Chapter 15

Caroline had forgotten how much she loved riding. There'd been no reason to have a horse in Portsmouth. Everything she'd needed had been within walking distance, and on the few occasions she'd traveled beyond the town, she'd gone by coach. Her father's horse and trap was convenient for visits to his parishioners or the shop, but that practical mode of transportation could not compare to the thrill of being atop an elegant mount.

She eased her grip on the reins, content to allow Poppy to match the steady pace Benedict had set for Saxon. He rode at her right, with Meg bundled up in front of him. The gentleman had one arm wrapped securely around the child, his other hand on the reins. Meg had maintained a steady flow of excited chatter since they'd left the stables and was now pointing to something in the nearby field. When Benedict nodded and responded with a smile, Caroline's heart warmed. She did not need to hear the words they exchanged to recognize his kindness.

Looking away, she attempted to sort through her muddled emotions. Meg had never taken to a gentleman the way she'd taken to Benedict. Because Caroline had not spent enough time with Fred to develop a relationship of any depth, Benedict's attentive consideration had opened a whole new world to her. And although his thoughtfulness touched Caroline greatly, it also scared her.

An attachment between him and Meg could not last. Despite the lecture he'd given his mother in the kitchen, Benedict would ultimately take a wife, and when he did, the attention he could offer Meg would, of necessity, wane to nothing. Caroline ached at the thought. Meg would be crushed, and there would be no easy way for Caroline to explain that kind of change in their relationship.

"I see grandpapa's house!" Meg cried.

The gray-tiled roof came into view over the hedgerow, a thin stream of smoke floating skyward from the kitchen chimney. Caroline smiled, grateful for the feeling of homecoming she still experienced at the sight of the peaceful vicarage.

"I shall have to apologize to your father for your late return," Benedict said.

"I think it is I who should be apologizing," Caroline responded. "Meg's mishap kept you from the afternoon milking."

"By way of full confession, I am not truly so tied to participating in the milking as my mother believes."

"Ah." Caroline raised her eyebrows at his unexpected revelation. "So, if you are not always in the milking parlor, where else do you go to avoid unwelcome social gatherings?"

He eyed her warily. "How do I know you will not share such information with my mother over a cup of tea?"

"Because you and I are allies in our opposition of large tea parties."

"And you may need a hiding place too?"

"Without a doubt," she said. "But I would hope that the vicarage is a safe enough spot for me."

"Hm." He appeared thoughtful, but she caught the humor in his eyes. "I shall have to add the vicarage to my list of bolt-holes."

"You have an extensive list, then?"

"I would not say extensive, exactly, but it is remarkable how time-consuming the apple orchard, wheat fields, and ledgers in my father's office can be," he said. "Especially around four o'clock."

Caroline laughed. How Benedict had turned her fear of meeting people into something they could tease about, she did not know. But it made her feel less alone than she had in a long time. "Thank you, Benedict."

His brows came together. "For sharing my hiding places?"

"Not just that." Suddenly, her true reason felt foolish. "Meg and I had a wonderful day today."

"As did I."

They rounded the bend, and suddenly, the whole vicarage was before them. Caroline's father appeared at the front gate.

"Grandpapa!" Meg called. "Look! I'm riding Saxon."

"Bless my soul, so you are!" He waited until they'd reined their mounts to a halt. "I was on my way to hitch up Daisy. You've been gone long enough that I was starting to worry."

"We raced boats, and I fell in the water, and then Lord Benting carried me, and then I knocked over the peas and banged my head." Meg's words tumbled over each other, and Caroline was quite sure that had Meg been upright, she would have been hopping. "Oh, and Lord Benting's mama says regards."

"That's very good of her," Caroline's father said, seemingly interpreting the garbled message without difficulty. "I did not realize she had returned to Farwell Hall."

"She and my father arrived only this afternoon," Benedict said. "My mother was pleased for the opportunity to speak with Caroline and Meg, but I fear I cannot blame our late return on her."

"No, indeed," her father said. "It sounds as though it was a dunking in the river and some spilt peas that are culpable."

Benedict chuckled. "Just so. And I am happy to report that neither incident will have a lasting adverse effect."

"I am very glad to hear it." Her father stepped up to Saxon and extended his arms to Meg. "Come along, young lady. Nora left some soup on the stove, and I daresay you're ready for some supper by now."

Meg leaned forward so that he could lift her off the saddle and onto the ground. The blanket trailed behind her like a peacock's tail, but Meg appeared oblivious to it. "Is it pea soup?"

"I believe we should go to the kitchen together and find out," he said.

