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Chapter Twenty-three

The Dower House

March 2, 1784

Early evening

Simeon’s papers had been transferred to the Dower House. He was seated at a small desk and stood up when Isidore entered, keeping one hand on the desk, a sheet of paper in his other hand.

Isidore sat down, trying very hard to forget that the last time she saw him, he was naked. “As you didn’t join me for dinner last night, I had no chance to tell you that I went to the village. I bought one hundred and thirty-five yards of wool, and twenty-seven meat pies.”

He blinked and put down the paper. “Do we have a sudden need for meat pies? Or wool?”

“They are gifts from the duchy to the villagers, to mend relations. Everyone in the village will receive a meat pie and five yards of wool, courtesy of the duke and duchess.”

“Ah.” He looked down at the sheet before him. “Did you go into Mopser’s shop?”

“Yes. He sold me the wool.”

Simeon’s jaw clenched. “I have a letter from him demanding back payment for candles.”

“I can imagine there must be many such letters. People apparently believed that your father would have them taken up by the magistrates if they failed to provide the duchy with his requests, even when he didn’t pay,” Isidore said cheerfully. She pulled off her gloves and smoothed them on her knee.

Simeon’s eye rested on them for a moment and then he said, “Isidore, I am having to pay bills that I am certain are fraudulent.”

“Oh.”

“I briefly calculated Mopser’s request, for example. In order to use the number of candles that he says he sent to the house over the last five years, we’d need seven to nine candles burning at all hours of the day or night in every room in this house.”

Isidore bit her lip. “But the candelabra…”

“That’s calculating a rate of burn at about four hours, although most candles actually burn in approximately six,” he said, folding his hands. “Honeydew says that the candelabra haven’t been lit for years.”

“Mopser was probably trying to make up for other bills that your father didn’t pay,” Isidore pointed out.

“Or he’s a rascal taking advantage of the situation.”

“I truly don’t think so,” Isidore said. “In any event, I asked him to deliver five yards of wool to every house in the village. That’s well over one hundred yards, given that we have twenty-seven dwellings.”

“Did you say twenty-seven?”

“Including the huts down by the river,” Isidore said.

“There are nineteen houses in the village,” Simeon said. “Thirteen are occupied. There are indeed two hut-like structures by the river, but they are counted among the nineteen. He’s a thief.”

“Everyone in the village has suffered horribly because of your father’s peculiarities,” Isidore protested. “They have learned to scramble and perhaps to prevaricate. The smith, Silas Pegg, told me that the bridge is extremely unsafe, as there is dust mixed with the steel. Pegg himself refused to fulfill your father’s request due to previous unpaid bills, and so the smith in the next village did it, but only after he charged the duke twice as much to try to get his expenses…” Her voice trailed off.

Simeon’s was frowning so hard that his brows almost met in the middle. “You’re telling me that the smith in the next village sent in a false bill.”

“He had to!” Isidore said. “He calculated that your father would pay at most fifty percent, and so if he made the bill for twice as much, he might end up with his expenses.”

“This is the kind of thing that clearly drove my father into madness.”

“Mad—” Isidore stopped.

“He must have been mad,” Simeon said, moving the papers about on his desk. Isidore’s attention was caught for a moment by the beauty of his long fingers. He plucked out a sheet of paper. “From a seamstress in the village, asking for remuneration for two christening gowns. Christening gowns. Never paid.”

“I assume the bill is thirteen years old, given your brother’s age,” Isidore said.