Page 14 of A Legacy of Lies

John Hollis stepped inside, cap in hand, and another ledger tucked beneath his arm. “Your Grace. The account you asked for.”

He set the book on the desk and opened it with care. “The miller’s note remains unsettled.” His finger tapped the line before moving on. “Two tenants petitioned against the rent increase. And here,” he traced a line down the margin, “repairs on the south wall are again delayed.”

Nathaniel’s brow tightened. “How long has the miller gone unpaid?”

“Since midsummer, Your Grace.”

His fingers pressed into the page. “And the tenants? When did they make their request?”

Hollis shifted, twisting the cap in his hands. “September last year, sir. A poor harvest. Too many mouths to feed. There has been muttering in the village, mostly at the alehouse. They say the Hall sees little and remembers less. The miller’s wife spoke of taking her trade elsewhere. If she goes, others may follow.”

“There is more,” Hollis added after a pause, his eyes flicking to the window as if afraid the stone walls themselves might overhear. “The fences near the north meadow still gape from last winter’s storm. Cattle strayed into neighboring fields, and tempers rose. Some men say Hartleigh has forgotten its people. They grumble in corners, Your Grace. It does not yet swell to defiance, but…” He swallowed. “Men grow restless when repairs are promised and not kept. They will lose faith if they believe the Hall is deaf to them.”

Nathaniel noted the way Hollis’s thumb rubbed the edge of his cap, the shift of weight from one foot to the other, every sign of unease laid out like testimony. His solicitor’s eye measured each tic as he would a witness before the bar.

Nathaniel’s gaze lifted, sharp as a blade. “And whose account shows the shortfall? Hartleigh’s, or theirs?”

The steward’s throat worked. His glance flicked, almost guilty, toward the sagging shelves where neglected files leaned. “I cannot say with certainty.”

Nathaniel leaned forward, his voice low, each word deliberate. “Then certainty must be found. Fear clouds truth, Hollis. But ledgers, if kept faithfully, do not.”

The steward dipped his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The tick of the clock stretched thin, holding the silence until a lighter knock broke it.

Clara stepped inside, a folder of correspondence in her hands.

“Her Grace asked that these be given to you,” she said, her voice even, though her eyes moved from Nathaniel to the steward.

Nathaniel inclined his head but did not soften his tone. “Set them there.” His hand gestured to the edge of the desk without leaving the ledger.

Her step was unhurried, the soft tread of her slipper distinct in the hush. The skirts of her gown whispered as she passed, carrying the faint trace of starch and rosewater. The air shifted, touched with warmth against the chill that ruled the room. The ticking of the mantel clock sounded louder. She held the folder close, as though determined not to falter under the weight of two men’s scrutiny.

“If ledgers could glare, they would take lessons from you,” she muttered as she set it down.

Nathaniel’s hand stilled on the ledger, his attention drawn to her despite himself, marking the composure in her movements.

Clara crossed the room, the hush of her skirts brushing the paneled floor. From the corner of her gaze, she studied him as he leaned forward, his questions clipped, each word carrying the bite of cross-examination. He seemed less a duke than a solicitor still, demanding confession from a reluctant witness.

She held herself too still, as though braced against more than questions. He saw no deference in her gaze, only the sharpness of judgment returned. The air between them felt taut, and he knew she judged him as surely as he judged her.

Nathaniel tapped the open column with two fingers. “This arrear must be settled. Speak with the miller. He will have his payment before the week is out.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And the tenants who plead hardship. I’ll have their names. I’ll not judge the matter on petition alone.”

Hollis hesitated. “You would meet them yourself?”

“I will see their faces,” Nathaniel said. “Ink deceives. A man’s eyes are less so.”

Hollis advanced a pace, turning the ledger pages. “The tenants are Henry Bickley of the lower meadow, and Mrs. Anne Fletcher, a widow with three children. Their names are entered here. The petitions are in the cabinet to your right.”

Nathaniel’s gaze followed where the steward pointed. A tall press, little better than a cabinet of disorder, stood against the wall, its lock hanging open. Parchments sagged in their bindings, a tangle of years left without order. His jaw tightened.

“Should I bring them to you, Your Grace?”

“No. I will see them in their own place.”