Gregory watched the door close behind the harried butler, then grunted, returned to the desk, and dropped into the chair behind it to wait.
Five minutes later, Caitlin Fergusson, his exceedingly efficient chatelaine, swept through the door with a pile of ledgers in her arms. She halted before the desk and breezily said, “I didn’t know which year you wanted—this year or the one just past.”
“The one just past will do.”
“You’ll want these, then.” She set a pair of thick ledgers on the table.
He pointed to the other ledgers she held. “You may as well set those down, too.” As she complied, he noticed the door being quietly pulled closed, Cromwell excusing himself from the scene.
Gregory refocused on Caitlin Fergusson’s face, taking in her innocent expression. “I’m fairly certain doing estate accounts is not part of a chatelaine’s duties.”
She’d loosely linked her fingers before her. Now, she lightly shrugged. “Someone had to do it, and there wasn’t anyone else.”
He frowned. “What happened to the estate’s steward?”
“I have no idea. For as long as I’ve been here, there hasn’t been one. As far as I know, there hasn’t been a steward since Minnie’s time. Timms mentioned that Minnie had an argument with the last one, and after she dismissed him, she refused to appoint a successor. Subsequently, Timms did the accounts.”
Slowly, Gregory nodded. “And you took over after Timms.”
Caitlin’s chin rose a notch. “I’ve been doing the accounts since I arrived. It was one of the first tasks I took on to help Timms in return for her support. For her letting me and my staff remain here.” Her chin elevated a fraction more. “I assure you, I’m more than capable of doing so.”
He studied her. There was something wrapped up in all that that she wasn’t telling him, but at the moment, that wasn’t his primary concern. “All right.” He nodded and sat up. “Pull up a chair and, if you would, please take me through the estate accounts.”
She rounded the desk and, rather hesitantly, drew up a straight-backed chair.
He scooted the admiral’s chair he occupied to his right so she could sit at the desk as well.
She gathered her skirts and sat, her gaze going to the twin ledgers he drew toward them. “From the beginning of last year?”
He nodded, and ruthlessly shoving aside all reaction to her nearness—to the soft warmth of her and the elusive scent of rosemary and orange that rose from her abundant hair to tease his senses—he forced his mind to the task of learning all he could about the expenses of the various businesses.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her bodice swell as she drew in a deeper breath, then she opened the first ledger. “Right, then. The first thing you need to know is how the accounts are laid out.”
How the devil am I supposed to concentrate on that?
With commendable conciseness, she explained how the ledgers detailed the costs each business accrued through the year. “Obviously, for some, their costs are seasonal, and their profits are, too, while for others—like the carpentry workshop and carriage works—their costs are more or less steady month to month, but their income tends to arrive in large amounts and at random times. As I understand it, from the first, the Bellamy Hall Fund was essential to balancing the incomings and outgoings, allowing all those involved to have a steady monthly stipend.”
“So most here draw a wage of sorts?”
She nodded. “Everyone who works on the entire estate receives some level of monthly payment. Many of the owners, as well as some of the older workers like Parker and Old Wallace, take only a portion of their allocation, preferring to leave the rest as capital in the Fund, accruing interest over the years—a nest egg for when they grow too old to work.”
He frowned harder. “Who manages that—the investment of the capital?”
“I gather that was set up in Minnie’s day. It’s managed by an investment manager—one Mr. Gabriel Cynster.” She arched a brow at him. “One of your relatives?”
Gregory snorted. “One of my father’s cousins.” He nodded in understanding. “And Gabriel’s a master investor, so yes, the Fund is in unquestionably good hands.”
“That’s certainly been my opinion over the years I’ve been here.” She returned her attention to the ledgers and the rows of tiny writing and columns of neat figures. “The other important aspect you need to grasp, one you’ll see reflected in the accounts, is that it’s the very diversity of the estate businesses that underpins the solid month-to-month returns. The Bellamy Hall estate is not subject to the usual vacillations of income and expense that are common on agricultural estates.”
He noticed she spoke with authority, but the concept and what he could see in the accounts as she took him through the entries for January—which was normally a quiet and, relatively speaking, unprofitable month—commanded his full attention.
A tap fell on the door, and it opened to reveal Millie. The young apprentice saw them and balked. “Oh, I thought…that is…” Wide-eyed, she focused on Caitlin, drew breath and blurted, “Alice said we’re going to need more alcohol.”
“How soon?” Caitlin calmly asked.
Millie grimaced. “As soon as possible. I miscalculated how much we would need last week.”
Caitlin waved. “Never mind. I’ll send one of the footmen to see what Gordon at the Bells can spare us.”
