Read Chapter 6: The Missing Steward

The morning light was thin and grey when Clara found Julian in the steward’s office, his tall frame bent over a ledger that smelled of dust and decay. He did not look up as she entered, but his pen paused mid-stroke.

“Finch has not kept these books in months,” he said, his voice flat. “The last entry is dated three weeks before your father’s death.”

Clara stepped closer, her hands clasped tight at her waist. “That cannot be right. Papa always said Finch was the backbone of Ashworth—” She stopped. The ledger’s final column showed a row of unpaid wages to tenants and a note in Finch’s cramped hand: *To be settled when the master returns.*

“He left,” she said quietly. “After the funeral. I did not think—I assumed he would come back.”

Julian set down the pen and turned to face her. His gloves were on, as ever. “Assume nothing in matters of money, my lady. The estate’s income depends on knowing every field, every lease, every tenant who can and cannot pay. Without Finch, I am working blind.”

“Then we shall find him.”

“Where do we start?”

Clara’s chin lifted. “His office. Here. If he left in haste, he may have left something behind.”

They searched together in silence—she taking the desk drawers, Julian the shelves and the battered tin box beneath the window. The room smelled of old paper and cold ash. Clara’s fingers brushed a loose floorboard, and she struck the wood once, twice, before it gave with a groan.

Inside lay a single scrap of paper, folded into a square no larger than her palm. The ink was smudged but legible: *Bedford. Golden Hind.*

She read it aloud.

Julian took the paper from her, turning it toward the light. “Bedford. A town, not a name. And the Golden Hind—” He paused. “A public house, most likely. There are a dozen of them across England with that name.”

“But only one in Bedford,” Clara said. “You think Finch is hiding there?”

“Hiding, running, or dead. We will not know until we look.” He slipped the paper into his breast pocket. “I shall leave at first light tomorrow.”

“We shall leave.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “The roads are poor, the inns worse. You would be safer here.”

“And you would be a stranger walking into a low tavern asking after a man who does not want to be found.” Clara folded her arms. “I know Finch. I know his habits, his fears, his favorite chair. If he is there, he will speak to me before he speaks to you.”

For a long moment, Julian studied her, and Clara felt the weight of his gaze—not cold, but assessing, the way he might read a contract. Then he gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Very well. But we travel light, and we tell no one where we are going.”

---

They left before dawn, the carriage wheels crunching over frost-bitten gravel. Clara wore her plainest wool dress and a bonnet that had seen better years, and Julian had exchanged his barrister’s black for a coat of serviceable brown. He looked almost like an ordinary gentleman on business, save for the careful way he kept his scarred hand gloved and out of sight.

The journey to Bedford took the better part of the day. They stopped once to change horses, and Clara bought bread and cheese from a stall while Julian spoke to the ostler in low tones. When she returned, he was frowning.

“The Golden Hind is on the far side of town,” he said, taking the bread. “Near the river. It has a reputation.”

“For what?”

“For men who wish not to be found.”

The inn itself was a sagging timber building with a crooked sign creaking in the wind. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the murmur of low voices. A few men glanced up as Clara and Julian entered, their eyes sliding past Clara as though she were furniture, then fixing on Julian with something like wariness.

Julian ordered two ales at the bar and asked the publican, casually, whether a Mr. Finch was staying there.

The publican—a broad man with a stained apron—wiped a glass and did not meet Julian’s eye. “Don’t know the name.”

“He is not a guest,” Julian pressed. “He may have taken work. A thin man, grey hair, a limp in his left leg.”

The publican shook his head and turned away. But Clara had seen the flicker in his eyes.

She touched Julian’s arm and leaned close. “The kitchens,” she murmured. “Servants know more than publicans. Give me five minutes.”

Julian raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she slipped around the bar and through a door marked *Private*.

The kitchen was hot and clattering, a girl scrubbing pots and an older woman rolling dough. Clara drew herself up, letting her voice take on the crisp authority of her station. “I am looking for a steward by the name of Finch. I have been sent by the family at Ashworth Park. It is a matter of some urgency.”

The older woman’s hands stilled. She looked at Clara, then at the girl, then back.

“You’d best speak to him yourself, then,” she said, jerking her head toward a narrow stair at the back of the kitchen. “Third door on the left. But mind—he does not like visitors.”

Clara climbed the stairs, her heart beating fast. The third door was ajar, and through the crack she saw a man sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, his head in his hands. His hair was grey, his shoulders bowed, and his left leg was stretched out stiff before him.

“Mr. Finch.”

He looked up, and she saw the fear in his eyes before recognition replaced it. “My lady?” He scrambled to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his leg. “What are you doing here? You should not—you cannot be seen with me.”

“I came to find you,” Clara said, stepping inside. “The estate is in crisis. You left without a word.”

Finch’s face crumpled. “I had no choice, my lady. I swear it. After your father died, I began to go through his private papers—there were payments, large ones, to a firm in London I had never heard of. I wrote to them to inquire, and the next week I received a visit.”

“From whom?”

“Three men.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They told me to keep my mouth shut, or I would end up in the river. They said the Ashworth debts were not mine to question. So I ran.” He looked at her, eyes desperate. “I am sorry, my lady. I have been a coward.”

Clara knelt before him, taking his gnarled hands in hers. “You were protecting yourself. That is not cowardice—it is sense. But I need you to trust me now.” She lowered her voice. “Who were the men? Did they give a name?”

Finch hesitated, then reached beneath his mattress and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, yellowed at the edges. “This was the letter I wrote to the firm. I kept a copy. And I found this among your father’s things—he must have received a reply.”

Clara took the paper and opened it. The letterhead read *Goode & Sloane, Solicitors, Lombard Street, London*.

And beneath the name, in a neat clerk’s hand, were the words: *We acknowledge receipt of your inquiry regarding the matter of Ashworth Park. Our client is prepared to offer terms. Kindly direct all correspondence to our office, in the strictest confidence.*

Clara’s hands trembled. “This was sitting in the steward’s office, and Julian did not see it?”

“Your husband,” Finch said carefully, “is not the first man to come asking about Ashworth’s ledgers. But he is the first who made me believe he might actually help.”

Clara folded the letter into her pocket. “Come with us,” she said. “Travel back to the estate. Julian—my husband—needs you to put the accounts right.”

Finch shook his head slowly. “I will go back when it is safe. But not yet.” He looked at her, and something in his gaze shifted. “There is one thing you should know, my lady. Your father did not stop gambling after 1809. He borrowed again, last winter, from Lord Umbridge himself, using the estate as surety. If you do not find a way to pay off the debt—all of it—before the year is out, Ashworth Park will belong to him, regardless of what your marriage contract says.”

Clara’s blood went cold. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the door swung open wider.

Julian stood in the doorway, his face unreadable.

“Then it is fortunate,” he said quietly, “that I travel to London tomorrow. I believe I shall pay a visit to Goode & Sloane.”