She nodded enthusiastically before looking up at Benedict. "Thank you for sharing your horse with me, Lord Benting."

"It was my pleasure, Meg."

She smiled and then half hopped, half stumbled through the gate.

Benedict dismounted. "If you'd be good enough to see to Meg, Reverend, I shall assist Caroline off her horse so that she may join you."

"Thank you, my lord." Gathering the portion of the blanket dragging along the ground, Caroline's father wasted no time in following Meg down the short garden path.

Benedict circled Saxon and came to stand at Poppy's side. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Caroline lifted her right leg over the upper pommel of the sidesaddle and drew her left leg out of the stirrup. "Yes." She swiveled slightly so that she was facing him.

He raised his arms, carefully placing his hands on either side of her waist. An unexpected awareness pulsed through her. She took a short breath, attempting to ignore the sensation.

"Set your hands on my shoulders," he said.

She took another breath. Not long ago, Benedict had helped her to her feet in the kitchen. Then, his fingers had felt strong and reassuring. Not at all like they did now. Now his touch felt... She swallowed. It felt intimate.

"Caroline?"

She met his eyes. They were filled with questions. Questions she did not wish to answer.

"Forgive me," she whispered, hurriedly placing her hands on his broad shoulders.

Beneath his jacket, his muscles tightened, and suddenly, she was airborne. And then, just as suddenly, her feet were on solid ground again.

Yet to release his hold, he searched her eyes. "Was the ride too much for you?"

"Not at all." He was too close. She took a small step back, immediately running into Poppy. The horse shifted, and Caroline stumbled.

Benedict tightened his grip. "Allow me to walk you to the door."

She shook her head. "There is no need. Truly." Indeed, the sooner there was some distance between them, the sooner she could reclaim some semblance of normalcy. "It has been some time since I was in a saddle. That is all. My legs simply needed a moment to adjust to standing again."

Concern creased his forehead. "I would rather not leave until I know you are safely inside."

She attempted another step, this time toward the gate. "You see," she said. "I am steady enough."

With seeming reluctance, Benedict dropped his hands from her waist. Breathing was instantly easier.

"I shall wait here until you reach the door," he said.

"Thank you, Benedict." She walked through the gate, closing it behind her before turning back to him.

"I wish you a pleasant evening, Caroline." He was standing beside Saxon, still waiting to mount.

"And I would wish the same for you," she said, and then she continued down the path without looking back.

* * *

Benedict lay with his head on his pillow, staring at the canopy hanging above his bed. He didn't know what time it was. The pearl gray of early morning was softening the dark of night and sending slivers of pale light through the curtains at his bedchamber's windows. Birds would be waking before long, and he had yet to sleep. He groaned and dropped an arm over his eyes. If only he could turn off the mental images of the day before as easily as he could block his vision of the shadowy canopy.

The previous afternoon had been a swirling combination of wonderful experiences and terrifying moments. Racing boats with Caroline and Meg had been the highlight of his month. Truth be told, he had yet to think of anything he'd done all year that had brought him more genuine happiness. On the other hand, Meg's tumble into the river had frightened him more than he cared to admit. And then there was the unfortunate and horribly public revival of his long-standing feud with his mother.

Perhaps he should have ignored the way she'd masterfully reinvented a peaceful teatime into a social event. But if he had waited to confront her about it later, Caroline would have been left in agony. There was no doubt in his mind that Caroline had been excessively anxious about his mother's burgeoning plans. Her relief when his mother had agreed to moderate them was obvious. As was the sense of camaraderie he'd felt when they'd touched on the subject of escaping large gatherings during their ride to the vicarage. But when they'd arrived at the gate and he'd lifted her off Poppy, everything had changed.

The same indefinable attraction he'd felt at the river had surged through him the instant he'd placed his hands on Caroline's waist, but this time, he'd found himself reluctant to let her go. Assisting a lady off her mount was a simple thing, but after all the day had brought, that final moment together—just the two of them, standing so close—had felt unaccountably right. Until he'd looked into her deep-blue eyes and seen a new emotion flickering in their depths. Something that hinted at distress.

It had still been there when she'd all but fled from him to the vicarage. And these many hours later, he was still trying to determine what he might have said or done to cause it.

With a grunt of frustration, he tossed the covers back and climbed out of bed. After lighting the candle on his bedside table with a nearby flint, he pulled a pair of breeches on under his nightshirt and shoved his feet into the nearest pair of shoes. The ensemble would not pass his mother's standard of dress, but it was good enough for a late-night excursion to the kitchen.

