Greg fumbled with the pages of the ledger. His left hand was not skilful at such tasks. He managed to turn the page and smoothed it down. He frowned over the columns of figures for a while, then looked up at Wilson, the steward.
‘Everything seems to be in order. In fact, from what I have seen this morning, the estate is running well and producing a good return.’
Wilson nodded. His expression was still grim. Greg rubbed a hand across his eyes, weary suddenly from this unaccustomed task.
‘Yet you say there is insufficient money to meet all our expenses?’
Wilson nodded again. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Well, man, why is that?’ He gestured at the pile of ledgers.
‘There is no problem with the income from the estate, as I have seen for myself.’
‘No, sir.’ Wilson’s face was wooden.
Greg felt that soldier’s instinct for danger. Something was badly wrong, he knew. He shifted his right arm in its sling onto the table and leaned forward.
‘Wilson, since I returned, I have been aware that something is bothering you. Not just the grief and upset over my brother’s death; my father, too,’ he said, keeping his gaze steadily on the burly man facing him across the table, ‘I expected to find him grief-stricken by our untimely loss, but there is another matter that seems to be weighing on him.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘You have been the steward here for as long as I can remember and you know all our affairs. My father cannot speak of the matter, whatever it is.’ His chair scraped as he stood up jerkily and walked over to the window.
Greg stared out, feeling all the sorrow flood through him again at the loss of the big brother who had always stood by him. At the same time he was angry at this wall of silence. How could he begin to set things to rights if they wouldn’t admit what the problem was? There was a long pause, broken only by the crackle of the log on the fire. Greg brought his fist down hard on the wide windowsill. His mouth compressed with frustration.
At last there was a heavy sigh from the man seated at the table. ‘Well, sir,’ said Wilson slowly, ‘I understand how you feel about this, but it is for Sir Thomas to speak of the matter.’
Without turning round, Greg said, in a low voice, ‘Is it the matter of my brother’s gambling debt?’
There was no reply. The monotonous tick-tick of the clock seemed loud as the silence drew out. Eventually, Greg twisted round. Wilson was fidgeting with a quill pen. Reluctantly he raised his eyes, looked at Greg and nodded.
Greg came back to the table. ‘How much is the sum?’
Wilson drew a deep breath. ‘Over forty thousand pounds, sir.’
They stared at each other. A look of disbelief gathered on Greg’s face. He shook his head. ‘I cannot believe that Henry would ever gamble for such stakes.’
‘It never happened before,’ admitted the steward, ‘which is partly why Sir Thomas has taken it so badly.’ He fiddled with the quill again. ‘It seems to have shaken him, feeling he did not know his son as well as he thought.’
Greg walked back to the window and looked out at the manicured lawns and the trees, almost bare now with just a few russet leaves remaining on the spreading branches. ‘At last, I begin to understand his torment. And I would hazard a guess,’ he went on, ‘that my father has invested all the money he could spare into some new venture.’
Wilson gave a crack of laughter. ‘You guess well, Master Gregory – sir, I should say, excuse me. Always interested in new inventions is Sir Thomas.’ He shook his head. ‘But it will take time to see a return. And one of his other investments is not doing well, not at all! The canal is not profitable, sir. So, you see—’
‘I see quite plainly,’ interrupted Greg, coming back to face Wilson. He put his good hand on his hip, ‘there is no spare cash.’
The steward nodded agreement. ‘We contrive to manage, so long as there is no extra expenditure. We have been trying to see how to raise the necessary funds….’ His expression was harassed.
Greg watched the quill suffer another mangling but he made no comment. Suddenly, he remembered the letter from his lawyer and shuffled the papers around until he spotted it. He held it out to Wilson. ‘I received this just before I left town. Tell me, when did my father learn of this debt?’
Wilson read through the letter, pursing his lips and tut-tutting. He took off his spectacles and looked up at Greg. ‘About a month ago. It is not my place to comment, but it does seem odd for Mr Henry to gamble like that.’
