Chapter 1

Farwell Estate, Gloucestershire, England

May 1796

The cow bellowed, her abdomen contracting yet again.

"Steady, girl. You're almost there." Benedict placed a reassuring hand on the laboring beast's neck. She shuddered, scarcely acknowledging the touch. "It's taking too long, Giles. She's spent."

His cowman grunted his agreement. "I reckon it's time we 'elped 'er out a bit, m'lord."

Benedict's concern ratcheted up a notch. He could not see Giles over the animal's shoulders, but Benedict had been around the older man long enough to recognize the worry in his voice. "Do what you can."

The straw on the floor rustled as Giles reached for the rope draped across the wooden barricade that separated this stall from the one containing two other cows and their new calves.

"I can see the forelegs." The cowman repositioned himself behind the cow. Benedict waited, silently urging Giles to work quickly. Any moment now, there would be another contraction. The cow released a heavy breath, and Giles shifted. "The calf's head's down, m'lord. I've a rope round the forelegs. I'm ready when she is."

The cow stirred; her breathing changed.

"Brace yourself," Benedict warned.

A ripple moved along the cow's abdomen.

Giles came into view, steadily pulling on the rope. "Come on, girl." He spoke through gritted teeth. "That's the way."

Moments later, a small calf lay on the straw at his feet. Immediately, the mother turned and lowered her head to smell her newborn. Benedict stepped out of the way. Giles was already on his knees, untying the rope. He looked up at Benedict, his craggy smile an odd blend of relief and reverence.

"There's no denyin', this one took 'is time gettin' 'ere," he said. "But it looks like 'e's makin' up fer it now."

Benedict's gaze returned to the newborn calf. Already, the young animal was fighting to stand on its spindly legs. His mother nuzzled him, attempting to lick him clean even as the calf staggered upright.

Giles gave a throaty chuckle. "'E's a fighter, that one."

Benedict nodded, gratitude filling his chest. A valiant mother, a fearless infant, and another miracle. No matter how many times he witnessed a birth in this barn, the wonder of it all never dimmed.

"You have my thanks, Giles. Without your assistance, we might have had a very different outcome."

"I didn't do much." The cowman gathered up the rope. "Sometimes th' poor mother just needs an 'elpin' 'and at th' end."

Benedict had been in the barn with this particular cow since the early hours of the morning. Giles had arrived before him. This delivery had taken far longer than normal, and Benedict knew full well that his cowman's actions had likely saved both the calf and the mother.

Benedict crossed to the bucket in the corner of the stall and dunked both arms into the cold water. A bar of lye soap sat on a small tin platter beside the bucket. He reached for it, briskly scrubbing his arms with the soap before rinsing them again and drying them off on the scrap of fabric hanging over the stall's wooden partition.

Making room for Giles beside him, he waited as his cowman did the same. Benedict's hands were not so reddened or calloused as the older man's, but with his shirt sleeves rolled up and wearing his oldest waistcoat, breeches, and boots, Benedict hardly looked the part of a titled gentleman. And that suited him very well. There were sufficient opportunities for executing that weighty role at times that did not interfere with calving season.

Outside the barn, his dog, Shep, barked. Benedict frowned. There should be nothing out in the yard to cause the dog to issue a warning.

"Sounds like Shep's not 'appy 'bout somethin'," Giles said.

Benedict's frown deepened. He hadn't imagined Shep's sharp tone, then. "I'd best see what he's about."

"Very good, m'lord. I'll stay put long enough to see that the little fellow's walkin' and eatin' as 'e should be, an' then I'll check on th' other young 'uns."

Benedict nodded. They were already up to five new calves this month, with three more due to arrive any day. "As soon as I've discovered what has Shep so unsettled, I'm off to the north pasture to check on the river levels. If any of the other expectant cows look to be following this one's example before evening, you can find me there."

Giles scratched his head. "If me old bones are anythin' to go by, there's a storm brewin', so it wouldn't surprise me if we 'ave another one or two start afore tomorra."

Benedict knew better than to discount Giles's aching bones' ability to foretell the weather. They were right more often than not. And the cows did have an unfortunate tendency to give birth during a downpour.

Shep barked again, and with a sigh, Benedict grabbed the dust-covered jacket he'd draped over the stall gate and headed for the door.

Stepping out of the barn, he shielded his eyes and blinked from the glare of the afternoon sun that instantly warmed his damp arms. Rolling his shoulders, he looked across the open area that separated the barn from the milking parlor. At his left, the stables and carriage house blocked his view of the large manor situated on the rise beyond a large row of oak trees. At his right, the yard was bounded by a stone wall and wooden gate that opened onto the lane that led to the nearby village of Leyfield. And currently, despite all farm rules to the contrary, the gate was ajar.

Shep was circling something. Benedict stepped closer. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. He blinked again, but the vision remained the same. There was an unfamiliar small child standing in his yard.

He whistled. Immediately, Shep cut short his loop around the little girl and bounded to Benedict's side. Benedict gave the dog a pat of approval, his eyes not leaving the child. As far as he could tell, there were no obvious tears. If Shep had frightened her with his prowling and barking, she had overcome her fears quickly.

