Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The challenge soon took over all of Fenmore, from its tenants to its staff to the neighboring Fencrest Village. How exactly word had spread to the villagers was unclear to West, but he was not upset about it.
Far from it.
Granted, from what he could tell, most of the people wanted Elena to win, but that was simply because they knew her better.
So West set about in the next few days to win over the hearts of his tenants and neighbors, however he could.
Some might remember the towheaded boy he had been, trotting after his father, but none of them knew the man he was now, so they would not have opinions on him.
Meanwhile, Elena had three years of personable encounters and connections to her name.
He had days, perhaps weeks.
He could not resort to bribery, not having nearly enough funds to bribe all of the people necessary.
He could not make significant promises of help with their farm or their houses, considering he had a responsibility to make those decisions in a needs-based manner rather than preferential treatment.
He was not in a situation to host any sort of gathering at Fenmore to celebrate them and their work to prove himself congenial or the like, not when so much work needed to be done at the house and their larder was not fit to feed more than the current household.
So he was left to doing what he did not enjoy doing.
He had to go out and talk to people.
Thankfully, he could usually talk while they were curing horses, mending fences, or inspecting a roof for leaks, and he was much better at those tasks than he was at talking.
Fred had utterly refused to go out on these social excursions with him, which had been disappointing, as Fred was the more amiable of the two and had no trouble talking to anyone about anything.
But Fred believed that would be an unfair advantage for West, so he adamantly remained at Fenmore.
West was punishing his cousin by forcing him to look into the details of resurrecting the orchards. Oddly enough, Fred had not complained about that task at all.
Perhaps not a severe enough punishment, but time would tell.
West had studiously avoided interacting with Elena unless it was at meals, more to prevent himself from asking her advice or questions than anything else, but also because he needed to distance himself from the softness that she was creating within his soul.
Everything was quiet and clear and lovely with her, which was amusing, as she had such strong opinions and a temper, but it was the truth as he felt it.
He needed to focus on this plan and what might be better than what she could dream up.
And yet . . .
Part of him wanted to lose to her just so he could give her a reason to stay.
He would let her keep her secret identity of E.
Williams, estate manager, and pay her a salary for it.
He’d find a way for her to stay on the estate, either in the house where she was or in one of the vacant tenant cottages if she preferred, or some other solution they could work out together.
He would find a way for her to stay. And if she were here, then perhaps there might be a chance for them to figure out what was going on between them, this fascination and connection and seemingly endless stream of moments where his heart beat in a completely different way when in her company.
But he could not—would not—surrender the challenge for that.
He was perfectly willing on his part, but Elena would know he was not putting his full effort into it if he presented anything less than his best, and she had just enough pride to want to win the challenge on merit and not concession.
And if he wanted to win her, in any sense, he had to win her the way she would want to be won.
It was likely going to be more complicated to win her than it would have been to win an average societal woman who would make a decent wife to a country baron, but the average societal woman held no interest for him.
Only Elena.
“Lord Bickham! Oh, my lord! Lord Bickham!”
West slowed his steps towards home as he heard an almost chirping voice call out to him, a familiar and yet not familiar enough sound.
He’d just finished talking with the blacksmith in the village about some repairs to farm equipment, and given all that he’d been working on that morning with tenants, he just wanted to be home.
Perhaps carry some water to the house for a bath. Perhaps just sit before the fire.
With Elena.
Enough avoiding. Time to just talk for no purpose other than for enjoying each other’s company. Even sitting in silence with Elena would be rewarding and fulfilling.
That was what made the difference.
He shook the warm feeling away and turned to face whoever was approaching, not quite recognizing the short woman with an almost bobbing gait headed in his direction.
Familiar, but not familiar enough to know.
“Oh, thank you for stopping, my lord,” she gasped, clutching a hand to her fichu and brooch, the feathers on her bonnet waving almost precariously in the afternoon breeze. “I am not nearly so capable of making haste as I was in my youth.”
West did his best to smile, nodding politely. “Forgive me, madam, but as I am still only recently returned to the area, my memory—”
“Mrs. Prudence Wickerton,” she interrupted with a quick bob, despite her claims of not making haste.
“And it is all very well not to perfectly recollect my name, as I do not dwell here. Only visiting, as I do. And my memory is not what it ought to be either, which is why . . .” She dug into her reticule and pulled out a tiny notebook and pencil.
“I carry these with me wherever I go, so I can write down what I ought to pray for in church. It spares my mind the difficulty of retention.”
West wasn’t certain if he was supposed to smile at that or laugh, or nod in understanding, or consider it a very sensible thing. And he definitely wasn’t certain he enjoyed being related to in such a way simply because he hadn’t cared enough to remember her name.
Well, he remembered her name, and that she was a gossip, but he had not recalled the face to go with the name.
Surely there were some indulgences in the world for that.
But then, if she really was praying for so many things that she required a notebook, she might be a personal favorite of the Almighty, and he was not sure he ought to risk any sort of insult there.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Wickerton,” he greeted with a bow. “My sincerest apologies. I recollect now. The assembly rooms, yes?”
She beamed brightly, tucking her notebook away. “Yes, my lord! How kind of you to recall!” She stepped a little closer, her smile fading into something almost speculative. “I heard about your little challenge at Fenmore, sir.”
West almost reared back in shock at that.
How in the world had this woman known about that?
It was not supposed to be widely known that they had not removed Elena from Fenmore, given the potential for speculation there, and the challenge indicated that Elena had some knowledge and skills in the agricultural arts.
How was that going to reflect on her, no matter how impressive and wonderful he thought it was?
“Tut, tut, sir,” Mrs. Wickerton scolded, winking in a friendly manner.
