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“Where have you gone to?” she muttered.
“What’s that, my lady?”
Samantha glanced up, startled to see her housekeeper. “Oh, Mrs. Johnson. I didn’t hear you come in.”
The housekeeper deftly balanced a tea tray in one hand as she moved aside a pile of correspondence on Samantha’s desk to make room. “Ye’ll give yerself a headache staring at those numbers. And all this paper, my lady . . . I’ll never know how you find what you need.”
The study was Samantha’s favorite room, and she preferred it cozy and quiet, with books, journals, and papers stacked on every shelf and tabletop. For both Felicity and Samantha, the study, although a trifle messy, served as a welcoming place to work, or simply curl up in front of the fireplace with a good book.
Samantha put down her pen. “I’m fine, but these numbers certainly are not. They simply refuse to make sense.”
The foundation was losing money, to the point where some operations were now truly at risk.
Mrs. Johnson fixed her a cup of tea. “The books won’t be growing legs and running away. Ye can work on them later.”
“I wish they would run away. Then I wouldn’t have to look at them.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue as she crossed over to the fireplace. She reached down to shovel some coal into the grate and then stirred up the embers.
“Ye let the fire go down again, my lady. Ye’ll catch yer death, sitting all hunched up and no heat.”
“Hardly. I’m wearing a thick tartan shawl, as you can see. Besides, I grew up in the Highlands. November in Edinburgh is balmy compared to that.”
The real explanation was that coal was expensive, and she needed to keep an eye on costs. Her widow’s portion was as generous as Roger had been able to negotiate on her behalf, but most of the Beath estate was entailed. If she wanted to maintain the townhouse in Edinburgh—and keep Felicity with her—Samantha couldn’t afford to waste a shilling.
Mrs. Johnson returned to the desk. “Money worries at the foundation, too?”
“Yes. The blasted numbers don’t appear to add up.”
“Would ye like me to take a crack at them?”
The housekeeper did an excellent job managing their household finances, and she also often helped Samantha with the daily accounts from the orphanage. But this was something different.
“It’s not the numbers, precisely. While they’re adding up in the conventional sense, something’s not right. We’re short of revenues because we’ve lost a few donors, but not enough to show such an imbalance on the final accounting. We’re shorter in funds than we should be.”
She’d handed over the endowment and investment accounts to Braden and his brother for exactly this reason. The recorded numbers were technically correct but no longer made sense in the larger scheme of things.
“Mayhap a supplier is trying to pad their charges or cut back on supplies,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Mrs. Girvin would have caught it. She’s scrupulous in her dealings with our suppliers.”
Mrs. Johnson made a not unexpected scoffing noise at the mention of Girvin. For some reason, Mrs. Johnson disliked the foundation’s housekeeper, without ever explaining why. Samantha had finally put it down to professional rivalry or even a wee bit of jealousy.
Mrs. Johnson topped up her teacup. “Losing those two donors was a bad bit of luck, too.”
Samantha grimaced. “Yes. Mr. Dorrence was one of Roger’s most steadfast supporters. It was rather a shock that he declined to make a donation this year. Even worse, he convinced his cousin to do likewise. Mr. Baines and I tried to convince them both to stay, but to no avail.”
“And we can guess who put them up to it,” Mrs. Johnson gloomily replied.
Better than guess. Lord Beath must have talked Dorrence into pulling his funds. Beath would do whatever he could to damage the Penwith Foundation, or even bring it down altogether. After all, he blamed it for his grandson’s demise, and no argument Samantha made could dent that view.
“Now some of the board members want to close the girls’ school to save costs,” Samantha said. “Fortunately, Mr. Baines and Dr. Blackmore were able to talk sense into enough of them.”
It would be over Samantha’s dead body that the group of old blowhards would close her school—a true haven for the girls and a way to escape life on the streets.
“Maybe Dr. Kendrick can help ye. Talk to those rich brothers of his,” the housekeeper suggested.
Samantha hesitated. “I’d rather not go there just yet.”
