Before she could retort, he continued. “There are murmurs, Miss Vale. Not of you, but of the climate. Reform is observed. Money is tracked. It would be prudent to ensure no error can be construed as intention.”
“You think I fund unrest,” she said pointedly.
“I think you desire to fund improvements,” he replied. “Sir Percival wishes to ensure that that is all you fund.”
Silence settled between them, taut but not hostile. She turned away from him briefly and looked towards the window where London moved apace. She did not like the implication that something might have occurred without her full comprehension. Even more did she dislike the idea she had not anticipated such a possibility.
“If my uncle is uneasy,” she said at last, “he might have asked me himself.”
Major Manners inclined his head. “He dislikes uncomfortable tasks. He asked that I speak to you instead.”
The image of Sir Percival wrestling with numbers and propriety simultaneously softened her indignation despite herself. “He has always preferred rhetoric to arithmetic,” she admitted.
“Precisely,” Major Manners said.
She inhaled slowly. “You understand that these records are private?”
“Entirely.”
“You understand that my estate is not under military administration?”
“Entirely.”
“And further,” she added, meeting his gaze directly now, “you understand that if I detect condescension, the review will cease at once?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Of course. That is tacitly understood.”
She hesitated only a moment longer before crossing to the cabinet where she stored the quarterly ledgers she had dragged from Manchester. The key felt heavy in her hand. She unlocked the drawer and withdrew three bound volumes. Their weight was familiar, even reassuring.
She placed them upon the desk between them. “You will review them only in my presence,” she said, indicating the chair opposite her own. “You will not remove them from this room.”
“I should expect nothing less.”
She resumed her seat and opened the most recent ledger, its columns neatly ruled, the figures precisely aligned. For a brief, defiant moment she hoped he would find nothing, that his inspection would serve only to confirm her competence.
Pulling forward a chair, Major Manners sat down and then leaned forward, scanning entries with a concentration that was neither hurried nor ostentatious. He did not question every line. He did not murmur suspicion at ordinary expense. He read and calculated quietly. Occasionally, he marked a page with a slip of paper, not in accusation but annotation.
After several minutes he said, “May I inquire about this withdrawal?”
She leaned closer despite herself. The sum was not extravagant, but neither was it negligible.
“Ventilation improvements,” she explained, “in the north factory.”
“It appears two days before the authorization is dated,” he observed calmly, showing her the bank’s receipt.
She frowned. “That is impossible.”
He turned the page towards her. The date was clear. The disbursement entry preceded the authorization signature. Her heart gave a small, unwelcome jolt.
“There must be an explanation,” she said.
“There may be,” he replied. “Let us continue.”
They reviewed additional entries. Most aligned precisely with her recollection. One or two bore similar peculiarities, subtle but undeniable. Not theft, not extravagance, but the timing did not conform to her usual order.
She felt heat rise along her neck. “I sign my own payments,” she said quietly.
“I know that you do,” he replied.
