Chapter 8
The study lay in half-shadow, the pale light of morning dulled by a heavy sky.
Rain had passed in the night, leaving streaks upon the tall windows, and the damp clung to the air with a chill that the cold grate couldn’t dispel.
Outside, the wind rattled weakly at the panes, a hollow accompaniment to the silence that filled the room.
Frederick stood at the window, the glass blurring the view beyond.
The clouds hung low and gray, painting the world in muted tones, but the garden maintained a quiet dignity with the promise of beauty waiting to rise again.
His gaze followed the winding path that led around the planting beds and hedges, though he saw none of it.
“Our performance at the Spring Market was disappointing,” said Frederick, frowning at the glass once more before dismissing the expression and facing Mr. Gleason.
The steward sat before the desk, his bushy brows pulled low. “The home farm was started by your grandfather as a lark. It was never meant to be a significant source of income. And with the poor harvest last year, I would say we performed well enough.”
Taking the seat opposite the fellow, Frederick leaned his elbows on the polished desktop. “You mentioned that before, but I am afraid I still do not understand why our harvest was so poor, compared to others.”
“Tools break. It is a fact of farming,” said Mr. Gleason with a considering frown. “Happens a lot at harvest, and the smithy can’t mend them all at the same time—”
Frederick held up a staying hand, and though he was master here, the steward gave that lordly gesture a raise of his brow as an indulgent smile tickled his lips.
Dropping his hand, Frederick sighed at himself; one couldn’t maintain an air of dignity when the other had seen one in short pants and leading strings.
“I understand the issue of the tools needing repairs and the limited access to forges,” said Frederick, though it seemed like bad business to have so much depending on the few blacksmiths in town.
However, there was nothing to be done about it as each tool was individually forged, and thus, mending them required individual attention.
“I am confused as to why we do not have extra tools on hand. It seems like a significant oversight.”
“It is,” said Mr. Gleason with a nod. “But as I said, the home farm is hardly ten percent of the estate’s income, so diverting funds into extra tools and modernizations is less important than seeing to the tenants’ cottages. There are a great deal of repairs to be made.”
Silence followed that as Frederick considered the demands of his pocketbook and the income at hand. “What else can we do to increase the profitability of the estate?”
Mr. Gleason leaned back in his seat, resting his interlocked fingers upon his stomach.
“After two decades of managing Dunsby Hall, I can say with all confidence that it is operating efficiently. At present, my main concern is the issue of the tenants’ cottages.
They form the bulk of your income, and without them, the estate will fall to pieces, which is far more concerning than the home farm. ”
Frederick drummed his fingers against the wood and considered that. “Could we increase their rent?”
Brows leaping upward, the steward shook his head. “Their leases will not allow it. Not at this time, at any rate. And even if it were possible, I would beg you not to. Your father has already increased the at-will tenancies beyond what is wise.”
Straightening, Frederick stared at the man who had worked alongside his father for so many years.
The steward was by no means grizzled—he was dressed as a gentleman, looking the part as much as any—yet there was such age written into his features, with experience chiseled into every line.
Mr. Gleason would not speak ill of his previous employer, but there was judgment burning in his gaze, and Frederick wondered just how much the fellow knew.
“I will not raise the rents,” said Frederick, for the words needed to be spoken even if he hadn’t the means to alter those amounts. “But as you mentioned, there are issues to address that require ready money on hand.”
“If there is none to be had, the trouble does not lie on my end,” said Mr. Gleason with a knowing tone, and Frederick stared at the man, whose livelihood and family relied upon the success of Dunsby Hall as much as the Vosses.
Was it possible that Mr. Gleason didn’t know about the issues surrounding the finances? Unlikely. And Frederick supposed that if the steward were entirely ignorant, then it was time to relieve him of his duties.
With that fatherly face staring back at him, Frederick knew what needed to be done. Or at least his next step.
“The family is bankrupt.” Four words. So very small. Yet speaking them felt like someone had driven a nail straight into his heart. Facts were easier to ignore when they remained hidden. Denial thrived in silence.
