Chapter 2

Caroline Granger pushed open the door to the vicarage. Her daughter, Meg, scurried in ahead of her, anxious to find a cup in which to deposit her bedraggled dandelion posy. Caroline followed more slowly. It had been weeks since her illness, but she had yet to regain her full strength. And when she'd realized Meg was no longer in the back garden, she'd panicked, which had drained even more of her limited stamina.

Spring had been exceptionally wet, and the nearby river fed by frigid groundwater was running high. No matter the many warnings Caroline had given her young daughter about the danger inherent in going too close to the river, for a full twenty minutes, Caroline had known real fear. Meg's natural curiosity and sense of adventure were difficult to assuage. Caroline understood. She'd been the same way at that age. But not anymore. Now, merely running the short distance from the vicarage to Farwell Farm had left her barely able to move her limbs.

Wearily, she slipped off her gloves and untied the ribbons beneath her chin. Setting her bonnet and gloves on the nearby hall table, she began unbuttoning her jacket. Her fingers trembled slightly, further indicating that she'd pushed herself too hard. She sighed. One day, if her prayers were answered, she would feel whole again—even though her appearance was forever altered.

Turning away from the door, Caroline followed the sound of Meg's chatter down the passage and into the kitchen. The sunny room welcomed her with a warm and gentle embrace. Brick-red tile covered the floor, worn smooth by many feet. A serviceable wooden table was surrounded by half a dozen wooden chairs, and in the corner, a large black stove filled the room with the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

"Oh, Nora." Caroline dropped onto the nearest chair. "The kitchen smells divine."

Her father's aging cook smiled and set a cup of water and dandelions on the windowsill beside two other cups containing Meg's earlier offerings: half a dozen tiny daisies picked from the lawn and an assortment of tulip petals gathered from the flowerbed.

"There's nothin' quite like the smell of bakin' bread, is there?" she said.

"No. Especially when it's a rarity."

Nora's smile dimmed. "Yer father told me things were right hard for you in Portsmouth, even afore the smallpox came."

Caroline managed a weak smile. Returning to her childhood home after Fred's death was proving to be both a blessing and a challenge. On the one hand, she was surrounded by those who loved her, who sincerely cared for her well-being and her daughter's. On the other hand, she had been forced to close a chapter of her life in an unexpectedly abrupt way, and recounting the memories was often painful. Overall, the last six years had been difficult, certainly, but they'd not been without their joyful moments, and she was mature enough to recognize the personal growth she'd experienced during the trying times.

"It wasn't just me, Nora," she said. "The past year has been hard for everyone. Food has been scarce, and wheat flour all but nonexistent."

Nora frowned, the wrinkles on her old face deepening. "By all accounts, it weren't so bad 'ere as it were in other places, but I know the vicar was right worried about several families in the parish." She reached for the crock of milk on the nearby counter. "Still is, come t' that."

Caroline did not doubt it. When her father left the house earlier today to visit several families in the village, it hadn't escaped her notice that he'd placed a basket of provisions in the cart. "How bad has it been?" she asked.

"Bad enough. Especially for them with large families and no extra income." Nora poured some milk into a cup and placed it on the table. "But 'ere at the vicarage, we've managed better than most. Lord Farwell's cowman drops off milk every mornin', and your father's learned that you can make dry crusts of bread taste like new if you sop 'em in fresh, warm milk."

At the talk of milk, Meg's attention shifted from counting tulip petals to the cup Nora had set down. Scrambling onto the chair next to Caroline's, she pointed a small finger at it. "Is it for me?"

"It is, pet," Nora said. "And your mother shall have some, too, if she'd like."

Caroline smiled and shook her head. "Thank you, Nora, but no. I think I shall put the kettle on for some tea instead."

"Don't you lift a finger," Nora ordered. "The water's already hot. I'll put the kettle back on the stove fer a minute, an' it will be boilin' in no time."

Caroline had known Nora too long to bother arguing. The kindhearted woman had been with the family since Caroline was ten years old and Caroline's mother's weak heart had necessitated hiring help. Nora called herself the vicar's cook, but she'd always done far more for the small family than prepare meals. Along with doing basic housework and laundry, she'd taken on a nurturing role when twelve-year-old Caroline had found herself lost and floundering after the death of her mother. And even though Caroline had been gone from the vicarage for six years, Nora's motherly instinct had not dimmed. Ever since Caroline and Meg's arrival three days before, she'd tasked herself with returning Caroline to full health. That assignment inevitably included enforced rest and feeding her at every possible opportunity.

"You are too good to me, Nora."

"Nonsense. You could use a little spoilin'." Nora lifted the kettle. "Did you enjoy the fresh air?"

"It was lovely." This was not the time to tell the protective woman that she'd run all the way to Farwell Farm in a fright over Meg's sudden disappearance. "The apple trees are starting to bloom."

"So I noticed." She opened a tin and took out a small biscuit. "Lord Farwell an' 'is son planted a sizeable orchard a few years back. Over by the meadow where you used t' play when you were little. Oh my, you should 'ave seen the blossoms there in the spring." She shook her head sadly. "I 'eard tell that the floodin' after the big freeze killed a good number of 'em. Such a shame."

"I'm sorry to hear it." Caroline settled back in her chair. Seeing as Nora had brought up the subject of the Farwell property more than once, perhaps she could shed some light on the cowman who'd shown Meg such kindness. "Lord Farwell is still running the dairy farm, I take it?"