“I only heard it from Mrs. Stanley, whose daughter is married to the younger Mr. Tucker, one of your tenants and farmers. Mrs. Stanley is a very great friend, and she bound me to secrecy. I shall not betray you nor Miss Ellie. But I do believe I have a solution that might help the both of you in this challenge.”
That was not likely, but he was not about to be rude enough to say so. “Have you, now?”
She nodded with a sort of benevolent pride. “Indeed, I do. I know absolutely everyone in Derbyshire, and I am related to so very many people. I thought to write to my husband’s cousin’s daughter—the second daughter, not the eldest—who is married to Mr. Beale. Do you know Mr. Beale?”
West forced the smile to remain on his lips as he shook his head. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure.”
“I thought not,” Mrs. Wickerton quipped, almost clapping. “Mr. Beale purchased Carraway some five years ago. You do recall Carraway from your youth, yes?”
West certainly did, and it was all he could do not to seethe with jealousy.
Carraway was the most enviable estate in this portion of Derbyshire, including how Fenmore used to be.
Not that West would have ever traded Fenmore, but Carraway was so cultivated, so exquisite, so perfectly situated that travelers to the county requested to visit the house and walk portions of the gardens and lands.
The estate farms were productive, and their livestock routinely purchased far above the standard market value.
They also happened to breed excellent horses at Carraway, which West was particularly interested by.
Fenmore needed stables, and badly.
“Yes,” he eventually managed in response to her question.
“Excellent! Then I was not amiss in writing to Mrs. Beale to invite you and Mr. Gates and Miss Ellie to visit for a few days to explore the house and the estate?” Mrs. Wickerton batted her eyelashes in an almost toying manner, her smile very nearly smug.
“You . . . already asked?” West could not believe his ears, and could barely believe what he was understanding.
If he was understanding it at all.
Mrs. Wickerton gave him a series of firm nods.
“I have indeed. I thought it might assist all of you as you determine what might be best for your dear Fenmore, and I do believe Mrs. Beale is rather a gracious hostess, so she might host a supper party for you as a welcome and invite some other friends to join you all. Perhaps grant you and your guests some much needed respite and recreation from the work you’ve been engaged in constantly? ”
“How did you know?” West asked her, all pretense gone now. “How could you possibly know that we need this? Or that I haven’t . . . hadn’t . . .”
Mrs. Wickerton patted his arm fondly. “Oh, my dear Lord Bickham. I should not say this, but I do tend to hear a great deal more than I should, and I see almost as much. I have seen the strain in all of your faces, and if I can help, I will. So I am helping now. You need connections, Miss Ellie needs a respite, Lord only knows what your cousin needs, and you all need to improve the prospects at Fenmore. Thus, association with the Beales. And all I ask is that you report back to me on the quality of the duck at supper. My husband’s cousin’s daughter is dreadful at answering my queries about such things, and she will not invite me to Carraway until I find her youngest sister a suitable husband, but how am I to find a match for such a bookish little thing who knows her own mind?
She is not scholarly enough for the scholars, and not stupid enough for the rakes, and not vapid enough for the pretentious! ”
Right, now West’s head was spinning with the onslaught of unnecessary conversation, and this was where he failed abysmally in social etiquette. He had absolutely no response to this, and he struggled to weed through the excess to find the relevant details he needed to express gratitude for.
“At any rate,” Mrs. Wickerton rambled on, “I would anticipate an invitation very soon. Perhaps even today! Not for you to come today, of course, as that sort of notice would be far more inconvenient than it would be polite. But I trust it will assist your challenge as well as your settling in.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wickerton,” West said quickly, but with real fervor. “I cannot begin to properly express—”
“Oh, tush!” she scolded almost sharply, cutting him off.
“We must do what we can for the old families here, eh? And if you can get Fenmore to compete a little with Carraway in the coming years, what of it? Just do not mention my involvement if it becomes something of a feud. I could not bear to be the catalyst of strife, could you?” She hummed an almost warbling sound before turning and trotting away.
“Oh, and make sure Miss Ellie has a gown for dancing! Mrs. Beale adores the thing!”
West watched the older woman leave with some amusement, delighted in the opportunity to visit Carraway, not as a stranger, but as a neighbor. To see the lands, to ride among them, to establish friendly relationships that could extend for years to come. To have the chance to dance with Elena . . .
Now that would be something worth brushing up on social etiquette for.
Carraway was something of a legend in the region and had been since he was a boy.
He did not know how Mr. Beale was related to the family who had been there when he was young, nor could he recollect the family name at the present, but he had clearly just been given a gift by the county’s gossipmonger, and he was unclear as to whether or not he owed her a debt now.
What sort of payment did one offer for a debt to such a person?
He supposed it would behoove him to pay particular attention to the duck, should it be served, and begin from there.
Fred would be absolutely delighted by the invitation, and would preen about worse than any lady West could imagine.
Social gatherings were entertaining for him, something to enjoy either for the event itself or for the stories that could be told afterwards.
He was just engaging enough to be good company no matter where he went and not foppish enough to be ridiculous.
What West liked most about Fred, though, was that he did not mind the quiet moments either.
That was one of his lesser known but better applied qualities.
Now Elena, on the other hand . . .
West blanched as he thought about presenting her with the opportunity to visit Carraway.
It was close enough to their own location that they could ride there and back several times, but good manners would dictate staying in residence for the length of the invitation, which would mean not staying in anything resembling servants’ quarters.
Proper manners and way of dressing. Formal dinners and dancing.
She might fly into a rage of distress at the announcement.
He would only have to pray that she would see the opportunity presented by visiting Carraway as he did, and that the suffering of finery would be worth the discussion of lands.