Mr. Gleason straightened, his hands falling to his knees as he stared at Frederick. “I am well aware of the financial issues that plagued your father, but surely, it isn’t so bad as all that.”
“I am still waiting to hear about a final investment.” Frederick sighed, and he refused to let his mind question whether or not it would pay out. “If its returns are even half what Mr. Howlett promised, then we can pay off the bulk of our debts, though we will still have the mortgage to manage—”
“Mortgage?” asked Mr. Gleason, pinching the bridge of his nose.
And with that, Frederick unraveled the whole of the trouble. The failed investments, Mr. Howlett’s silence, the bills and dunning letters flooding his study. As hopeless as so much of it seemed, the more he spoke of that lingering hope, the more he felt certain it would set things to rights.
“I understand the canal speculation failing—so many of those ventures ended in bitter disappointment—but a fenland drainage scheme is far less risky,” said Frederick.
“Though I think Mr. Howlett’s predictions were generous, it seems genuine and is led by men who are known to succeed more often than they fail. ”
“That is true enough,” said Mr. Gleason with a considering hum as he reviewed the documents Frederick handed over. “What is the latest news from Mr. Howlett?”
Frederick’s throat tightened. “He is not answering my letters.”
“That is concerning, but we needn’t borrow trouble yet,” said the steward, glancing at the other papers spread across the desk. “You have enough to manage without adding that to your plate. Succeed or fail, the canal scheme shan’t erase the mortgage.”
Frederick nodded. “Retrenchment is the only option. If we cut expenditures to the necessities, we can limp along until our fortunes turn.”
Mr. Gleason huffed, a sound that might have been support or warning, and Frederick chose to believe it was the former.
“Do you know what to trim, Master Frederick?”
“I examined the ledgers,” he began, projecting far more confidence than he felt.
The costs of coal, food, servants, and the rest swam together until his head began to spin, and Frederick forced himself to meet the steward’s eye.
Mother was of no help with such matters, for she knew even less than him about reasonable costs, but here was a fellow who knew far more than either of them.
“But I haven’t the slightest notion of what is reasonable,” said Frederick, his shoulders slumping. “Father taught me about the estate, but he was never one for economizing.”
There wasn’t a hint of mockery or condemnation in Mr. Gleason’s eyes as he gave a firm nod and set about explaining each expenditure, leading Frederick along as though he were an equal rather than the ignorant fool he felt himself to be.
But with each turn of the ledger, Mr. Gleason’s bushy brows furrowed deeper, the lines on his face growing more pronounced (which did nothing to soothe Frederick’s fraying nerves).
“What is this?” mumbled Mr. Gleason, frowning at a line in the ledger, and when Frederick crooked his head to see it, the fellow hummed low in his throat as he considered the entry. “I am the only one who collects rents and revenues, yet your father recorded a sum in November.”
“That was six months ago,” said Frederick. “You cannot expect to remember every transaction.”
“I would remember this,” said Mr. Gleason, his expression darkening as he studied it.
“We do not sell at any markets in November, and our rents are fixed. While there is some variability when tenants are short in their payments, fifty pounds would be quite memorable. I do not know where this money came from.”
A faint tightness gathered in Frederick’s chest, spreading downward until his stomach felt somehow both hollow and churning. Mr. Gleason’s tone and the quiet rasp of the man’s finger as it ran along the paper made the air feel heavier, and a chill skittered down his spine.
“Where could the money have come from?” asked Frederick, and before he finished speaking, a thought passed through his mind.
A little voice of warning whispered a sharp word that had his eyes darting to another ledger that remained sitting on the shelf beside them—a book that ought to have been returned to the church for safekeeping after the recent annual review.
But there’d been no discrepancies in the parish’s finances.
Every expenditure had been clearly labeled, the figures neatly ordered and tallied.
Frederick had pored over the records multiple times before presenting his findings to the vestry council, and all was as it should be.
So, there was no reason to suspect anything untoward.
Yet fifty pounds had appeared in the Vosses’ coffers.
