A brief hesitation. “Compliance has been… limited.”
Maxwell looked up.
The steward held his gaze, though only just. “There is resistance,” he said. “Not overt. But present.”
Maxwell leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled before him. “You enforced the terms?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And yet the issue remains.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was brief but pointed.
Maxwell returned his attention to the ledger, his mind already moving through the problem as it always had.
“Then the terms must be reinforced,” he said, turning a page back, scanning the same column twice. The figures still did not change.
“Delays cannot be permitted to become precedent.”
The steward inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
And yet, something in the room did not settle.
Maxwell closed the ledger. “What are you not saying?”
The question landed cleanly.
The steward exhaled slowly. “There is… dissatisfaction,” he said. “Among the tenants. They do not dispute the terms. But they question the… application.”
Maxwell’s gaze sharpened. “They question my authority?”
“They question the circumstances,” the steward corrected carefully.
Maxwell did not respond at once.
He rose, moving toward the window, though he did not draw the curtain back. The light that filtered through was muted, controlled. As everything here was.
“They are managed,” he said at last.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
That should have been the end of it.
It was not.
The steward waited, as though expecting further instruction, but Maxwell did not give it.
“Continue as directed,” he said finally.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The meeting concluded without further discussion, though the tension that had surfaced did not entirely dissipate.
Later, when the house had returned to its usual silence, a letter was brought to him.
“From London, Your Grace.”
