Chapter 24

Benedict descended the stairs dressed for dinner. The entrance hall was empty, and the only sounds were the distant clink of dishes. The servants were likely finishing their preparations in the dining room, which meant his parents had yet to make an appearance. Veering right, he made for his father's study. If his father had already changed for their evening meal, he'd undoubtedly be biding his time there, waiting for Benedict's mother to arrive.

The door was ajar. Benedict gave a light knock and entered. Just as he'd supposed, his father was seated behind his desk. The ledgers Benedict had removed from Rowe's house lay open in a complex mosaic before him.

"What have you discovered?" Benedict asked.

His father raised his head from the book he was studying, the frown of concentration on his forehead transforming into an expression of deep concern. "Nothing good, I fear."

"Tell me," Benedict said.

"It is the kind of news no father ever wishes to give his heir."

Steeling himself for what might come, Benedict walked around the desk to stand at his father's shoulder. "There is no need for you to bear this burden alone. What is the worst of it?"

"The worst of it?" His father grimaced. "Unfortunately, that will have to wait until I hear from the bank. At this juncture, however, I believe it is safe to say that our finances are in dire straits."

"How dire is dire?"

"As yet, I cannot say for certain. But if Rowe's personal accounting is any indication, we shall be required to make some significant retrenchments in the very near future."

Significant retrenchments.The words echoed through Benedict's mind like the clanging of a lighthouse bell warning of treacherous passage ahead. His father would not use such strong language to speak of moderating expenses at an occasional social event or limiting the number of courses at their evening meals. Retrenchments meant loyal servants and farm laborers losing their jobs. It meant tenants becoming penniless. It meant an inability to assist those currently under their stewardship who were already suffering because of decisions the Farwell Estate steward had made.

"How?" Benedict fought to keep his voice steady even as his anger mounted. "How did a disaster of this magnitude catch us unawares?"

"It seems that what Rowe lacks in integrity, he makes up for in cunning," his father said. "My guess is he has kept just enough income dribbling into our bank account to prevent a banker from sounding an alarm.

"It is well known that those involved in agriculture have suffered losses over the last couple of years. Very few estates have managed as well as we have, quite simply because they lack someone with your passion to oversee the use of the land. It is possible that with the weather laying waste to so many crops, the bank expected our income to be a fraction of what it once was."

"And you believe Rowe took advantage of that assumption," Benedict said.

His father pointed to the small, brown book that Benedict had included with the other more familiar ones. "This is Rowe's personal record. The dates on the entries directly match those in the estate ledgers, but the numbers alongside them differ significantly."

"Can you tell how long this has been going on?" Benedict asked.

"I've reviewed two years' worth of entries. The inconsistencies begin a little over a year ago, with the purchase of our wheat flour. Purchase prices listed in the estate books match our predetermined figures. In Rowe's book, however, there are two columns. One lists the amount received for each flour purchase—a figure that is consistently higher than the price listed in the estate ledgers—and the other lists the amount deposited into the Farwell Estate bank account."

"The second number should be the same as the first, but I assume it is not?" Benedict asked.

"It is less than one-third of the money received."

Benedict's mouth went dry. Less than a third of their expected income. With all the extra seed he'd purchased at inflated prices and the enlargement of the dairy herd this year, he had likely spent every penny of that amount months ago. He thought through some of their most recent expenses. "Did you find any mention of the purchase of a new stanchion?"

"I did." His father turned the pages of the book at his right. "It was listed in the estate ledger three weeks ago, but there was no mention of it in Rowe's book."

"Because it was an expense rather than an income," Benedict said. "What about the apple sapling purchases?"

"The money I withdrew to purchase young trees before I left for London was marked as a deficit."

"Meaning the money was taken out of the bank even though we received no trees."

"So it would seem," his father said. "A second withdrawal—also for apple trees—was made more recently by you."

"The money I paid directly to Thomas Sedgewick," Benedict said.

"Yes."

Benedict set his hands on the desk and leaned forward so that he might see the entries in the ledgers more clearly. "If Rowe has been pocketing these huge sums for months, where has the money gone? And has he been acting alone?"

His father gave a grunt of frustration. "I have yet to find answers to either of those questions."

"Who did he sell the wheat to?"

"Thankfully, there only seems to be one business involved." His father slid a small piece of paper toward him. A name was written on it in his father's hand. Geoffrey Blyton and Sons.

Benedict's head shot up. "You cannot be serious!"

"Completely." His father eyed him warily. "Why?"

"I noticed the name when I glanced at the book in Rowe's office, but I did not realize its full significance. This is the company Rowe has been purchasing flour from for Cook."

His father muttered something unintelligible before slapping his hand onto the desk. "He's playing us for fools, Benedict. He's paid an unknown mill to grind our wheat and had them sell the flour at a profit. When he received the money for the flour, he credited the farm with a fraction of the amount and pocketed the difference. And then, to add insult to injury, he has forced us to buy back our own flour at an inflated price."

In Benedict's chest, disgust mingled with dismay. "I should have paid more attention to the books whilst you were gone."

