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“So I’ve been told, m’lord.”

So I’ve been told? At Mr. Abney’s odd response, the first wisps of unease entered Benedict’s thoughts. Why would the fellow say such a thing when he would have been the person orchestrating the unloading of all the sacks?

“I would have thought you’d know that for yourself,” Benedict said.

Mr. Abney shifted his weight, his feet scuffing the dusty wooden floor. “Forgive me, m’lord. Havin’ never seen the grain, I can only go on hearsay.”

Benedict’s unease was quickly blooming into full perplexity. “Do you mean to tell me that you did not receive Farwell Farm’s wheat last August?”

“Jim Simkins brought one cart load soon after the harvest began. I reckon it carried close t’ ten bushels o’ wheat.”

Jim Simkins was one of Benedict’s most hardworking tenants. He was usually the first one in the field in the morning and the last one to leave at night. He’d been invaluable during the harvest.

“And after that?” Benedict prompted.

“Nothin’, m’lord.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“I did not receive another delivery.”

A muscle in Benedict’s jaw twitched, and he made a conscious effort to relax it. One hundred seventy bushels of grain did not simply disappear. There had to be an explanation. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but the Farwell Farm ledgers show full payment for all one hundred eighty bushels of wheat.”

“Of that, I ’ave no doubt, m’lord. I don’t know a miller in southwest England who would ’ave turned such bounty away.” Mr. Abney appeared grim. “The ten bushels that came ’ere, I paid fer fair an’ square. You can ask Mr. Rowe. ’E’s the one who took the money. But I can’t tell you who paid fer the rest. All I know is that it weren’t me.”

A pit formed in Benedict’s stomach. He had no reason to doubt Mr. Abney. The empty gristmill validated his story. But if the Farwell Farms wheat had truly gone elsewhere, Benedict owned a hefty portion of the responsibility for the shortage in Leyfield. In August, he’d rejoiced that they’d harvested enough for the local people’s needs through the spring. To now learn that his tenants—the very people over whom he had stewardship—had, in actuality, gone without . . .

Leaving the painful thought unfinished, he released a tense breath. It might take time to discover how this had happened, but discover it he would. And in the interim, he would act constructively.

“How far afield must I go to find wheat?” he asked.

Mr. Abney shrugged. “I’ve not seen any fer weeks, m’lord. I would suggest one o’ the larger towns, but then you’d be up against a bigger population that needs feedin’.”

Mrs. Newson had mentioned ordering flour from Gloucester. “What of mills near Gloucester?”

“There’s a couple o’ small ones, but I think most o’ the city’s flour comes in from th’ Midlands or Stroud Valley by barge.”

Benedict had read about the riots at the docks in Gloucester during the worst of the wheat shortage last year. Housewives, desperate to feed their families, had marched to the docks. Several had been imprisoned for their acts of frustration and desperation on the barges. He should have remembered.

“How are things at the docks now?”

“More peaceful than they were, is what I’ve ’eard.”

“Is there wheat or flour to spare?”

“If you have the money to pay fer it,” Mr. Abney said.

Benedict grimaced. The household budget would undoubtedly be impacted if Cook were being forced to purchase flour at inflated prices, but at least the option was available to her. For most people, inflated prices meant going without. “I shall make inquiries,” he promised. “If there’s flour to be had, I shall do my utmost to have some delivered to Mr. Wallace’s shop.” He paused. “I would also have you know that up until this moment, I fully believed that all Farwell Farm’s wheat had come to your gristmill. If, as you suggest, that is untrue, then you have my sincere apologies along with a vow that if you desire it, the lion’s share of this year’s harvest shall come here.”

Mr. Abney blinked as though he were scarcely able to take in Benedict’s words. “I . . . I am most grateful, m’lord.”

Benedict offered the gentleman an acknowledging nod. “We shall discuss the details when harvest draws near. And now, if you will excuse me, I have others I must speak with today.” Beginning with Mr. Rowe.

Without waiting for a response, Benedict made for the door. A miller with no grain to grind, a shopkeeper with no flour to sell, and families in the community going hungry. All because the Farwell Farm wheat was not where it was supposed to be. He clenched his fists. Their steward had some significant explaining to do.

* * *

Caroline passed through the kissing gate and into the pasture. The public footpath that cut through Farwell land was a more direct route to the Simkinses’ cottage than was the lane. Unfortunately, it also appeared to be considerably muddier. Avoiding a patch of cow dung, she stepped sideways. Instantly, her shoe sank. The tuft of grass beneath her foot had marsh-like qualities. Lifting her skirts, she raised her leg. The mud squelched, leaving a brown ring around her shoe. She stifled a groan. Someplace between this spot and Hester’s front door, she would have to clean off the worst of the mess.