Page 61

“Is that so? I rather thought you would be reluctant to have me reclaim them.” His father raised a questioning eyebrow. “Should I be asking how many weeks you have neglected them in favor of working in the cow barn?”

Benedict would far rather that he didn’t. He’d had Stokes place incoming correspondence on the desk, which had required him to make a daily visit to the room. But other than the days he was required to meet with Rowe or a tenant, he’d tended to steer clear of the room. The study was his father’s domain.

“I put in enough seat time to prevent the maids from setting dust covers on the furniture,” he said.

“Hm.” His father frowned. “I fear that may not have been enough.”

Benedict tensed. He’d been correct about his father’s summons. Something was amiss. “What have you found?”

His father handed him the letter at the top of the pile. “I hope you will forgive me for reading this. I erroneously assumed that all the letters Stokes had placed on the desk were meant for my perusal. It was only after I’d opened the envelope that I realized this one was written to you.” He looked at him curiously. “I would be interested to know what prompted your inquiry.”

Puzzled, Benedict took the letter from his father. A quick glance at the signature told him it was from Reginald Smead, the owner of the tree nursery in Upper Millbury. His interest was piqued, and he began to read from the top.

Smead Tree Nursery,

Upper Millbury, Gloucestershire

20th June 1796

Dear Lord Benning,

I regret to inform you that I have no record of Farwell Hall’s steward, Mr. Phineas Rowe, requesting apple trees from my nursery. You may be assured that had I known of your need, I would have acted upon it immediately.

We currently have five varieties of apple saplings at various stages of development. The Blenheim Orange, Genet Moyle, and Golden Pippin are sufficiently mature to withstand transportation. Inclement weather notwithstanding, I believe they could be successfully transplanted this late in the season.

If you remain interested in purchasing any saplings, please inform me of the variety you would prefer, and I shall see them delivered within the week.

Sincerely,

Reginald Smead

Benedict lowered the letter, frustration smoldering within him. “Have you spoken to Rowe since your return?”

“I have not. He was supposed to meet with me this morning. When word of Jim Simkins’s fall reached me, I sent Wesley to Rowe’s house to fetch him. No one responded to his knocking.” His father clasped his hands behind his back, his expression grim. “I spoke to Rowe about ordering new trees long before I left for London. In fact, when I reviewed the books in November, he had already itemized the expense.”

Benedict’s brows came together. “Are you telling me that we paid for trees we never received?”

“It appears so.” His father pointed at the ledger on the desk. “Rowe must have the current book, but this is the one from the last quarter of last year. You can see the amount written out to Reginald Smead there.”

Benedict stepped closer so he could read the tidy line of figures. The amount supposedly paid to Smead was significantly higher than the amount Benedict had recently paid to Dunsbourne’s arborist from Berkshire. His frustration was rapidly becoming anger. “Rowe knew full well that you would not be here to see the trees delivered—or not delivered—and that I would not think to review the ledgers you had gone over with him.”

His father paced to the window and gazed outside. The mellow light of early evening bathed the garden. It filtered through the glass, illuminating the concern etched on Benedict’s father’s face. “I think perhaps you should tell me why you wrote to Mr. Smead in the first place.” He swung around to face Benedict. “It seems to me that you would not have taken the time to do that unless you were questioning whether or not Rowe had placed an order with the man.”

Benedict thought back on his exasperating interactions with the steward and then upon his brief conversation with Caroline after Sedgewick’s trees had arrived. It was she who had first planted the seed of doubt, had first made him wonder if the fault was on Rowe’s side rather than on the side of tree nurseries the steward had claimed to have contacted. How could Benedict have been so blind? He’d relied so heavily on the man to take care of the business side of things while his father was in London that he’d neglected to make him accountable. “Unfortunately, I believe my letter was prompted more by frustration than suspicion,” he said. “And I only wish I had acted sooner. I am feeling the weight of my neglect on multiple fronts today.”

His father eyed him uneasily. “I do not like the sound of that.”

“You will like it even less when I tell you the whole of it.” Benedict gestured toward the room’s two armchairs. “We should probably make ourselves comfortable. After I have shared all I know about the missing apple trees, I shall tell you what I recently learned about our last wheat harvest.”

His father sat in silence as Benedict recounted his experience with procuring apple trees through Dunsbourne’s arborist. Learning that Rowe had been nowhere to be found when the saplings had arrived obviously did not sit well, but it was when Benedict laid out what he had learned at the mill about the missing wheat that a spark of fury lit his father’s eyes.

“Do you mean to tell me that our tenants have been going hungry because Farwell Farm’s wheat was not where it was supposed to be?”

“In short,” Benedict said, “yes.”

His father leaped to his feet and began to pace. “Were we paid for the wheat?”

“According to the ledgers, we were, but given what we have just learned about the apple saplings purchase, those figures may be suspect.” Benedict eyed him grimly. “Regardless of whether the bookkeeping is correct, we can be sure that almost no money came from the local miller.”