Taking the candle with him, he let himself out of the room and headed for the servants' back staircase. Darkness filled the narrow staircase, but his candle's small flame was sufficient to light his way as he headed downward. He was almost to the last step when he heard a clang. He froze. It had come from the kitchen; he was sure of it.

Moving more carefully, he approached the kitchen door. It was ajar, and light flickered from within. He set his hand on the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. A drawer thudded closed, followed by another clang. A lamp shone from a shelf above the stove, illuminating a figure bent over the counter. He stepped into the room and raised his candle to see more clearly. Recognition brought with it a blend of relief and confusion.

"Mrs. Newson?"

The older lady swung around, one floury hand clutching her apron at her chest. "Mercy, Lord Benning! You gave me a terrible scare!"

"My apologizes. Although I confess, you gave me a rough moment as well." His gaze moved from her flour-covered hands to the mound of dough on the counter. "What are you doing here at this time of night?"

Cook released her hold on her apron and took an unsteady breath. "I believe four o'clock qualifies as mornin', my lord, even if it's earlier than most of us like to get up."

Benedict strained to see the clock on the wall. Surely it wasn't that time already. Unfortunately, the black hands corroborated Cook's pronouncement. "I stand corrected," he said. "Although I have yet to understand why you are here."

"Bread, my lord." She lifted the mass of dough and dropped it into a large bowl. "If Lord and Lady Farwell are to 'ave fresh rolls for their breakfast, the dough must start rising now."

And so, she had cut short her own sleep. He shook his head slightly. "You are too good to us, Mrs. Newson."

"I'm just doin' my job, my lord."

Personally, Benedict thought this effort went above and beyond her prescribed duties, but he could not fault her. He would be one of the beneficiaries of her early-morning labor.

She gave the dough a final thump. "I was right glad you let the staff know your parents were comin' this week. It gave me a few days to order extra flour. Lady Farwell will be wantin' more baked goods if she's to start entertainin' again."

Cook's comment brought to mind Caroline's information about the villagers going without. Even though he'd set up the milk delivery for the Trilbys, he'd not had the opportunity to ask the vicar about others who may be in need.

"Why did you need to order flour? Surely Mr. Wallace at the shop keeps something so basic in stock at all times."

"Well, 'e would if 'e could find it." She set a pan on the stove, poured some milk into it, and opened the small door beneath to add a log to the faintly glowing coals. "It's been months since the local shop's 'ad flour. I 'ave to send to Gloucester for it."

Benedict stared at her, scarcely able to believe his ears. "Do you mean to tell me there's been no flour in the village since the start of the year?"

"I believe Mr. Wallace 'as it occasionally. For far too 'igh a price. But it's not been regularly in stock since February," she said.

"How is that possible? Even with the shortage early last year, our fall harvest was sufficient to have supplied the shop until now."

"I can't tell you, my lord. Mr. Wallace claims the miller's 'ad no wheat since then."

Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. Something was very wrong with this scenario. He'd personally assisted with the Farwell Farm harvest, had watched the number of sacks of wheat loaded onto the cart multiply until the horses could barely pull the weight. Everyone involved had considered it a bountiful crop. The entire load had been scheduled for delivery at the local mill.

"I believe a visit to the miller is in order," Benedict said.

"I daresay 'e'd be the best one to talk to. When I asked Mr. Wallace about it, 'e didn't seem to know much. And since 'e couldn't tell me when 'e'd be gettin' more flour in, I asked Stokes to order a delivery from Gloucester. 'E had Mr. Rowe take care of it when 'e was there."

"So, Mr. Rowe is aware of this flour shortage?"

"Yes, my lord. 'E came to speak to me directly about it. Said 'e could buy some from a gristmill just outside Gloucester. Wanted a better idea of 'ow much flour I required, 'e did." She paused, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "Geoffrey Blyton and Sons. That's what the place was called." Cook opened a cupboard door, pulled out a mug, and carried it to the stove. A small spiral of steam was rising above the pot. "The milk's almost ready. If you'd like to take a seat, my lord, I'll bring it to you."

"I did not ask for warm milk," he said.

She gave him a meaningful look. "'Ow long have I known you, my lord?"

"All my life."

"That's right. And you've been wanderin' into my kitchen in the middle of the night lookin' for a mug of warm milk since you were a boy."

Benedict dropped into the nearest chair. There had been several years during his youth when he'd been plagued with nightmares. He'd been too old for a nursemaid, but Cook had taken on the task of joining him in the kitchen when he'd been unable to sleep.

"As I said before," he told her, "you are too good to us. To me, in particular."

"It's my pleasure, my lord." She set the mug before him. "And seein' as I was up anyway, it's no trouble at all."