"Good afternoon," Benedict said, taking another cautious step toward her. Would she flee at the sight of a stranger?

She moved her gaze from the dog to Benedict, and Benedict found himself looking into two of the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She stared at him guilelessly.

"Is that your doggie?" She pointed at Shep.

"It is."

"What's his name?"

"Shep," Benedict said.

"Shep," she repeated, her mouth breaking into a smile. "He likes to run round me."

"So it would seem." The child was remarkably articulate for one so young. Benedict studied her a little more closely. She couldn't be much more than three or four years old. Blonde curls framed her face. A short, dark-blue coat covered a pale-blue frock. Both appeared to be of good quality, although worn. Her small boots were mud spattered, and in one hand, she held a bedraggled bunch of dandelions. "I hope he did not scare you," Benedict said.

She giggled and shook her head, sending her curls bouncing. "He was being funny."

Benedict was quite sure his well-trained dog had not been labeled "funny" since he'd been a new puppy and had regularly entertained the stableboys with his propensity for chasing his own tail.

"I am glad you thought so. Do you have a dog?" It was not so blunt as asking if she had a home, but the question seemed to be a step in the right direction if he were to learn more about her.

Her face fell. "No."

Perhaps it hadn't been the wisest question after all. He tried a different direction. "What is your name?"

"Meg," she said. "But when my mama is cross with me, she calls me Margaret Jane Granger."

Benedict raised an amused eyebrow. This precocious child was proving rather entertaining. And she'd given him a surname. Unfortunately, it was not one he could readily connect to a local family. "That is a very fine name."

She offered him a slight smile. "My grandpapa says that too." She cocked her head to one side and eyed him curiously. "What's your name?"

"Benedict." He spoke before thinking. "But most people call me Lord Benning."

"Because they're cross with you?"

Benedict chuckled. "Not all of them, I hope. But on occasion, I daresay some of them might be."

"That's all right. You can do better next time," she said, undoubtedly repeating something her mother had told her.

"That is admirable advice."

Her smile returned, and she raised her droopy dandelion posy. "Would you like a flower, Mr. Bent Nicked?"

If another adult were present, protocol would dictate that the child address him by his title, but Giles had yet to emerge from the barn, and the stableboy walking the plow horse on the other side of the yard was too far away to hear her small voice. Besides, surely a gentleman should not correct a young lady when she was in the very act of offering him a broken dandelion stem.

"That is very kind of you, young Meg." He accepted the wilted flower with an exaggerated bow, and she giggled.

"Meg!"

At the sound of a breathless female voice, Benedict looked toward the gate. A woman hurried into the yard, dressed in a floral gown, brown jacket, and bonnet with an exceptionally wide brim and lace veil.

"Mama!" Meg ran to her.

The woman crouched and enveloped the child in her arms. "Meg." She turned her head so that the brim of her bonnet did not hit the child. "Whatever possessed you to wander off like that? I was so worried about you."

Worried but not cross, Benedict surmised, since she had not called Meg by her full name. A fact that was somewhat remarkable, given that the child had obviously strayed without permission.

"I was picking flowers." Meg presented the sad bunch of dandelions to her mother. "I gave one to Mr. Bent. But only one. The rest are for you to help you feel better."

The woman sighed, and Benedict received the distinct impression that the sound was born of fatigue rather than frustration.

"That is very thoughtful of you, dear." She took the proffered posy. "Next time, however, I would have you limit your picking to the yellow flowers in our garden."

"So you don't worry?" Meg said, and Benedict guessed they'd had a similar conversation before.

"Yes." Slowly, the woman rose to her feet, but her head remained lowered. "I apologize for my daughter's trespassing, sir. It will not happen again."

"She caused no trouble." Benedict extended his arm so that if the woman looked up, Meg's gift of a solitary dandelion was clearly visible. "Indeed, as you can see, she was very thoughtful."

If the woman smiled, he could not see it. Was her veil to protect her face from the sun or dust? He'd seen ladies use them before but rarely outside London.

"It is good of you to say so." She took Meg's hand with her own gloved one. "What do you say to the nice gentleman, Meg?"

Meg managed a stumbling curtsy. "Good day, Mr. Bent."

"Good day, Meg," Benedict said. "And to you, ma'am."

The woman acknowledged his words with a tilt of her bonnet, and then, almost before Benedict knew what she was about, she turned and guided Meg back through the gate. He stood watching as she latched it and started back up the lane.

Where did Margaret Jane Granger and her mother live? Benedict had thought he knew all the Farwell tenants and local villagers, and they could not have traveled far if the child had wandered into the yard alone. He was none the wiser after his brief interaction with Mrs. Granger, although the same could likely be said of her. She'd not looked any higher than his muddy boots and straw-flecked breeches, and given that she'd offered no curtsy, she likely assumed he was a farmhand by the name of Mr. Bent.

With a long, last look up the now-empty lane, Benedict whistled for Shep and started across the yard toward the north pasture. He offered the enthusiastic dog a wry smile. If he were fortunate, farmhand Bent would have just enough time to check the river's water level before he was required to become Lord Benning and be back at the house to meet with the Farwell Estate's steward, Mr. Rowe.