The papers were considerable. Ledgers, by the look of them—columns of figures, several pages of accounts—alongside what appeared to be quarterly reports, the kind of formal documentation that accumulated in a large estate the way sediments accumulated at the bottom of a river.
Harwood presented them in order, briefly narrating the purpose of each as he set them before William, and William received them with the ease of a man who had done this many times and trusted the process.
He signed without pausing. Page after page, the quill moving with barely a beat between one document and the next.
Harwood waited, organized, and laid the next sheet in place. William read it—or appeared to read it—and signed, and Harwood retrieved each completed paper with the quiet efficiency of someone whose system worked and intended to keep it that way.
Cecily watched.
She could not have said precisely what it was that made her notice. The documents themselves told her nothing—she was not familiar enough with estate accounts to read meaning into figures she hadn’t studied.
And yet there was something about the pace of it, the rhythm of the exchange—the way each paper moved from Harwood’s side to William’s and back again with so little resistance that it was almost like watching a rehearsed performance—that made unease curl in her chest.
He signs very quickly,for a great many pages.
She said nothing. She turned her attention, deliberately, to the window.
Outside, the afternoon had held its softness. The light was still good, the lawns well-kept, the path she had walked that morning with the sisters visible from this angle, curving away past the first hedgerow.
She could see, at the far end of the grounds, the kitchen garden Mrs. Beam had mentioned, and beyond it the wall that marked the edge of the estate. Beyond that, in the middle distance?—
“Mr. Harwood,” she said.
Both men looked at her.
“Forgive me, I don’t mean to interrupt. I only wanted to ask—I understand the estate supports a local orphanage. I was hoping to learn a little about it.”
Something crossed Harwood’s face. It was small, brief, and smoothed over immediately by the same composed politeness that had been there from the beginning.
“Indeed, it does, Your Grace. It’s a modest establishment. Well run, I assure you. Everything is in good order, Your Grace.”
“I’m glad to hear it. How many children are there currently?”
A fractional pause. “The numbers vary somewhat. I couldn’t give you a precise figure at this moment, but the matron manages things capably. It operates without difficulty.”
“And the funding?” Cecily asked. “Does it come directly from the estate, or is there a separate endowment?”
“The arrangements are handled through the estate.” Harwood’s voice remained pleasant. “It is one of a number of charitable obligations His Grace maintains. I oversee the disbursement as part of my regular duties.” He folded his hands in his lap with the composed finality of a man closing a subject. “I wouldn’t wish to take up the Duchess’s time with the details—it’s rather dry reading, I’m afraid. These matters are well in hand and need not concern you.”
The words were gracious. The tone beneath them was not, entirely.
It was not rude, nothing as artless as that. It was the tone of a man who had decided where the boundaries of her interest appropriately lay and was politely redirecting her back within them.
Cecily had heard that tone before, in different rooms and from different mouths, and she had always found it enlightening.
“Of course,” she said, with an equally pleasant smile. “I wouldn’t wish to complicate things unnecessarily. I only ask because I hope to involve myself in the estate’s charitable work, and the orphanage seemed like a natural place to begin.” She paused. “But there’s no urgency. Another time.”
Harwood inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He returned to the papers.
William signed the final page and set down his quill, and the meeting concluded with the same smooth efficiency with which it had proceeded.
Harwood gathered the documents with practiced care, offered his congratulations once more, bowed, and then left.
The door closed, and the study settled into the particular quiet of a room that had just emptied of people.
Cecily looked at William. He was straightening the remaining papers on his desk with the focused, automatic movement of a man already thinking about the next thing.
