West grinned. “I would have bought more, had it been available.”
They had spent hours in the study, and the time seemed to have flown by. West had answered Phoebe’s questions in detail, without condescension. He had opened ledgers, spread maps of the estate and the tenant farms on the floor, and pulled books with titles such as Agricultural Chemistry and Drainage Operations of Arable Land from the shelves. Phoebe had expected it to be a dull session of tallying long columns of numbers and filling out forms. However, as it turned out, estate accounting was about far more than numbers. It was about people, animals, food, weather, science, markets . . . it was about the future. And the man explaining it to her was so articulate and keen on the subject, he could even make bookkeeping methods interesting.
The conversation was interrupted as a footman brought a tray of sandwiches and refreshments from the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, accepting the glass of chilled wine West handed to her. “Are we allowed to drink wine while accounting?”
“I assure you, there’s no way to face the inventory and valuation ledger without it.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “God speed the plow.”
“Is that a farmer’s toast?”
“It’s the farmer’s toast.”
“God speed the plow,” Phoebe echoed, and took a sip of the tart, refreshing vintage. After the footman had left, closing the door behind him, she returned her attention to the list of fertilizers in front of her. “Why Peruvian guano?” she asked. “Don’t British bats produce enough of it?”
“One would think so. However, Peruvian guano contains the most nitrogen, which is what clay soil needs.” West turned a few pages and pointed to a column. “Look at these wheat yields.”
“What do those numbers mean?”
“All totaled, that one hundred pounds of Peruvian guano helped us to grow nine hundred extra bushels of wheat.”
Phoebe was electrified by the information. “I want all the Clare tenants to have that fertilizer.”
West laughed at her enthusiasm. “Nitrogen won’t work for every farm. Each plot of land has different soil and drainage issues. That’s why an estate or land manager meets with each leaseholder at least twice a year to discuss the specifics of their situations.”
“Oh.” Phoebe’s excitement dwindled rapidly, and she took refuge in a deep swallow of wine.
West stared at her alertly. “Larson doesn’t meet with them regularly?”
Phoebe replied without keeping her gaze glued to the page in front of her. “The Larsons believe it’s better not to become too familiar with their tenants. They say it encourages them to make too many demands, and ask for favors, and become lax in paying rent. According to Edward, tenant uprisings like the recent ones in Ireland could easily happen here. Some landowners have even been murdered by their own leaseholders.”
“In every one of those cases,” West said darkly, “the landowner was notorious for having abused and mistreated their tenants.” He was silent for a moment. “So . . . Larson communicates with the tenants through a middleman?”
Phoebe nodded. “He sends an estate bailiff to collect rents, and if they—”
“He sends a bailiff?” West began to sound slightly less calm. “For God’s sake, why? He could use a land agent or . . . my God, anyone. Is it really necessary to use local law enforcement to terrify the tenants twice a year?”
After draining her wine, Phoebe said defensively, “Things are done differently in Essex.”
“No matter where you are, Phoebe, a manager’s job usually involves having to bloody manage something. Is Larson so rarefied that he can’t bring himself to have a conversation with a small farmer? Does he think poverty is bloody contagious?”
“No,” Phoebe said earnestly. “Oh, I’ve made you dislike Edward by giving you the wrong impression. He’s such a—”
“No, I already disliked him.”
“—lovely man, always kind and caring—he spent so many hours at Henry’s bedside, reading and comforting him—and comforting me, too. I leaned on Edward’s shoulder and came to rely on him even at the darkest moments—”
“Actually, I detest him.”
“—and he was very good with Justin, and Henry saw all that, which is why he asked for my promise to—” She broke off abruptly.
West stared at her without blinking. “Promise to what?”
Phoebe set aside her empty wine glass. “Nothing.”
“What promise?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Holy hell,” West said softly. She could feel his eyes boring holes into her. “An insane thought just came into my head. But it can’t be true.”
Blindly Phoebe turned pages in the ledger. “I was wondering—how much is in a bushel?”
“Eight gallons. Tell me it’s not true.”
Feeling the need to escape, Phoebe pushed back from the table and went to the bookshelves. “How would I know what you’re thinking?”
West’s voice lashed out like the crack of a whip, making her start. “Tell me Henry didn’t ask for your promise to marry his blasted cousin!”
“Will you be quiet?” Phoebe whispered sharply, whirling to face him. “I’d rather you didn’t shout it to the entire household!”
“My God, he did.” Inexplicably, West had flushed beneath his tan. “And you said yes. Why for the love of all that’s holy did you say yes?”
“Henry was in an agony of worry for me and Justin, and the unborn baby. He wanted to know we would be loved and cared for. He wanted his estate and home to be safeguarded. Edward and I suit each other.”
“He’ll never be more than a counterfeit Henry to you.”
“Edward is far more than a counterfeit Henry! How presumptuous of you, how—”
“There’s not one damned spark of passion between you. If there were, he’d have bedded you by now.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “I’ve been in mourning, you . . . you cretin!”
West didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “It’s been two years. Were I in Larson’s place, I’d at least have kissed you.”
“I’ve been living in my parents’ home. There’s been no opportunity.”