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“Thank you for comin’,” Hester said. “I think Jim an’ me were both in need o’ the company o’ others.”

“I was glad to see Jim in such good spirits,” Caroline’s father said. “I shall return next week to see how he’s progressing.”

“Thank you, Reverend. An’ you, too, Caroline.”

“It was a treat to hold Robbie for a little while.” Caroline bobbed another curtsy directed at Lady Farwell. “Good day, my lady.”

“Good day, Caroline,” Lady Farwell said. “Please send word to the house if Meg falls ill. I am sure I speak for Benedict when I say that neither of us shall rest easily until we know she is safely out of quarantine.”

Caroline offered her an acknowledging nod even as sorrow filled her heart. Lady Farwell did not know it yet, but regardless of Benedict’s fondness for Meg, after the way Caroline had spoken to him, it was unlikely that he would reach out to either of them again.

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?”