Chapter Fifteen
Now that Christiana had an eye for the house and the accounts, she reviewed the expenses over the past two years.
In part, because she wished to have a better idea of how much running a house of this size would cost—the scope of this estate compared to that of her father’s house was so different as to be incomparable.
And in part because when reviewing the accounts, she had discovered some discrepancies.
The historic expenses revealed still more.
To a less discerning eye, perhaps, the discrepancies were small enough to go unnoticed.
A slightly higher coal budget, ordered in equal amounts for all rooms, despite only some being regularly heated.
These numbers did not also dip as much as Christiana had been expecting over summer.
This was summer, and Christiana could see that the fires were infrequently lit, often only in mornings and evenings when the temperature dropped.
And the number of candles ordered per room seemed a trifle high, too. Again, not by enough to cause alarm, but enough that Christiana, with her keen eye for figures, noticed.
To be sure, she checked the price of coal and candles over the past two years; if the prices had risen over the periods where too much had been ordered, that might have explained it.
Only they hadn’t.
And when Christiana visited the coal stores, she did not find an amount that, in her eye, matched the amount that had been ordered.
Or that had ostensibly been ordered.
She chewed her lip. Another delivery of coal was due in two weeks. Hugh, evidently, trusted the old retainers and had never thought to question if the funds they requested reflected the amount spent on these everyday household items.
Linen, too.
If Christiana was right, someone—likely Mrs. Patridge or Penwick, or perhaps even both—was skimming off the top of the household. Given the scope of the figures they were dealing with, over at least the five years of accounts Christiana had checked, it would amount to a nice little nest egg.
She thought back to the way Mrs. Partridge had reluctantly handed her the books of accounts, at first trying to claim they hadn’t existed. It was only after Christiana had begun to look herself that the accounts had magically revealed themselves.
Penwick was harder to read. He didn’t like her, that much was obvious, but he had nothing to do with her. If anything, he went out of his way to have nothing to do with her.
In short, she had suppositions and very little proof. More to the point, Hugh evidently valued his retainers a great deal, referring to them as part of the family. By the sounds of it, Penwick had been working for the Westfields since before Hugh had been born.
And yet… it was the principle of the thing. Stealing at any time was awful, a betrayal of trust. But to do so in the aftermath of the fire, when the house had been in the process of being rebuilt and the estate had been hemorrhaging money in order to make that happen—that was downright diabolical.
Christiana returned to the little parlor she had commandeered as her private study and rang the bell. A few moments later—perhaps fractionally longer than should have been expected—Mrs. Partridge entered the room. She inclined her head in a parody of respect. “You rang, Your Grace?”
At least, the modiste having made up and delivered clothes, Christiana looked the part of a duchess. “I did,” she said, keeping her voice friendly. “I’m trying to get my head around the household accounts.”
Mrs. Partridge stiffened. The movement was slight, but Christiana had been watching for a reaction. The flicker of the housekeeper’s eyes toward the door, the way her hands tensed fractionally before her.
It seemed Mrs. Partridge, at least, was guilty of something.
“I’ve noticed a large budget for wine and candles,” Christiana continued. “Please explain this to me. I understand His Grace rarely”—never—“entertains.”
Mrs. Partridge blinked rapidly. “Mr. Penwick is in charge of the wine, ma’am.”
Oh, was he now? Mrs. Partridge had no sense of loyalty, it seemed. “I see.” Christiana tapped a finger against the desk. “I will address that with him, then. And the candles?”
At this, Mrs. Partridge’s smile returned, a trifle scornful. “This is a large house, Your Grace, and it requires a great deal of candles to keep it illuminated. Perhaps you do not have ample experience running such an elegant household.”
Christiana would not lose her temper. She would not.
But she was goaded into smiling. “Quite right,” she said pleasantly.
“I am not. Which is why I calculated the number of rooms—lived in, you understand—and the number of hours per day for which each might be illuminated. I assumed, for the purpose of the exercise, that His Grace and Lady Amelia were in separate rooms every evening, and I took into account the additional hours of darkness over winter, and the subsequent fewer hours of darkness over summer. You may see my workings here.” She slid paper covered in calculations across the desk, but Mrs. Partridge barely glanced at it.
“In the interest of preserving the grandeur and elegance of the house, I erred greatly on the side of generosity, and yet the number falls short of the total amount you have ordered over the past few years. Can you show me where all the additional candles are stored?”
Mrs. Partridge’s expression soured. “They are in the lamp room upstairs, ma’am.”
“I was there earlier and found only enough candles to sustain five rooms a night at full brightness until the next delivery is scheduled.”
“Then I couldn’t tell you, ma’am.”
“I see.” Christiana folded her hands in her lap. “Then perhaps you can explain the coal.”
“The coal?”
“According to the accounts, we are using a great deal of coal per year, and I was wondering how we might economize. Or, perhaps, there has been a mistake in the accounts?”
Mrs. Partridge’s back turned rigid. “What are you accusing me of, Your Grace?”
“It would be a shame if I were to discover that the bookkeeping here at Somerset Hall had been deliberately fumbled, Mrs. Partridge, particularly when His Grace himself relies on you and Penwick to run things smoothly.” Christiana began to rise. “I do not tolerate thieves.”
The woman gave an outraged squawk. “How dare you?”
“Quite easily, I assure you. You may leave me now. And, if you please, send Penwick to me.”
Mrs. Partridge scowled and whisked away with a rattle of keys. Well, this explained her hostility. Christiana was not merely an unwelcome new mistress; she was a threat to their plot.
What she needed now was evidence beyond all doubt.
After all, the bookkeeping here did leave a lot to be desired; there was no cash book recording the sums received or paid on a weekly basis.
All she had were the quarterly accounts, which made the day-to-day workings of the house far more difficult to untangle.
Hugh, loyal to his servants, would be more likely to assume an error in the numbers rather than a deliberate ploy to separate him from a portion of his wealth.
If there was proof out there, Christiana would find it. As this house’s mistress, it was her responsibility to protect it, and she had every intention of doing so, even if that meant dismissing the culprits.