Lady Sophia turned a page and did not look up.
The study fell silent. Nettle had trotted in behind Elizabeth and made directly for the desk. Instead of circling her mistress, she had laid her chin on Darcy’s boot where it currently rested. He did not move his foot; to do so would acknowledge the dog and the history she was attached to.
His father had managed the Pemberley tenancies with this principle, and his mother would have argued for it in exactly this tone. It was exactly what he was about to recommend, as he was the one who had proposed the leniency to Lady Sophia. But Elizabeth evidently still despised him, and so he had to proceed with caution.
“There is a middle path,” he considered. “The arrears are forgiven. The rent remains at forty-two pounds. But I would suggest we instruct the steward to assess the drainage. Late frost damage often indicates a water management problem. If corrected, yields would improve sufficiently to make the rent comfortable rather than merely possible. The expense would come from the estate improvement fund, not from Hodges.”
“You are suggesting that instead of raising the rent, we invest in the land?”
“A secure tenant produces more than an anxious one. My father believed this, and I have managed Pemberley on the same principle.”
Her carefully guarded expression softened by a single, beautiful degree.
“That is a sensible suggestion,” she said. “I accept it. Will you write to the steward, or shall I?”
“As your trustee, the instruction should come from me.”
“As the owner of the estate, the decision is mine,” she parried lightly but not yielding.
“I did not suggest otherwise, Miss Bennet.”
“No. You did not.” She held his gaze a beat longer than business required, then returned to the ledger. “The Consols portfolio, next.”
“The Consols are Government bonds,” he explained. “Invested at five percent.”
“How much is the annual income generated?” she asked, noting the entries.
“Approximately half of your fifteen thousand a year. They are steady and do not fluctuate, unlike the canal shares or more speculative securities.”
“So, they form the basis of my security, independent of the expenditures required by the properties.”
“Yes, and Lady Sophia has been reinvesting what she can to grow the account.” Darcy glanced at his godmother, who remained a remarkably attentive piece of furniture.
“A wise prescription,” Elizabeth agreed. “Now, the household accounts and expenditures.”
“These require considerably more care,” Darcy said, his tone shifting to the protective. “Though you needn’t trouble yourself with the minutiae.”
“And yet, I find the mundane is often where the truth hides.” Elizabeth’s finger tapped the page. “The accounts suggest a remarkable appetite for candlelight. According to last month’s requisition, this house consumes enough beeswax to illuminate a cathedral. Even accounting for the late hours Lady Sophia keeps, I calculate a surplus of twenty pounds a month unaccounted for.”
“Candles are a common leakage in a large establishment,” Darcy noted. “The servants often consider the ends their perquisite.”
“I am aware of the custom. But these are not ‘ends,’ Mr. Darcy. These are whole crates that appear on the invoice but never, I suspect, reach the chandeliers. I managed the stores at Longbourn; I know how long a fine wax taper burns, and I know the smell of tallow being used where beeswax was paid for. Either the storerooms of 33 Grosvenor Street are packed with unused crates, in which case we can purchase less, or someone is selling the surplus.”
“Or the supplier is shorting us,” Darcy said. “I shall speak to the steward.”
“I will speak to the housekeeper,” Elizabeth corrected. “It is my roof, and my wax.”
“I did not suggest otherwise.”
“You did not. You are very careful not to suggest anything.” The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I have observed this about you.”
He swallowed the retort that it was her attitude of mistrust that warranted this carefulness, and hence was relieved when a soft thud interrupted them.
Evidently bored by the dry proceedings, Nettle emerged from beneath the desk, bearing a small leather ball which she deposited at Elizabeth’s skirts.
“Not now, Nettle,” Elizabeth murmured, though her hand strayed toward the dog’s ears.
Nettle wagged her tail. She picked up the ball and set it down again, closer to Elizabeth’s shoe, looking up expectantly. And then she flicked her attention to Darcy.
