Chapter 12
Francesca was now certain she had neither authorized nor signed those three withdrawals that totalled thousands of pounds.
It had to have been Kendall who had done so.
Why had he not simply asked her? Was the money funding something she would not approve of?
She had to know, but how to do so without breaking her word to Manners?
Francesca pressed her fingers lightly to the glass.
She was becoming aware of Major Manners in a fashion she did not entirely welcome.
It was not merely his presence, which had been impossible to ignore from the first, but rather his judgement, which had begun to intrude upon her thoughts with inconvenient persistence.
She found herself recalling not only what he had said but how he had said it—without presumption, without condescension, and with a presence that had unsettled her more than a show of authority ever could.
There was a peculiar confidence in it; one she had not granted him deliberately and yet one that had taken root all the same.
She did not like it—or rather, she did not like how much she trusted it.
Francesca had never been inclined to defer to a gentleman’s opinion merely because he held it with conviction.
She had seen too many convictions poorly founded and too many assurances proven hollow.
Yet Major Manners did not persuade by force of will.
He had not demanded her compliance, nor had he dismissed her capability.
Instead, he had placed the truth before her and left her to reach it of her own accord.
That, perhaps, was the most disquieting part of all.
She turned from the window and back to her desk, though she did not immediately sit down. Her gaze fell again upon the ledgers, upon the careful lines and ordered sums that had once represented control and now suggested intrusion.
There was a knock on the door, and Francesca turned to see who it was.
“A Mr. Kendall to see you, miss.”
“Please show him in.”
“Good morning, Thomas. Please have a seat.”
Kendall did not take the seat she had indicated. Instead, he moved towards her desk.
Francesca watched him without appearing to do so. He crossed the room with an ease that spoke not merely of familiarity, but of long habit. There was no hesitation in him, no pause to ask permission, no awareness that the ground he trod might no longer be entirely his.
His gloved fingers rested lightly against the edge of the desk, as though testing its solidity, and then, with the most natural motion in the world, he reached towards the ledger she had left closed but not concealed.
“You are still at war with your accounts, I see,” he said, his tone mild.
Before she could answer, he opened it. The sound of the cover lifting was soft, but to Francesca it rang with an intolerable clarity.
He turned a page, then another; not hurriedly, or furtively.
He examined the columns with the same composed attention she had seen all her life, the same quiet authority that had once reassured her, that had once made the burdens of management seem shared rather than borne alone.
“You have always been thorough,” he continued, as though this were nothing more than habit between them. “Your father would have been gratified to see it.”
Francesca did not move at once. She forced herself to remain where she stood, her hands lightly clasped and her posture composed.
She allowed only her eyes to move, following his.
There was no tension in him, no sign that he suspected anything had altered between them.
He stood at her desk as though he still belonged there—as though the ledgers, the decisions, the authority they represented were still, in part, his to guide.
He turned another page and paused, his gaze narrowing slightly in concentration.
The gesture was so familiar that for a moment it threatened to undo her resolve.
This was Thomas, her childhood friend, now man of business.
He stood before her as though nothing had changed.
“Manchester has been demanding of late,” he said, still looking down at the page. “The mills require more attention than they once did. Expansion brings complications.”
Francesca shifted then, slowly and deliberately. “Yet the figures,” she said, her voice even, “do not reflect many changes. They appear quite orderly.”
He glanced up at that, and for a brief moment—no more than briefly—something changed in his expression. It was gone almost at once, replaced by that same composed attentiveness she knew so well.
“Orderly figures,” he replied, “are the result of careful management.”
“Indeed.”
“It is a wonder you have time for this whilst preparing for a Season.”
“I think perhaps I worry I will not have time once the Season is underway, so I am working more now.”
He smiled at that.
Francesca allowed her gaze to drop—not to the page itself, but to his hand resting upon it, which was controlled and entirely at ease.
How many times had that same hand guided hers across a column, corrected a miscalculation, reassured her when she had doubted herself… and how many times, she wondered now, had it written without her knowledge?
Francesca felt resolved then, with a clarity that admitted no retreat. He was still the man she had known, with the same voice, the same composure, the same careful intelligence. Nothing in his manner suggested disorder or guilt.
Had ambition grown where once there had only been diligence? Had belief hardened into something less flexible, less accountable? Or had she simply never seen him clearly before, content as she had been to trust what was familiar rather than examine what lay beneath it?
“You are quiet,” Kendall said.
She met his gaze. “I am thinking.”
“That has always been dangerous.”
“For whom?” she asked lightly.
“For anyone who mistakes your reserve for compliance.”
A corner of her mouth curved faintly. “Then they would be disappointed.”
“Why the sudden interest, Francesca?” he asked quietly, using her name as he had not done since he had taken over her accounts.
Francesca drew a slow breath, steadying herself.
It would not do to indulge speculation without purpose.
She required facts, not impressions. Manners had been correct in that, however irritating it was to admit.
Still, she could not dismiss what she had seen—not in the ledger, not in Kendall’s expression, and not in that fleeting, telling moment when she had spoken of funding.
She allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to appear thoughtful rather than strategic.
Her thoughts returned to the idea that had formed so clearly only moments before, and now it began to take shape with greater precision.
If she presented herself as willing—if she allowed him to believe that she might support his efforts more directly—then he would be obliged to reveal how such support would be used.
He would have to name channels, sums and purposes.
“You spoke yesterday,” she said at last, as though returning to an earlier subject, “of the need for support.”
Kendall’s attention sharpened, although subtly done. Francesca held his gaze. “If I wished to do more,” she continued, keeping her tone so composed it was almost idle, “to assist what you described… what would you suggest?”
There was the look again; not greed—never that—but something far more controlled. He had expected her to offer, or, at the very least, he had not been surprised by the possibility.
Kendall inclined his head slightly, as though considering how best to frame what he already understood.
“If you wished to assist,” he said, his tone measured and entirely reasonable, “there are several avenues that would prove… effective… without attracting undue attention. Certain publications require discreet patronage to ensure they continue circulation, and there are speakers—very respectable men—who would benefit from modest support in bringing their arguments before a wider audience.”
He paused, watching her carefully. “Nothing improper, I assure you, simply the quiet encouragement of ideas that might otherwise struggle to be heard.”
She would not accuse him without proof. She had given her word, and she would keep it. Yet neither would she remain passive while the truth moved just beyond her reach. If he wished her to be involved, then she would be involved.
She allowed herself a small, humourless smile at that. Major Manners would, no doubt, call it strategy. However, she would not, under any circumstances, be made a fool.
“Very well, then. I would like to contribute, but I want an accounting of every last penny.”
“Then you shall have it. We can do so much together, Francesca.”
There was her name again. He took his leave, and she only felt relief.
Her gaze shifted towards the door through which Kendall had departed not long before. “You should have asked me,” she said softly, though he was no longer there to hear it.
The words did not ease her. If anything, they hardened her resolve.
She sat and penned a note, then asked the butler to have it delivered to Major Manners. He would know where to find him. It was bold, but she had to know the truth.
When Manners received her note, he would understand. He would send someone discreet, someone capable of verifying the expenses without drawing any attention.
Once they knew the truth, then the matter would cease to be one of suspicion.
Francesca had not long been alone before the quiet of the house was broken once more, this time with a decisiveness that suggested purpose rather than courtesy. Nelly appeared at the door with a look that required no explanation.
“Major Manners, miss.”
Francesca did not permit herself to hesitate. “Show him in.”
She remained where she stood by the desk, the ledgers still spread before her, although now arranged with deliberate care rather than agitation.