"It would have been all but impossible to know what Rowe was about without access to his personal ledger," his father said. "I was the one who hired Rowe, and so I must take responsibility for what has happened. I trusted him to do his job in a forthright and honorable way. He has failed to do so." He eyed the books seriously. "Not only shall I require that he own his deceit and repay what he has stolen, but he shall also suffer the consequences of his dishonesty."

"How do you propose to move forward from here?" Benedict asked.

"An official statement from the bank will tell us a great deal. Unfortunately, we shall have to wait to speak to Rowe himself to uncover the breadth of his crimes."

"If he admits to them."

"Oh, he will." His father's voice had hardened. "Rowe may be deceitful, but he cannot refute indisputable evidence." He closed the brown book with a snap. "Until that time, I think it would serve us well to learn more about Geoffrey Blyton and Sons."

"Agreed," Benedict said. "Cook told me that Rowe ordered the flour from Gloucester. Given how often the gentleman visited the place, I imagine that is where we shall find the establishment." He straightened. "I shall go to Gloucester and see what I can uncover."

"Take the carriage in case you encounter bad weather."

Benedict would have preferred to ride Saxon, but he could not fault his father's thinking. "Very well. I shall leave tomorrow morning, immediately after I have checked on the cottage."

"Good gracious! You both look excessively gloomy." At the sound of his mother's voice, Benedict turned toward the door. His mother was standing in the doorway, resplendent in a pink gown decorated with layers of wide lace.

"I fear we have experienced a gloomy sort of day," his father said, moving away from the desk to greet her.

His father was skirting the truth, but Benedict grasped his unspoken message immediately. For now, his mother was not to know what they had lost or how much they yet stood to lose.

"I am very sorry to hear it," she said, blissfully unaware of his father's euphemism. "I have had a rather delightful day, and I have some good news."

Benedict's father raised a curious eyebrow. "If it is good news, I am more than ready to hear it."

"Jim Simkins is recovering well, as is his wife. Their baby is quite delightful. When I saw him in Caroline's arms, he appeared perfectly content—and not the least bit hungry."

Benedict's heart thumped. "You saw Caroline today?"

"Why, yes. At the Simkinses' house. She was there with her father." His mother eyed him a little too attentively. "I confess, that is not the portion of my news that I had thought would interest you most."

"I am excessively pleased to hear that each of the Simkinses is improving. It surely would not be the case without your intervention."

"True." His mother had yet to look away. "But Cook and I would not have known of their lack if it weren't for you and Caroline."

Benedict had been on the receiving end of his mother's knowing look all too often as a child. It never omened well. She saw far too much. Or else he gave away far too much.

Feeling like a ten-year-old boy caught tracking mud through the house, he willed himself not to squirm. "I am doubly glad that we were able to ascertain their need." Credit for that sat securely at Caroline's feet, but it seemed wise to limit his mention of their interactions that day. Instead, he asked a question. "Was Meg at the Simkinses' house also?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Benedict's apprehension increased. "Is she unwell?"

"According to Caroline, she is fine." She paused, her expression grave. "I gather she remains in quarantine because of having been at the farm."

"What?" Benedict's father drew his brows together. "A full explanation, if you please."

Benedict ran his fingers through his hair. "Meg came to the farm to ride Ginger the day we learned that Mr. Rowe had smallpox. Caroline was very concerned that Mr. Rowe had interacted with those working in the stable and that they were now interacting with Meg."

"Her reaction is understandable," his mother said. "Caroline has good reason to be afraid of smallpox."

"Yes, she has," Benedict said.

"Has she not returned to the farm since?" she asked.

"No."

"Benedict." There was a change in the tone of her voice. "Look at me."

When had he looked away? He could not answer the question. He must have done it unconsciously. If his mother saw the anguish that was surely in his eyes, she'd know far more than he wanted her to about his current feelings. He turned his head slightly so he could see her without giving her a full view of his face. "I am not a boy any longer, Mother."

"Of that, I am fully aware," she said. "But if you are as worried about Caroline and her young daughter as I sense you are, might I give you some motherly advice?"

Stifling a sigh, Benedict gave an acquiescent nod. She could say whatever she wished. Thankfully, he did not have to act upon it. "Very well."

"Write to her."

It was not the lecture Benedict had expected. "Write to her?"

"Absolutely. If you wish to know how she and Meg are faring, it stands to reason that she would also be glad to hear that you are well. Give her an update on Mr. Rowe's condition along with the health of the stableboys. I would hazard a guess that given what she has experienced, she could use some reassurance."

"Even if she seeks reassurance, I do not believe she would wish it to come from me."

His mother stared at him. "Whyever not?"

"She no longer trusts my judgment." Saying the words out loud was incredibly difficult, but it was marginally easier than admitting that Caroline believed him callous or that she saw no future with him.

"Good heavens. What did you do wrong?"

"Why would you assume that I did something wrong?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice even.

"Because I've known Caroline since she first learned to walk. She is loyal to a fault."

Benedict folded his arms. "In case it has slipped your mind, you have known me since birth, and to the best of my knowledge, I have yet to be accused of being disloyal or untrustworthy."

