Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
West had left for London just two days after he had come upon Ellie in the lake, and he had gone alone, leaving Fred at Fenmore to look after everyone.
His words, not Ellie’s. What a load of nonsense.
Fred was not capable of looking after anyone or anything but himself, and even that was a pathetic sight.
Thankfully, Mrs. Andrews had started working as cook at Fenmore, so the meals were taken care of.
West had left instructions with Mrs. Havens that accounts had been set up—or settled—with the local shopkeepers to enable Mrs. Andrews to purchase what she needed to properly set up the larder and pantry at the estate.
It was not likely to be particularly expensive or extravagant as yet, given there were only five individuals at the main house, but it would do enough to make a significant change.
It was strange to call Mrs. Andrews by her name, at least for Ellie.
She was five years younger than Ellie, and still had the appearance of an even younger woman, but she was so affable, so competent, so unimpressed by riches and status like her parents that Ellie felt they could be friends.
But was it worth the time and the effort to become closer friends with someone when Ellie would likely be leaving for good soon?
As much as she would have loved to develop the sort of warm camaraderie with Mrs. Andrews as she had with Mrs. Havens, it would only hurt her more when she left.
She could not let herself call the woman Harriet. It might feel more natural to do so, but she had to begin the process of disentangling herself from Fenmore and its people sometime.
It might as well be now.
For the moment, she was taking up West’s charge to investigate the rooms with a more critical eye than she ever had before.
No longer would she be able to determine a space as “good enough” and cope with whatever state it was in.
Now she had to look for flaws with the understanding that restoration was going to take place, should West’s finances hold.
Rooms she had accepted as shut up from her very first day here were now subjected to her inspection.
For her insight. For her determination as worth keeping, saving, reconstructing, or destroying.
She was engaging in typical roles of a woman running a household, yet it had never been her role here.
She had been more focused on minimizing, keeping some sort of roof over their heads, and streamlining any and all funds to become something sustainable.
The shift was poignant and heady.
She needed to watch herself in this. It could all feel like control and influence, but she was not the mistress of Fenmore in truth. Not anymore.
And never again.
She was not redecorating to her tastes. She was looking for faults and suggesting improvements.
The wallpaper in the blue room needed to be redone; she would not make recommendations for new ones.
The curtains in the formal dining room were tattered and moth-ridden; she would not suggest a specific fabric or pattern.
The plaster design in the ballroom ceiling was cracked and broken in places; she did not consider alternative styles that would suit.
Not in her notes, anyway. But in her mind . . .
She could see this place in all its glory, the way it must have been when West was growing up here.
More than that, she could see the potential for the future everywhere.
Glittering surfaces, light and airy rooms, elegance in soft and comfortable touches wherever the eye sought, and laughter filling every hall.
She could not craft the laughter, of course, but it would be there.
Who would be laughing and why would you hear it?
The thought crashed into her mind and her heart, causing her to stagger to one side with its brutality.
This would never be her home, her safe place, her light and easy escape from whatever life threw at her. West would be here. West would make children laugh as they raced up and down the halls. West would see the new wallpaper, the curtains, the plaster. And his wife would . . .
His wife . . .
Ellie had been a wife. Not in any way that mattered, not in heart or mind, but in legality and authority.
In secret.
And now that time was over.
She wasn’t emotional about Leonard’s death, but she grieved what it meant.
She had never been permitted the lighter aspects of running a household or being mistress of a great estate.
The easy parts. The enjoyable fills. She had faced the hard decisions, the lifesaving ones.
The cold, hard truth of being responsible for more lives than her own without the means to reassure anyone.
And now she was tasked with helping the next family of Fenmore to improve matters based on the foundation she had built.
It was not fair. None of it was fair, nor just, nor easy.
She knew that West appreciated her efforts, and would express that gratitude however he saw fit, but would anyone truly understand what she had been through in the last three years? What future was ripped from her?
