Chapter 6 #2
They reviewed additional entries. Most aligned precisely with her recollection. One or two bore similar peculiarities, subtle but undeniable. Not theft, not extravagance, but the timing did not conform to her usual order.
She felt heat rise along her neck. “I sign my own payments,” she said quietly.
“I know that you do,” he replied.
She looked up at him sharply. There was no mockery in his expression, only concern. “How many are there?” she asked.
“Three anomalies in six months,” he said. “It is enough to merit an inquiry but not enough to condemn.”
Her thoughts moved swiftly. She trusted Kendall. She had always trusted him. Yet trust was not proof. If she dismissed this without investigation and it later proved to be worse, her authority would be undermined far more profoundly than by allowing a review.
She exhaled. “You will not approach the bank, will you?”
“Not without your consent.”
“You will not accuse Mr. Kendall?”
“Not without evidence.”
She considered him carefully. “What will happen if the evidence suggests mismanagement?”
“Then you will address it,” he replied.
That answer settled something in her. He was not attempting to seize authority. He was returning it. She closed the ledger gently. “Very well,” she said. “We will review all the quarterly accounts thoroughly.”
A faint inclination of his head acknowledged the decision without triumph.
They bent again over the columns. The room grew quiet save for the turning of pages and the occasional measured question.
As the day advanced, Francesca felt indignation transform into something more complex—not fear, precisely, but vigilance.
If Kendall had taken liberties, whether through carelessness or ambition, she would uncover it herself.
Major Manners might have initiated the scrutiny, but she would conduct it, and she would not, under any circumstance, permit her fortune to become an instrument of chaos through her complacency.
When at last she straightened, hours later, she felt altered.
“You have your review,” she said evenly. “How would you propose I proceed?” It was a concession to ask his advice, to be sure, but thus far he had not been condescending and truly appeared to be acting at her uncle’s behest.
He did not answer immediately, and she appreciated that more than any prompt reassurance. He closed the ledger with deliberate care, aligning its edges against the desk.
“First,” he said at last, “we determine the scope.”
“Scope?” she repeated.
“These entries span only one year.”
She felt herself frown. “I have but one year’s worth of ledgers with me. It could have been occurring longer, but that would have been under my father’s supervision.”
She had not meant to speak that last sentence aloud. It emerged unbidden, edged with something that felt perilously close to defensiveness.
Major Manners did not seize upon it. He did not soften either. He regarded her with unwavering attention. “Then we do not speculate beyond what we can examine,” he said. “Your father is not here to answer for decisions. You are.”
It was not accusation, it was simple reality. She found, to her irritation, that she did not resent him for saying it. She drew in a measured breath. “Very well. We must determine whether these discrepancies are isolated to this year.”
“And whether they increase in frequency,” he added.
She nodded once. “What will it mean, do you suppose, if they do not?”
“Then it may be incompetence or clerical error. If they do…”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“If they do,” she supplied coolly, “then I have been inattentive.”
“That would not be my conclusion.”
“It would be mine,” she replied tartly. “It is my name attached to those cheques.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Then allow me to refine the language. If they increase, then someone has taken advantage of your confidence.”
She did not like that phrasing either, but it was closer to the truth.
Confidence was not blindness. It was trust exercised without suspicion.
She had never considered that suspicion might be necessary.
“How do you propose we investigate without alerting Mr. Kendall?” she asked.
“I would need him to send me any previous years’ ledgers. ”
He rested his hands lightly upon the desk, fingers interlaced, as though he were addressing strategy rather than finance.
“We do nothing publicly,” he said. “You continue as you have. You request no explanations yet.”
“Privately, however, I may do something, I trust?”
“You shall request duplicate ledgers and enquire of the bank.”
Her brows drew together. “Duplicate ledgers?”
“The copies retained by the mills,” he clarified. “Every transaction passes through more than one hand. If figures differ between the originating book and the consolidated ledger, we will know where the alteration occurred.”
Francesca considered this. It was sensible—irritatingly sensible. “If they match, what then?”
“Then the alteration occurred before it reached them.”
“In consequence of which the field is narrowed to Kendall and the bank.”
“Yes.”
