When the Duke Returns(14)

“And the stones and other nonfabric goods?”

“Jewels were sent on two occasions, arriving in England in March 1781 and in November 1783. On neither occasion did I judge our warehouse to be sufficiently secure. Those materials are stowed at Hoare’s bank in London. I have here the bills of deposit, co-signed by the bank manager, myself, and the captain of the vessel in question.”

“Mr. Kinnaird,” Simeon said, “I have misjudged you. I’m afraid that when I entered this house and realized the state it was in, I jumped to the worst of all possible conclusions.”

Kinnaird looked about him. “I cannot take offense, Your Grace. The truth is that the dowager duchess did not welcome my visits, nor did she accept the goods you sent for her personal use. I returned those trunks to the warehouse as you will see on the itemized list.”

Simeon sat for a moment. “Did she give any explanation?”

“She is rather set in her ways, Your Grace, as I have noticed elderly ladies often are. Perhaps India and Africa seem too distant for her.”

“I gather that she did not allow you to act as a man of business for her, given—” he gestured “—the stacks of papers I find here.”

“No, Your Grace. She informed me that she would continue to run things precisely as your father had done. I did inform you of this in a letter, Your Grace.”

“Not every letter reached me,” Simeon said, staring sightlessly at the piles of foolscap covering his father’s desk.

“No, Your Grace. Of course.”

“Well, Mr. Kinnaird,” Simeon said finally, “could I ask you to return to London and arrange for transfer of the goods I intended as gifts? They can be transported here. I am in the process of directing payment of all overdue bills.”

Kinnaird cleared his throat. “I should inform you that Mr. Honeydew occasionally forwarded bills to me that had to be paid and naturally I took care of them.”

“You mean he would steal them from this table and send them to you in London?”

“That allowed the household to keep running, Your Grace,” Kinnaird said.

It wasn’t easy to accept that one’s mother has lost her mind. Gone uncooked. Thrown her pancakes to the roof. However you want to put it.

“Very good, Kinnaird,” he said. He paused. “Have the servants’ wages been raised since my father died?”

“No, my lord. Nor for some years before that sad event. However, I took the liberty of giving each of them a Boxing Day present that brought their wages to near-current rates. Again, Mr. Honeydew was invaluable in this respect.”

“As were you, Mr. Kinnaird.”

Kinnaird’s knees turned inwards and he gave an odd little bob that Simeon thought indicated pleasure. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Simeon felt like going for another run, but instead he made his way to his mother’s chambers and knocked on the door.

She was sitting before a small secretary at her window. Simeon realized with a sinking heart that her desk, too, was stacked with sheaves of paper.

He dropped into the bow that she required, waited while she held out her hand to be kissed, waited while she arranged herself in a chair and motioned him to another. Though they were in the country, and surely not expecting morning callers, she wore a high powdered wig hung with teardrop pearls.

“You have come, of course, to apologize,” she said, folding her hands. “I expected as much from your father’s son.”

When had his mother’s voice become so high and quavering? When had she developed that slight hitch in her step? When had she become so old?

“Mother,” he began.

She raised her hand. “I see no reason that you, a duke, should address me by a term suitable for a schoolboy’s use.”

“Your Grace,” he started over. “I am concerned about the state of the paperwork in the study.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” she said, bestowing him with a gracious smile. “I took care of everything regularly. I was brought up to manage a large estate, and I have continued to do so since your father’s death. In every case I noted the instructions I gave Honeydew, so that you have a thorough record.”

“There are some unpaid bills,” he observed.

“Only if the bill was absurd.”

“Perhaps I do not grasp the problem. The local candle-maker, for example, does not appear to have been paid in over a year.”

“A case in point. How on earth could we have used two hundred tallow candles? Acting as the guardian of your estate, I could not allow chicanery to continue. Either the servants are stealing candles, or the chandler is defrauding us. Either way, the bill remains unpaid until I am satisfied about the matter. Your father was very firm, very firm indeed, when it came to matters of thievery. He couldn’t abide a thief!”