Chapter 6
Francesca had risen early with the determined intention of mastering her daily correspondence before London could intrude upon her thoughts.
The morning light in her sitting room was pale but illuminating the small escritoire where she kept the most recent estate summaries.
Her fashionable morning gown of rose lawn did not keep the chill at bay, so she pulled one of her mother’s old shawls about her shoulders.
She had just broken the seal on a letter from Warwickshire, regarding loom repairs, when the butler announced Major Manners.
Francesca did not immediately look up. She finished the paragraph she was reading, placed the sheet neatly aside, and only then permitted herself to meet his gaze.
He stood precisely where propriety dictated, his expression polite but unyielding.
“Miss Vale,” he said with a slight inclination of the head.
“Major Manners,” she replied coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She had resolved not to show irritation at his presence, yet the word pleasure required deliberate effort.
He seemed to recognize that fact and did not pretend otherwise.
She became aware, despite herself, of the care in his appearance.
His dark coat, impeccably cut, lent a quiet authority to his already composed manner, while the stark whiteness of his cravat drew the eye upward to a face that betrayed little but attention.
There was nothing careless in him—not in the fall of his sleeve, nor the set of his shoulders—and she found, with some irritation, that even his restraint carried a kind of distinction.
Before she could say more, the footman appeared—and held out a small silver tray. Upon it lay two calling cards.
Francesca did not touch them. “Who has called?” she asked, with a weariness that was far older than one-and-twenty.
“Mr. Harcourt, miss,” the footman said, and then, after a fractional pause that betrayed respect, “and Lord Ashbourne.”
Nelly, hovering at the door with ill-disguised interest, made a small sound—half amusement, half alarm.
Major Manners’ gaze flicked, very briefly, to the cards. His expression did not change; it merely shifted in a way Francesca recognized as the polite face of displeasure.
“Tell them,” Major Manners said, “that Miss Vale is not receiving callers today.”
The footman withdrew, clearly relieved to be spared further particulars.
“You dare to answer for me? I had not the choice of refusing you.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“No.”
He gave an arrogant nod as if he had anticipated her response. “I have come on a matter of business,” he said evenly, “to request permission to review your estate ledgers.”
She stared at him. For a moment she wondered if she had misheard. The audacity was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it felt almost unreal.
“You have come,” she repeated, her voice now very clear, “to examine my accounts?”
“At Sir Percival’s request.”
Her cheeks warmed, though not with embarrassment. “My uncle has no authority to audit my records without my consent.”
“Nor would I presume to proceed without it,” he replied.
The temperate tone irritated her more than condescension might have done.
“What, pray,” she demanded, “does my uncle imagine is amiss?”
He did not answer immediately. The restraint was deliberate, she surmised.
“He imagines nothing in particular,” Major Manners said at last, “which is precisely the difficulty.”
Francesca rose slowly from her chair. She did not pace about or allow herself that theatrical indulgence. Instead, she placed both hands flat against the edge of her desk.
“My estate is well managed. I am well informed. My workers are well paid. My mills are maintained. If this is another attempt to demonstrate that I require superintendence—”
“It is not,” he interrupted quietly.
She disliked being interrupted. She disliked, even more, that he did it without raising his voice. “Then explain yourself,” she said.
He stepped forward, not close enough to impose but close enough to engage.
“Sir Percival does not possess a head for numbers. He has admitted as much. Ordinarily, a guardian would review quarterly ledgers to ensure regularity. He cannot do so. He has therefore requested that someone with discretion examine them.”
“You presume you are discreet?” she asked sharply.
“I know that I am,” he replied.
She folded her arms. “You may inform my uncle that his concern is unnecessary. Mr. Kendall has handled my accounts since before my father’s death.”
A flicker, brief and unreadable, crossed his expression. “Do you have full confidence in him?”
“I do.” She said it without hesitation. She meant to say it without hesitation.
Kendall had been the only constant in the shifting wreckage of the past year.