‘Yes,’ said Greg curtly, ‘so odd that I intend to probe the matter further. It is fortunate there were no funds to settle the matter. We will make no payment yet.’
‘But, sir, a debt of honour….’
Greg looked at him from under his brows. Wilson’s eyes grew round. At last he said in a shocked tone, ‘Do you mean you suspect something?’
Greg rubbed his chin. ‘As you say, it does not seem like Henry.’ He went to the door. ‘I must go to my father. I think I will call in the doctor if he is no better by tomorrow.’
Sir Thomas watched disapprovingly as Greg picked up a large mug of tea and drank with obvious enjoyment.
‘Never saw such a thing at the breakfast table!’ he growled. ‘Is this what comes of being a soldier?’
Greg laughed at him. ‘Of course, sir. Army habits. We dip our mug in the common pot of boiling water and tea leaves. Wakes us up – and warms us,’ he added, ‘the nights are cold on those Spanish hills.’ The memory of his life on campaign, and the convivial group of men sharing their mugs of tea around the camp-fire in the freezing dawn made him smile. Then he blinked and heaved a sigh. Seeing his father’s expression, he added, ‘Of course, that is all behind me now.’
Sir Thomas looked from under heavy white brows. He cleared his throat. ‘I cannot be sorry, my boy, not when I see you with that wound. Of course, I am immensely proud of your gallantry.’
Greg turned a startled face towards him. ‘What—?’
‘Cited in Wellington’s latest dispatch for bravery beyond the call of duty at the Battle of Salamanca.’ He looked at Greg’s horrified expression and smiled. ‘Preston told me, my boy. He is so proud of you he came to see me right away. He knew you would never say a word about it.’
‘He should be more discreet!’
Sir Thomas was amused. ‘I am very glad he was not! Thanks to him I know that the Prince Regent spoke to you personally to congratulate you. Later on, I shall get Preston to tell me the full story of what you did in the battle.’
Greg wriggled, embarrassed and picked up his mug of tea again.
There was a short silence, during which Greg tackled his portion of meat and eggs. His first hunger satisfied, he glanced up and again felt shocked. His father had his head propped on his hand and was staring into the distance. There was a deeply worried look on his face. When he realized that Greg was watching him, Sir Thomas sat up and made an effort to speak heartily.
‘So Dr Price is sending us to Bath, eh? He says it will speed up your recovery and doubtless the change of scene will benefit us both.’ He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at his son fiercely. ‘But I do not like to go away with this debt problem unresolved.’
Greg drained his mug. ‘Pray do not let the matter trouble you for the present, Father. I have set enquiries afoot. It is such an unlikely amount for Henry to gamble that we need confirmation before we accept that it is true. As we are both invalids and away from home on doctor’s orders, it gives us more reason to delay payment.’
Sir Thomas looked as if a weight had dropped from his shoulders. ‘Egad, my boy, when you put it like that I begin to feel better.’ He looked down at his plate as if noticing for the first time that there was food on it. Greg watched with satisfaction as his father tackled a slice of cold beef with appetite. It had shocked him to find Sir Thomas looking too thin for his clothes. Greg devoutly hoped that this visit to Bath would improve his father’s spirits.
‘How soon shall we leave?’ Sir Thomas enquired, reaching for his tankard of ale.
Greg gave him an affectionate smile. ‘Before noon, I believe. I just need to speak with Wilson once more. But may I know, sir, why you have put so much money into the new road scheme?’
‘Why? Surely it is obvious that it is the future method of transport. Coach construction is better, the roads are being improved and the trade between London and Portsmouth grows each year.’
‘But what about the money you invested in the construction of the Basingstoke canal…?’
Sir Thomas pushed his plate away and dabbed at his lips with the napkin. ‘It is not doing as well as I had hoped. I shall sell my share of the project – but such things take time. All my money is tied up at present.’
Greg stood up. ‘In some ways that may turn out to be a good thing. Otherwise, you would have settled this debt already.’ He held the door open for his father to pass through. ‘Will you travel in the coach or in my curricle, sir?’