She didn’t want to envision how these rooms would look when the repairs she’d recommended actually came to fruition. She didn’t want the softer dreams of this life to infiltrate her mind.
Softer dreams, hopes, and wishes had been out of mind for several years now, long before she came to Fenmore.
The walls she had built within herself had kept her strong and standing, kept her from breaking the way she had before in her life—twice.
Kept her from unmet expectations and gave her the ballast she needed in a life that looked nothing like it should.
It made her into this powerful, independent woman who did not mind flouting convention and defying conformity.
Boldness was never her aim. Being her strongest self was.
And her strongest self did not belong in silks and ballrooms. She belonged in boots and fields.
Not particularly feminine or attractive, but it was true.
How many other women were fortunate enough to claim the same? Truth in one’s self and path in life and way of living was a luxury, and not one tied to wealth or station.
Not really.
Of course, if she had wanted a life of lace and pearls, that might have been more difficult to attain and live in truth, but she might have found a way.
It would have taken much longer, given she had not been raised with lace and pearls, but she was determined enough to make almost anything happen, if it was humanly possible.
“Why do you look all brooding and cross? I haven’t even been in here, I’ve been fussing with the billiards table.”
Ellie fought the urge to smile at the chirping voice of Fred from behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder to give him a look that she hoped would prompt him to confess something.
He’d foregone a coat, which might have scandalized Mrs. Wickerton, but Ellie found far less intimidating.
Now he was a very brotherly rascal with a weskit over his linen shirt, a slightly loose cravat, and unremarkable trousers.
His sandy-colored hair was only slightly in disarray, but his eyes and expression were clear.
Well, mostly clear. There was no ridding Fred of his mischief.
“Oh, all right,” he muttered, raking his hands into his hair, which explained the disarray. “I also played a round or two by myself, but I must practice before West returns and situates the room properly. I’ll never best him otherwise.”
Ellie released a laugh and turned to face him. “Fred, I don’t care a jot. You can entertain yourself however you please. You don’t have to go from room to room with me and examine structure or mess or rot. I simply must keep busy. It is my way.”
Fred’s nose scrunched up in a show of his true feelings, but he smiled at her anyway. “I won’t leave you to the horrors of domesticity alone, Ellie. I’m not entirely an idiot, I can behave in short bursts of effort.”
She laughed again, waving him over to her position in the morning room where she had spotted a concerning crack near a window. “I’ve done almost all the rooms on this side of the wing, on this floor, at least, but I thought I would take on the conservatory next. Would you help me there?”
“Of course,” he replied with ease. “That was always one of my favorite places when I visited as a boy. We didn’t come here often, my parents preferring London or our own home in Staffordshire for family gatherings.
But Uncle Bickham and Aunt Eliza were the greatest hosts, and the conservatory became our playing space when the weather did not cooperate.
Robin of the Hood was never so creative as when Sherwood Forest was in the conservatory! ”
“Did you get up to very great antics?” Ellie asked as she walked the edges of the room, noting a weak place in the floorboards beneath her feet as she did so.
“Dastardly,” he assured her. “Aunt Eliza was always insisting we have a break to eat something of substance and would have a luncheon served in there for us. ‘Even outlaws need to eat,’ she’d say with a smile.
She was my mother’s sister, you know. Her younger sister.
Mother was concerned that Aunt Eliza had married a widower when she was so young, but Uncle Bickham was only ten years her senior, so it was not that shocking.
And they adored each other, so who was to argue? ”
Interesting. She had heard some things about West’s parents during her time here from Mrs. Havens and Worsley, but most of those details had been as related to the estate and the general details of the family, not about the relationships.
And she heard a little about Leonard’s mother, Anne, who had been a companionable wife to the late Lord Bickham, but not a love match.
A polite one, as was seen quite often in the aristocracy.
A good marriage, a steady and stable one, and they had been pleased with their son and heir.