Page 37 of The Almost Bride
Not for the first time, Eleanor almost got concussed before breakfast. Twice, actually. Once when she inadvertently miscounted the stairs and forgot to skip the third one from the top, the one that wobbled so badly that there was a fair chance that she’d end up in the cavernous tiled hallway rather faster than she’d planned on getting there. The second when she opened a window to the bright dawn only to have a roof tile slide down and crash to the ground an inch from her nose.
By the time she’d finished a fast breakfast of a scrambled egg, twisted her blonde hair into something resembling a bun, and put on clothes that, embarrassingly, she was having to take to the local laundrette to wash due to the laundry room being too dangerous to set foot in, she felt like she’d been dicing with death all morning.
Some people, she supposed, lived a more dangerous life. Some people were racing drivers and first responders, or fighter pilots, or things of that sort. Being a lady of the manor was not supposed to be risky, though.
The ancient doorbell rang exactly when expected. She straightened her spine and went into the hall to answer it. Avoiding the cracked tile that had once sent her sprawling in front of a very surprised postman.
“Right on time,”
she said cheerfully as she let Samson in.
Samson, who insisted on being called Samson and was definitely not a Mr. Cooper, stepped carefully into the house. “I’m always on time.”
“Good to know,”
said Eleanor.
“This place’ll need enough doing that we won’t be able to afford to be late,”
he said, sniffing doubtfully.
Eleanor looked around at the grand and more than slightly crumbling entrance hall of Brewster Manor. The scent of aged oak furniture polish and just a hint of damp filled the air. A reminder that whilst the house had been in her family for generations, it was also on the verge of collapsing around her ears.
Samson, wearing his high-visibility vest and an expression of mild exasperation, was already flipping through the pages on his clipboard. He took out a sheaf of papers, and shifted his weight from one work-booted foot to the other, as if already regretting taking on the job.
“Here it is then, Your Majesty.”
He proffered the papers.
“Eleanor is fine,”
said Eleanor, biting back a grin. “Lady Eleanor, if you can’t manage just Eleanor. I do draw the line at Nelly though.”
He sniffed and nodded. “Right you are, Your Ladyship.”
She sighed. It was better than being mistaken for a queen, she supposed. “What’s the plan of attack, then?”
“The roof repairs are our first priority,”
he said, glancing up at the high, vaulted ceiling with an expression Eleanor didn’t care for. It was the expression of a man wondering how much his insurance covered. A look that said the roof could fall on their heads at any moment. “We’ve got some serious water damage in the west wing, and if we don’t reinforce the beams soon, we’ll be looking at collapsed ceilings.”
Eleanor gave a sharp nod. “And the masonry work? The east-facing facade is showing significant deterioration.”
She knew the house like the back of her hand. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known the house. She’d lived in it her entire life.
“On the list,”
the builder confirmed. “We’ll need to replace sections of the stonework and repoint the mortar. I’ve got a man who does that sort of thing. Period specialist and all that, nothing to worry about.”
“Good,”
Eleanor said with another nod. “The work needs to be done properly. Efficiently too, We can’t afford unnecessary delays.”
She could sense Samson eyeing her warily, as if trying to gauge whether she was the type of posh woman who might swoon at the thought of scaffolding. But Eleanor had long ago accepted that if she wanted this house, her house, to survive, she’d have to roll up her sleeves and deal with the realities of crumbling estates and skyrocketing costs.
“We’ll all do our bests, Your Highness,”
Samson said with a scratch of his nose. “The goal is to restore the estate to its former glory.”
Eleanor allowed herself a small smile. She was glad he felt a sense of duty toward the house. That’s what she’d been looking for in a builder.
She accepted the sheaf of paperwork from him and showed him out, with promises to get him the signatures necessary within the week so that he and his team could get started as soon as possible.
When he was gone, she lingered for a moment in the hall. Running her fingers over the ornate woodwork of the grand staircase, memories of childhood flashed through her mind. She’d slid down this bannister so many times it had barely needed polishing when she was a child.
The house had always been a sanctuary. A place of peace and a source of comfort. Something unchanging in a life that changed rather more and rather faster than she’d wanted it to. These days, though, it was turning out to be more of a source of worry than not.
