Page 73 of The Farmer Has a Wife

She straightened her spine, turned on her heel, and strode back toward the house, heart hammering.

There was no more room for doubt. She’d made a mistake, but mistakes could be fixed. Whether or not that would lead to a happy ending, she had no idea. But what kind of fool would she be if she didn’t at least try?

ELEANOR MARCHED INTO Elizabeth’s office at a quarter past two. Elizabeth was sitting at her desk, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, as she frowned at a pile of paperwork. She didn’t look up as Eleanor walked in.

“I’m rather busy.”

“You’re not too busy for me,” Eleanor said.

Elizabeth looked up in surprise. “Nor? Is everything alright?”

“Yes and no,” said Eleanor. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m going to need all the paperwork you have about the terms of the estate trust and the valuation of both the house and the grounds.”

That got Elizabeth’s attention. She set her pen down slowly. “Pardon?”

Eleanor crossed her legs and put her elbows on Elizabeth’s desk, steepling her fingers. “I want to know exactly what I can and cannot do with the house and the surrounding land, as well as finding out the most recent valuations of both.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Nor, what exactly are you up to?”

“Just thinking about my future,” said Eleanor airily.

“Sounds ominous.”

“No, it’s long overdue,” Eleanor said.

Elizabeth glanced at her paperwork, before pushing it to one side and rubbing at her temples. “Eleanor, I’m your friend, but I’m also your solicitor. I can listen to your worries and even advise you on them, but it’s also my job to ensure that you’re making good decisions when it comes to your assets.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Eleanor pointed out.

“No, I can’t. Not as long as you’re on the right side of the law,” Elizabeth sighed. “Alright, what is it that you’re trying to do, exactly? You’ve always been so obsessive about keeping the house. I find it difficult to believe that you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Eleanor exhaled slowly, drumming her fingers together. Then, as if the thought had just struck her, she said, “Has it ever occurred to you that a house would be terribly bad in bed?”

Elizabeth’s hand slipped, sending her pen rolling off the desk. “Has it… What?”

“Exactly what I said,” said Eleanor. “House. Bad in bed. Also, awful at cooking breakfast, not great at words of wisdom, and positively boorish to talk to.”

“Have you had some kind of stroke?” asked Elizabeth, reaching for her phone with a look of concern.

“No, no,” Eleanor said, waving a hand. “What I mean is that I think that all this time I’ve been in love with a house. Or, perhaps more accurately, the idea of a house. What it stood for. Just the other day, Samson told my grandmother that she shouldn’t call herself dowager, that she shouldn’t define herself by what her husband was. But here I am, defining myself by a house, which is equally ridiculous, if not more so.”

“Your grandmother met Samson?” asked Elizabeth, trying desperately to keep up.

“You can’t build a life with a house, Elizabeth. It won’t argue with you about tea brands or tease you for having an irrational fear of liquid soap. It won’t hold you when you’re half asleep and pretend not to notice that you’re crying at a film.”

Elizabeth blinked. “You’re scaring me a little.”

“I’m scaring myself,” Eleanor said, leaning back. “But I need to be scared. I need to break out of my life, otherwise I’ll never find anything new, will I?”

“This is about Danni, isn’t it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes.” There was no point in lying. Elizabeth would find out sooner or later.

“Mmmhmm. You wanted to file for divorce.”

“I know,” Eleanor said.

“But now you don’t?”

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