it was not the same thing.
This was something that fulfilled him as much as it drained him, that restored him in a way that could not be so easily accounted for as aches in one’s body or feet.
Fenmore had always been more than a place, a building, or farms. It was land and legacy and home, and he was already feeling more like himself than he had in years.
The man he had wanted to be, not the one always waiting for more disappointments.
The one who’d had hopes and dreams, a future of possibilities and glorious visions.
Gads, how long had it been since he had really hoped for anything that was not just a temporary scheme?
West inhaled deeply as he walked away from the house, away from the gardens, and towards the trees.
Memories of racing with his father or some of the village boys assailed him, wrapped up in the very fragrance he now tasted on his tongue.
Of fishing with his father, learning to shoot, learning to ride, imagining great and glorious adventures out of novels or history without a care in the world.
It had been the best of all places to grow up, and no one would convince him otherwise. Even Leonard and his machinations had not been able to strip that from him.
He might not have actually wished for Leonard to die, nor thought it possible, but he was not going to complain about it either.
What he would complain about, however, was the fact that he had yet to meet with his genius estate manager, despite being in residence a full week now.
He had gone to church—which had been less than torture, thanks to a skilled clergyman—and danced with locals, but could not manage to secure a meeting with a man who lived and breathed his own estate.
He couldn’t even be certain where the man lived.
There wasn’t a place for him in the main house, he knew full well, and there was nowhere else on the estate for someone to live that was not already inhabited.
He could not inquire as to who was staying at the inn in the village, nor who was renting apartments, but the letters he sent were always replied to.
Strange, that. All he did was ask Mrs. Havens or Worsley to have them posted, as there were no footmen at Fenmore, and replies came within a day or two. Very occasionally, the same day.
Always with excuses. Advice, based on the questions West had asked, but avoidance of any availability for meetings.
It was puzzling to say the least.
Perhaps he could try working with Elena to get the man to meet him. She obviously knew him well enough to work well together, and she had hired him after Rokesby Jr. had been dismissed. She would have some insight that might prove fruitful to West and his goals.
But he had not been doing well by her. He’d provoked her, ignored her, diminished her.
Last evening, he could have danced with her, but he did not.
He’d told himself not to, given the possibility of speculation and scandal.
It would have done more harm than good. A single and eligible man living in the same house as a single and eligible woman to whom he was not related was already cause enough for whispers, but to dance together even once would send tongues wagging.
There had been whispers enough as it was.
Fred had told him of meeting with Mrs. Wickerton, whom West had taken pains to avoid after being warned of her nature, and how he had portrayed them as kindly allowing Elena to stay at Fenmore as a matter of charity and respect, despite the questioning looks it might receive.
From what he could make out in the wings of the assembly rooms, listening to conversations not meant for him, that assumption was only doing him good where his reputation was concerned.
But that tolerance would not last long. Speculation would come into play the longer Elena remained at Fenmore, and rumors would abound with shameless elaboration.
He would only be gossiped about, perhaps earning winks and nudges from other men. But she would be ruined.
Dammit, he needed Williams to meet with him and spend a few days familiarizing himself with the strategy and thought process of the only man who could make him comfortable enough with the progress of the estate to let Elena leave.
Let her leave . . .
He wasn’t keeping her here. There simply hadn’t been plans set in motion for her to go.
What had she said the other day during their fight?
Ask yourself why we would stay if we had any reasonable alternative.
He hadn’t inquired as to her meaning then, but now it slammed into him like a wave upon the shore.
Did she mean there was nowhere for her to go? How could that be? No friends, no family, no associates? No one to take her in? She could surely be a governess, a companion, perhaps a seamstress? She darned her own stockings; surely, she had skills in mending and adjusting her own clothing.
But she wasn’t doing those things. He didn’t even know if she had been seeking occupation or sanctuary somewhere else. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to her since the fight about the flowers and the dower house.
He couldn’t.
Now he needed to put aside his pride and his irritation, think of the estate, and admit to Elena, and himself, that he could not do this alone.
What an arrogant fool he was.
Granted, he could not have predicted Leonard’s complete indifference to Fenmore for its own sake, and only for something to hold over the head of the half brother he despised.
Could not have known that Fenmore was floundering in disarray and destruction, abandoned and abused in a way that it might have never recovered from.
Might still never recover from.
Loud splashing drew West from his morose thoughts.
He craned his neck as he tried to determine where he was and what might have caused such a sound.
Far too loud and disruptive to be even the largest fish or a bird, and there were no larger creatures in the area.
That was more like the sound a person would make in a body of water.
But surely . . .
He hadn’t taken great note of where he had walked or wandered, but here he was, not far from the very portion of the lake where he had first learned to swim. It was a shallow, calm area, or it had been, and one of his favorite spots.
That should not have mattered, though. It was not a hot day in the summer, but a cool morning in the early autumn. The chill in the air had not been great enough for thick outerwear, but the water would be a near-frigid temperature, given the lack of sunlight of late and the cold overnight.
No one would swim in it willingly in such a state or this early in the morning.
A similar splash sounded again, and West was moving towards it at once.
Not quite concerned, as someone in distress would have been crying out for help, but curious.
Was someone trespassing just to use his lake?
It was a rather picturesque thing, even with the rest of the estate decaying over the years, and streams from it led closer to the village for their fishing and the like, but to venture here . . .
He stopped short, still hidden by the trees, when he saw a woman standing waist deep in the water, covered only by a damp linen garment. Her hair was dark and streamed down her back like a waterfall of chocolate. She was not swimming, but appeared to be scrubbing her arms with soap at the moment.
Bathing. In his lake.
That was . . . far beyond his wildest expectations.
He watched as she dipped down into the water once more, covering her head before standing again, her face tilted toward the sky with an exhale he could almost hear.
She tossed the soap onto the shore, onto a blanket there that he had missed before.
She took her hair in hand, bringing it around her shoulder before twisting it, wringing the water out of it.
Then she ran her fingers through its dark depths, combing gently along the length.
The woman turned towards the shore, towards him, and his stomach clenched.
Elena.
Not a trespasser, then. Just the woman who had invaded his mind and got under his skin like the most stubborn of splinters.
He had thought her some sort of woodland nymph when he had first seen her, but like this? She was goddess of the water.
The sunrise was behind her, shielding what the wet fabric might reveal on her clothing, but he could see the skirts of her garment waving along her body beneath the surface of the water.
An almost glorious rippling skirt to magnify her immortality just as the sunlight glinted off of the lake’s surface, scattering shimmers of gold into her surroundings.
Making her glow beyond her natural radiance.
Beautiful creature. Built of water, fauna, and flame.
Mine.
West blinked at the unbidden word, the claim, that had flashed through his mind.
She wasn’t anything of the sort. She was no one’s, let alone his. He didn’t even want her, not really. She was merely an attractive distraction, and he had yet to tolerate her in any atmosphere but one of silence.