She sighed and squared her shoulders. No use dwelling. She had places to be.
THE DRIVE UP to The Willows Retirement Home was scenic, though Eleanor was too preoccupied to really appreciate it. She was going through mental checklists, thinking about finances, managing the ever-present anxiety that came with dealing with an estate on the verge of ruin.
And a tiny part of her brain was listening to the engine of her prized MG, making sure it was purring as gently as she knew it should, priding herself on how well-maintained she kept it.
She pulled up in front of the house, a sprawling red-brick building with gables and turrets and Georgian fripperies, stepping out of her car with the precise grace of someone who had been raised to do such small things properly.
The facility was as pleasant as a retirement home could be, she thought as she went inside. The reception area was discreet, the air smelled of lemon polish and freshly baked biscuits. The roof wasn’t falling down on anyone’s head, which was a large improvement on her grandmother’s former house. She signed herself in and tracked her grandmother down in the large drawing room, sitting in front of a window with a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders.
“Eleanor,”
she said, standing up to receive a kiss on the cheek. “How very dutiful of you.”
“Grandmother,”
said Eleanor, sliding the folder full of paperwork onto the side table. “Dutiful would be once a week on a Saturday afternoon, I think you’ll find. Nearly every day is verging more on affectionate, don’t you think?”
Isabella smiled and patted her granddaughter’s hand. “I’m teasing, my dear. Now, what delights have you brought me today?”
“The final renovation plans that are simply awaiting your signature,”
Eleanor said, nodding at the folder.
Isabella took the folder and began reading through the enclosed papers with the unhurried scrutiny of a woman who knew how to terrify bank managers and had no time for haste. After what felt like an eternity, she beckoned for a pen, which Eleanor provided, signed with a flourish, and laid the folder down again.
“Permission granted,”
she said. Her sharp eyes were on Eleanor’s face. “Although why you’re quite going to all this trouble, I’m not sure I understand.”
“Because the house is falling down, grandmama,”
Eleanor said, hoping that they weren’t about to fight.
“My house is falling down,”
her grandmother said.
Eleanor wanted to groan, but was far too well-brought-up. So she simply smiled. “Your house.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you to have the house,”
Isabella said. “I very much do. I can’t think of anyone that I’d rather have it. But you know the terms.”
“Terms that you could change should you choose to.”
Isabella raised an eyebrow. “The house is held in trust, I could no more change the terms of it than I could climb Everest. Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t. Marriage is a sign of maturity and responsibility. If you can’t find a partner in life, then why should you be trusted to run an entire estate?”
“Because I’ve been doing it for years,”
Eleanor pointed out. “And because having to be married in order to inherit the house is an archaic and absurd condition.”
“You’re just lucky that the terms simply state that you must be married, not that you must be married to a man,”
her grandmother pointed out. “Otherwise, we’d be marrying you off to the middle son of a local lord like we all lived in one of those awful Jane Austen novels.”
“Lucky, am I?”
Eleanor said, raising an eyebrow of her own. “In that case, I shall be on the lookout for the perfect woman to scandalize the town with.”
Isabella grinned. “At this point, dear, I’d accept a circus performer if it meant you showed some commitment to something other than these dastardly renovation plans.”
“They’re necessary renovation plans,”
Eleanor said. Then she shook her head. Arguing with Isabella was like arguing with a stone wall, something her grandfather had always told her. She stood up and collected the papers. “I’d better get these back to Samson.”
“Of course, darling,”
said Isabella, with the air of someone who knew they’d won an argument.
As Eleanor stepped outside into the bright freshness of the morning, she took a deep, full breath.
There was little point in arguing with Isabella. However stupid the terms of the trust might be, there was nothing that either one of them could do about it. In the absence of a son, a daughter might inherit, providing that she was married.
She threw the folder onto the passenger seat of the car. She didn’t particularly want to be married. She certainly didn’t need a husband. Thinking about the weak-chinned men of suitable ancestry that she’d known all her life made her feel just a little bit sick.
What she did need though, was her house. Brewster Manor was the only place she’d ever really known, and she felt as attached to it as most people would to a person.
And for the first time, she wondered just how far she would be willing to go to keep the house that was hers by right.