"That is true, and I am very glad of it." His mother offered him an all-too-knowing look. "But as you regularly avoid speaking to young ladies at Society events and, therefore, have limited practice in the art, it stands to reason that the error likely lies with you."

Irritation gnawed at him. "Conversing with numberless simpering young ladies and their hovering mothers in a loud ballroom is a very different proposition than engaging in a personal discussion with one remarkable young woman and Giles in a barn full of cows."

His mother met his response with a moment of complete silence, but when she spoke again, her voice was gentle. "Caroline truly is remarkable, isn't she?"

Benedict's shoulders dropped. One sentence and he had said too much.

His mother stepped closer and raised her hand to his cheek. It was a familiar but long-unused gesture, one that she'd employed during his childhood when she'd wished him to give her his full attention.

"Benedict," she said softly. "I love you more than I can say. I recognize that you may have been hurt, but now is not the time to be defensive. With me or with Caroline. I will not ask what happened between the two of you. Rather, I ask that you do whatever you can to smooth things over. If that can be accomplished in a letter, so much the better. Give the note to Giles. He delivers milk to the vicarage every morning. A letter will reach Caroline faster that way than by giving it to Stokes to put in the post. If, however, you feel that your reconciliation must be done in person, then do what you must to speak with her again." She met his eyes. "Your happiness and hers is worth the effort."

Benedict dropped his gaze. Behind him, the ledgers he'd taken from Rowe's house lay open on his father's desk, a tangible reminder of Caroline's fiery accusations. Her criticism had stung, but she had no way of knowing that the welfare of everyone living on the estate was dependent upon his father having access to those books. It was not the kind of information he could freely share—especially with Giles within hearing. If she'd given him the chance to reassure her that his concern for the lives of others far superseded his interest in finances, it would have helped. But his mother was correct; he was not the only one who had been hurt in their exchange. And he needed to do something to set things right.

"I appreciate your wise counsel, Mother," he said, facing her once more.

Her expression softened. "I do not believe you have ever told me that before."

There was more truth to her statement than Benedict cared to admit. He acknowledged the fact with a chagrined smile but could not help but tease her as well. "Ever, Mother? Surely that is an exaggeration. I have a clear memory of expressing my gratitude for your insight when I was eight years old and you told me that eating too many gooseberries caused a stomachache."

"You only listened then because you'd been sick all the previous night," she huffed.

"That may be, but I have been exceptionally wary of gooseberries ever since." He lowered his head and brushed her cheek with a light kiss. "And I shall consider today's counsel equally carefully," he said. "You have my word."

With an approving nod, Benedict's father approached and offered her his arm. "You have given Benedict sound advice, my dear, but may I suggest that we now go in to dinner and allow him to work the rest of this out for himself?"

Benedict's mother set her hand upon his father's sleeve. The smile she gave him was filled with genuine affection. "Thank you, Charles," she said. "Dinner would be marvelous."

* * *

Caroline stared up at the ceiling of her small bedchamber. A sliver of moonlight peeking through a narrow chink in the curtains touched the rafters and cast a shadow across the room's furnishings. The bulky tallboy loomed over her bed, its presence deepening the color of the pale-green comforter from dark gray to black. Her father slept in the next room, and Meg was curled up beside her in the large feather bed. And yet, not since the first time Fred had left her all alone in Portsmouth had she felt so terribly lonely. A tear trickled down her cheek.

It had not taken long for the physical distance that lay between her and Fred to develop into an emotional distance. Although not what she had imagined or wished for in a marriage, the detachment had made their extended time apart bearable. Spending the last few weeks with Benedict had reminded her of what it was to feel true attachment to another. To have the day seem brighter when that person was with her and dimmer when he was not.

Another tear escaped, and Caroline let it roll onto her pillow. After all she'd been through—all she'd learned from past mistakes—how had she allowed her heart to let Benedict in? If only he weren't so kind or considerate or patient with her and with Meg... If only he weren't the man who made her feel stronger, prettier, and better than she really was, then separating herself from him would be so much easier.

Every day since she'd run from him, memories of his laughter at the river and his passionate embrace in the closet had haunted her. Hope rose in her chest whenever she heard a horse approach the vicarage, only to deflate again when the rider continued past. She missed Benedict. More than she ever would have thought possible. And if Meg's constant requests to return to Farwell Farm were any indication, Caroline wasn't the only one who felt that way.

At her side, Meg stirred and muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep. Caroline reached over and ran a soothing hand over her daughter's blonde curls. Meg's even breathing returned, and Caroline offered a silent prayer of thanks that her little girl remained healthy.

Meg loved Benedict. Caroline's hand stilled as the thought took root. Meg loved Benedict. It was a childlike love filled with adoration and complete trust, but was it really so very different from what she herself was feeling? Caroline's fingers trembled. Fears from her past had caused her to speak harshly to Benedict and had sent her running from him, but now that her initial terror had subsided, it was possible to hear the quiet whispers of her heart more clearly. She loved Benedict.

Wiping her damp cheeks, she closed her eyes. "Please, God," she whispered into the darkness. "Let Benedict remain well. And if it be possible, help him forgive me for my unkind words and weakness." She could not bring herself to ask for more. For now, those two things were of most importance.