She walked slowly towards the window, needing movement to sort her thoughts. The street beyond carried its ordinary noise: wheels upon stone, a vendor’s distant call, the life of London proceeding with supreme indifference to her dawning uncertainty.
“Kendall has managed these accounts since just before my father’s illness,” she said quietly. “He attended our household as a boy. His father taught him every ledger Vale Hall ever kept.”
“That history therefore makes him trustworthy,” Major Manners observed.
“It does,” she answered firmly, before adding, more quietly, “or it did.”
He did not move closer. He did not attempt to offer comfort. She appreciated the restraint.
“If this is an error,” she continued, “it may be zeal rather than malice.”
“Zeal can be as dangerous,” he said, “particularly when paired with ideology.”
Smartly, she turned back to him. “Do you believe this is political?”
“I think money travels where belief directs it,” he replied evenly.
She knew that was true. She had directed her own funds towards ventilation improvements and housing for her workers because she believed conditions must change. If Kendall believed reform required agitation rather than negotiation…
She closed her eyes briefly. “He attends salons,” she said. “He has introduced me to several, including the one yesterday.”
“Does he attend often?” Major Manners asked.
“I do not know for certain,” she said slowly. “I believe so. He seems to be well informed about them.”
“Informed is rarely passive,” he said.
Her pulse quickened again. She disliked the direction of her own thoughts. She disliked even more that they were aligning with his.
“If we pursue this,” she said at last, “we must do so carefully. There must be no confrontation until proof exists, and no accusations.”
“Agreed.”
“If proof does exist,” she continued, holding his gaze now deliberately, “then I will address it myself.”
His expression shifted slightly. It held no objection, just consideration. “Very well,” he said, “but you will not do so alone.”
That was the first assertion which had edged towards protection rather than procedure.
“I have handled my affairs alone for a year,” she replied.
“You have done so well,” he acknowledged. “That is precisely why Sir Percival does not wish you to be taken advantage of now.”
She felt the faintest stirring of reluctant gratitude. It unsettled her more than anger would have done. “Very well,” she said again. “You may assist if we deem it necessary.”
He nodded. “What do you propose in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” she said, straightening, “I shall behave precisely as I have been doing. I shall attend my salons and implement my reforms. I shall allow no hint of suspicion to fall.”
A faint flicker of approval crossed his features.
“You do this well,” he said.
“What do I do well? Suspicion?” she asked dryly.
“Composure.”
She did not smile. “If Mr. Kendall has misused my funds,” she said, “he has misjudged me entirely.”
“Perhaps,” Major Manners replied, “he believes you will hesitate to accuse a man long trusted.”
“Then he mistakes loyalty for weakness.”
“Many do.”
The words hung between them with more resonance than she would have expected.
She studied him then—not as an adversary or escort, but as a gentleman who, that morning, had chosen restraint over authority.
He had requested permission rather than assumed it; he had reasoned rather than commanded and he had returned the decision to her.
She had expected resentment at his intrusion.
Instead she felt something more complex—a grudging awareness that his intervention might have prevented a greater humiliation to come.
“You must understand,” she said quietly, “that if this proves nothing, I will not have you hovering.”
“I would not endure that either,” he said evenly.
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth curved faintly.
“If it proves nothing,” Major Manners replied, “it is contained here between us.”
She exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she said, “between us alone.”
There was something bracing about that thought.
She closed the final ledger and tied its ribbon neatly. “We will proceed carefully,” she said again.
He rose. “As you wish, Miss Vale.”
“I will say this, however,” she continued. “If I have been careless, I prefer to know it sooner rather than later.”
“You have not been careless,” he said, adding, almost dryly, “You have been occupied with improving the world, which leaves little time for guarding against those who claim to assist you in doing so.”
She let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh.
“I begin to suspect,” she said, “that I dislike being outmanoeuvred more than I dislike being doubted.”
“Then we must ensure that neither occurs,” he replied.
When he took his leave, she remained standing in the quiet room long after the door had closed.
If Kendall had erred, she would confront him. If he had betrayed her, she would remove him.
If Major Manners believed he had merely assisted in reviewing her books, he might soon discover that he had done something more dangerous. He had made her look again. Once alerted, she would not look away.