When grief had reduced everything to blunt survival, he had kept her going with facts, solutions, and the occasional dry, reassuring line that reminded her she had not ceased to be herself.
Major Manners studied her face as though weighing not merely her words but their cadence. “Then there can be no objection to a review,” he said, “unless you would prefer to undertake it yourself and reassure Sir Percival directly.”
The suggestion struck her more effectively than accusation might have done. She straightened. “I do review them.”
“Do you?” he asked gently. “Or do you sign where advised to do so?”
The inference stung. “You imply negligence.”
“I imply trust,” he corrected. “Trust is not negligence. It is necessary in large estates. The question is, whether or not it is placed wisely.”
Her pulse quickened. She despised the direction of this conversation, yet she could not deny its logic.
She trusted Kendall because she had always trusted him.
His father had served hers. He had grown up within the shadow of Vale Hall.
She had not thought it necessary to scrutinize every figure with suspicion.
“You presume much,” she said, though she knew her voice to be less certain now.
“I presume only that you have more responsibilities than hours,” he replied, “and that you may not relish spending your mornings verifying sums when you are attempting to reform industrial practice.” The faintest note of wryness had entered his tone.
She almost resented that he understood her priorities.
“If this is a stratagem to confine me to account books rather than salons,” she said, “it is transparent.”
“On the contrary,” he answered. “If your accounts are sound, your salons will be better protected.”
That gave her pause.
Before she could retort, he continued. “There are murmurs, Miss Vale. Not of you, but of the climate. Reform is observed. Money is tracked. It would be prudent to ensure no error can be construed as intention.”
“You think I fund unrest,” she said pointedly.
“I think you desire to fund improvements,” he replied. “Sir Percival wishes to ensure that that is all you fund.”
Silence settled between them, taut but not hostile.
She turned away from him briefly and looked towards the window where London moved apace.
She did not like the implication that something might have occurred without her full comprehension.
Even more did she dislike the idea she had not anticipated such a possibility.
“If my uncle is uneasy,” she said at last, “he might have asked me himself.”
Major Manners inclined his head. “He dislikes uncomfortable tasks. He asked that I speak to you instead.”
The image of Sir Percival wrestling with numbers and propriety simultaneously softened her indignation despite herself. “He has always preferred rhetoric to arithmetic,” she admitted.
“Precisely,” Major Manners said.
She inhaled slowly. “You understand that these records are private?”
“Entirely.”
“You understand that my estate is not under military administration?”
“Entirely.”
“And further,” she added, meeting his gaze directly now, “you understand that if I detect condescension, the review will cease at once?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Of course. That is tacitly understood.”
She hesitated only a moment longer before crossing to the cabinet where she stored the quarterly ledgers she had dragged from Manchester. The key felt heavy in her hand. She unlocked the drawer and withdrew three bound volumes. Their weight was familiar, even reassuring.
She placed them upon the desk between them. “You will review them only in my presence,” she said, indicating the chair opposite her own. “You will not remove them from this room.”
“I should expect nothing less.”
She resumed her seat and opened the most recent ledger, its columns neatly ruled, the figures precisely aligned. For a brief, defiant moment she hoped he would find nothing, that his inspection would serve only to confirm her competence.
Pulling forward a chair, Major Manners sat down and then leaned forward, scanning entries with a concentration that was neither hurried nor ostentatious.
He did not question every line. He did not murmur suspicion at ordinary expense.
He read and calculated quietly. Occasionally, he marked a page with a slip of paper, not in accusation but annotation.
After several minutes he said, “May I inquire about this withdrawal?”
She leaned closer despite herself. The sum was not extravagant, but neither was it negligible.
“Ventilation improvements,” she explained, “in the north factory.”
“It appears two days before the authorization is dated,” he observed calmly, showing her the bank’s receipt.
She frowned. “That is impossible.”
He turned the page towards her. The date was clear. The disbursement entry preceded the authorization signature. Her heart gave a small, unwelcome jolt.
“There must be an explanation,” she said.
“There may be,” he replied. “Let us continue.”