Reaching over, Frederick took hold of the church’s ledger and flipped through the pages to the entries from last November. Finger sliding along the lines, he stopped at an expense dated the same as his father’s ledger. For the same amount.
Window glazing and roof repairs. Innocent enough. The village had seen a hard wind last autumn, the sort that might well have necessitated repairs to the church. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Gleason, and Frederick snapped the book shut.
“Would you review your records and our ledgers for any discrepancies, including dates and amounts? I wish to know if there are any others.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Gleason, slanting a look from the corner of his eye, though his face remained turned to the page.
But Frederick didn’t wish to voice his suspicions.
Clearly, they were just a flight of fancy.
Nothing but the wild speculation of a worn mind.
Mr. Gleason would review it all and discover the mistake that had been made, and all would be right again.
How he wished Thea were there beside him.
She didn’t know a thing about ledgers or accounts, yet she possessed the rare gift of seeing straight through the chaos of things—of finding the clear, simple truth beneath all the tangle.
When the world tilted beneath his feet, she set it to rights again with nothing more than a word or a quiet touch.
No doubt his chums would laugh at that, but they didn’t know the love of a good woman.
They didn’t understand that a wife was more than a pretty face to warm the bed.
They’d never experienced the utter joy of having someone who supported and uplifted, of a friend and confidant who would walk alongside him to Hell and back.
But could he ask that of her?
As Mr. Gleason explained the current state and what was needed to bridge the gap between their income and their expenditures, Frederick couldn’t help but see that if the family was to overcome the damage Father had done, there would be many difficult days ahead. A good many. Perhaps all of them.
“With everything cut to the bare bones, and if the drainage scheme pays out, then it might be possible to keep Dunsby Hall,” said Mr. Gleason, though there was a suppressed sigh in his tone.
For all that Frederick had worried about the family’s future, he hadn’t thought of it in such grave terms. “You think we may lose our home?”
“Or you may need to let it out.” Mr. Gleason considered the figures before him as the silence stretched.
“I have a solicitor in Lincoln, whom I trust implicitly. He is the soul of discretion and can assess the property and assets to give us a fair approximation of the value so that we can choose the best solution. It may be that we can simply sell off some furnishings and incidentals to make ends meet.”
Frederick drew in a deep breath. “If you think it is best.”
“I think it is important to explore all options at our disposal,” said Mr. Gleason. “Even if you sold every last bit of furniture and slept on the floor, it would be worthwhile if it meant keeping the estate intact, would it not?”
“Absolutely.”
Timothy didn’t mind one jot; his brother often slept wherever his feet carried him and ought to return to his post in Leeds regardless.
But it was impossible to imagine his mother or sister doing so, and Frederick’s heart chilled at the thought of asking Thea to live in such a diminished state.
But surely, it would be worth it. To be together in their family home.
Mr. Gleason wrote out his instructions, and Frederick examined each line item. This would be difficult to manage, but if the family banded together, they could do it. He knew it.
But when the steward finally took his leave, the silence closed in at once.
For a time, Frederick sat motionless at the desk, his eyes on the neat columns the steward had drawn up—each figure so deceptively simple, each instruction so clear.
It all appeared manageable while the man was there to explain it and lend his quiet certainty.
But as the minutes slipped by and the gray morning dulled into afternoon, that certainty began to fray.
The house creaked in the stillness, the sound deep and resonant, as though Dunsby Hall itself took offense at the indignity of such brutal cuts.
The timbers groaned with every springtime gust, the floorboards creaked with each passing footstep, and the wind whispered along the chimney like a sigh of reproach.
The numbers swam on the page, shifting like sand beneath his feet. He would do it—he must—but that conviction now trembled, replaced by the heavy feeling that ruin was coming to the Vosses no matter what steps he took.
Heavens. He needed Thea.
Leaning his head back against the chair, Frederick stared at the ceiling as he wondered when he had become so dependent on her.
It wasn’t as though he were incapable of making decisions on his own, but in the months they’d been courting, he’d come to rely on her in every aspect of his life.
Thea couldn’t alter what was to come, but her mere presence soothed and strengthened.
Yet Frederick knew he could do this. He would.