And if she was of that age and well-born—as she most definitely seemed to be—shouldn’t she be otherwise occupied?
Shouldn’t she be off dancing at balls and looking about for a husband? Even in Scotland, that was what young ladies of quality did.
Not that he wished her to leave her post, yet the puzzle she presented nagged at him.
He was missing something, and he had no idea what.
The notion of writing to Lucilla and Marcus, along with their respective spouses, Thomas and Niniver, and asking if any of them knew of a Caitlin Fergusson flitted at the back of his mind, yet he hesitated to do it. Checking in that way seemed unwarrantedly intrusive, almost as if he would be breaking faith, and not just with her but with Timms as well.
No, he wouldn’t write.
Hopefully, as she came to know him better, she would tell him anything he needed to know regarding her background and why she’d sought refuge—for far longer than necessary to see out a blizzard—at Bellamy Hall.
Is she hiding from something?
He could only hope that as she came to trust him, she would tell him if she was.
He let that conclusion settle in his brain, then sat straighter and refocused on the ledgers before him.
He started at the beginning of the year, reviewing the figures through the prism of his newfound understanding. The accounts now made more sense—and indeed, were a lot more revealing—than they’d been three days ago.
He remained immersed in the figures, gleaning new and deeper insights, until the luncheon gong sounded. He duly repaired to the dining room and enjoyed the company of Julia, Joshua, Percy, Vernon, the three painters, and Caitlin over the shared meal. Apparently, Alice, Millie, and their occasional helper, Gladys, were out on a field trip, which the others explained meant that the three would be tramping through nearby woods and meadows, searching out and gathering ingredients for the various remedies Alice and Millie produced.
After the meal, when he returned to the library, he looked back through the ledgers for the figures for the apothecary business in January, February, and March and noted that while expenses were similar to other months, income was significantly higher over winter, presumably due to sales for the treatment of the usual seasonal ailments.
He sat and considered the likelihood that, for most of the businesses, the highs and lows throughout a year would be reasonably predictable. For instance, some businesses were heavily seasonally dependent, while others were much less so.
“If I worked out the annual pattern for each business, the combination should give an approximation of how the estate as a whole will fare in any month.” He thought about that, then muttered, “I wonder if there’s any weak month?”
He hunted and found sheets of paper and a sharp pencil and settled to work out projections for each business month to month. “At the very least, I can satisfy myself as to the likely minimum level of monthly income.”
He was deep in calculations when a tap fell on the door. Absentmindedly, he called, “Come,” and Cromwell walked in.
The butler approached the desk and, when Gregory looked at him inquiringly, said, “Miss Fergusson wonders if she might trouble you for the ledgers for the past year.”
Gregory frowned. Those were the only ledgers he had, and she knew he’d intended studying them in detail. “Did she say why she needed them?”
Cromwell’s expression suggested that Gregory had asked the right question. “Not precisely, but two grain agents have called, and I gather they wish to reduce the amount of grain they take from the Hall. That or reduce the price they’ll pay for it.”
Gregory arched his brows. “Is that so?” He shut the ledgers and got to his feet. “I believe I’ll return the ledgers to Miss Fergusson myself.” He picked them up and made for the door. “I take it she and the agents are in the study?”
Radiating approval, Cromwell hurried to hold the door for him. “Indeed, sir.”
Gregory strode for the study. He was glad of the opportunity to see Caitlin in action, not, in this case, as the Hall’s chatelaine but in the role of estate steward.
Cromwell hurried alongside him and opened the study door, and Gregory walked in.
Caitlin was seated behind the desk, and the two agents occupied chairs angled before it. Her gaze fixed on him, but not a flicker of an eyelash betrayed whether she was surprised—or possibly relieved—to see him.
He headed for the desk. From her rigid expression, he gathered she was distinctly annoyed, although not with him. From the corner of his eye, he surveyed the agents. Both were of the bluff and hearty type and wore the nondescript attire favored by agricultural agents everywhere; the only notable difference between the pair was that one wore a spotted neckerchief while the other sported a striped one.
Gregory didn’t acknowledge the men but walked around the desk and handed the ledgers to Caitlin. “I believe these are the ones you requested.”
As she accepted the ledgers, she briefly met his gaze. “Thank you.”
Caitlin was hanging on to her temper by a thread. A fraying one. She wasn’t sure whether she was happy to see Gregory; there were both pros and cons to his presence. The outcome would depend on how the next minutes played out.
She was a touch surprised when, saying nothing more, he took up a stance, standing to her left, facing the agents. Maintaining an impassive expression, she set down the ledgers, opened the topmost, flicked through several pages, then ran her finger down a column. She found the entry she wanted and tapped the page. “Yes. Here we are. Last year, you paid three shillings a pound for our wheat, two shillings a pound for our barley, and four shillings a pound for our oats.” She shut the ledger and looked at the agents. “But this year… What were you offering again?”