"Oh yes. But it's his oldest son who oversees it nowadays."

Benedict. Caroline pictured the gangly, dark-haired youth she'd known in her childhood. He was five years her senior, and although she and his younger brother, Henry, had spent hours together racing sticks and toy sailboats down the river and catching caterpillars and butterflies, Benedict had rarely joined them. He'd been away at boarding school a good part of the time, but even when he'd been home, he'd never shown much interest in playing their childish games.

"How many cowmen does he have working for him?" she asked.

"That, I can't tell you." The kettle began to hiss, and Nora lifted it off the hob and poured the steaming water into the nearby teapot. "Giles is the one who always drops off milk at the vicarage. I daresay there's others workin' out in the fields, but I don't know who they've taken on recently."

Caroline pondered that information. "Do you know anyone in the village named Bent?" she asked.

"Not that I can think of right off." Nora appeared thoughtful. "There's old Bennett Thornton at the White Hart, but I've never 'eard anyone call 'im Bent."

"Mr. Bent's doggie likes me." Meg spoke over the rim of her cup.

"His doggie?" Nora asked.

"Yes." Before Caroline could prevent it, Meg wiped the smear of milk off her upper lip with the back of her hand. "His name is Shep."

"We use a serviette to wipe our mouths, Meg," Caroline said.

Meg searched the table and then peered beneath it. "I lost it."

Caroline stifled a sigh. On the grand list of today's parenting failures, it appeared that she would have to add table manners right below keeping track of her child.

"I don't suppose you had a serviette with your cup of milk, but if you find yourself in need of one again, ask me for a handkerchief."

Meg looked suitably contrite. "Yes, Mama."

"Your mama looks as though she needs a rest." Nora handed Caroline a cup of tea, concern shining in her eyes. "D'you think you're big enough t' 'and me the pegs whilst I 'ang the clothes on the line, Miss Meg?"

"Yes." Meg was off her chair in an instant. "See how big I am?"

Nora chuckled. "I do, indeed. Seems like you might be just the right size." She crossed to the corner of the kitchen and pulled a tin full of wooden pegs from the shelf. "'Ere you are." She offered the tin to Meg. "Mind them well. I don't want t' find any on the ground."

Meg wrapped both her small arms around the can and pressed it to her chest. "I'll be ever so careful."

Nora smiled and hoisted the basket of wet clothes lying in the corner of the kitchen onto her hip. "That's the way. Now, if you'll carry that and I bring the washin', then your mama can take 'er cup o' tea an' go up t' 'er room fer a bit."

Meg kept her arms wrapped around the tin, but her feet gave a hop of excitement. "I can be your helper."

"Exactly right." Nora gave Caroline a meaningful look. "Go on upstairs an' rest. I'll watch the little one."

"Thank you, Nora." Gratitude for the woman's perceptiveness curbed Caroline's frustration that her energy was so lacking. "I won't stay up there for long."

"Take all the time you need." Nora opened the kitchen door that led into the back garden.

"Be a good girl for Nora, Meg," Caroline said.

"Yes, Mama," Meg said and skipped outside without a backward glance.

Rising slowly, Caroline left her half-finished cup of tea on the table and made her way down the passage and up the stairs.

The first door on the right led to her bedchamber. It was the same bedchamber she'd used as a child. The crack that had formed in the corner of the mirror when it had fallen off the wall after she'd closed the door too hard as an exuberant youngster was still there. So, too, was the old rocking chair, with its faded blue cushion, and the painting of an elegant young lady sitting in a flower garden hanging above the bed. And yet, notwithstanding its familiarity, the room seemed smaller than it had before. Smaller and emptier.

She glanced at the trunk lying at the end of the bed. Nora had helped unload her gowns the day after she'd arrived, but the handful of small items she'd brought with her from her home in Portsmouth remained within. Perhaps, when she'd set out a few books, the cut-glass vase Fred had given her, and her small wooden jewelry box, the bedchamber would feel more welcoming.

Lowering herself onto the side of the bed, she studied the reflection looking back at her from the mirror above her chest of drawers. A cluster of indentations ran along the length of her left cheek bone. From a distance, they could perhaps be mistaken for dimples. On her right side, however, the damaged skin began on her upper neck, followed her jaw toward her ear, and curved around the outer portion of her eye until it touched her forehead.

Even though the sight of her severely scarred face no longer reduced her to tears, an aching sorrow for what she had lost still lingered. Never again would she know porcelain-smooth skin or what it was to meet a stranger's eyes without bracing for a negative response. It had been five weeks since she'd first ventured out of her sick room, but other than when she was with Meg, her father, or Nora, she had learned to keep her face covered. Her smallpox-ravaged body inevitably engendered gasps of shock or expressions of pity from those who caught a glimpse of her appearance beneath her wide-brimmed bonnets and veils.

She turned away from the painful image, even as she recognized the gift it was to view it. The zest for life that had previously shone so brightly in her blue eyes was gone, snuffed out by fever and suffering. But she could yet see. She could read a book, gaze on a beautiful sunset or flower, recognize those she knew and loved, catch Meg's guileless expressions and watch her grow. And that was a blessing she counted every day. So many of those who survived the dreaded plague lost their eyesight in the process.

Smoothing her blemished hand across the pale-green counterpane, she slid farther onto the bed. God willing, now that she was back at the vicarage, perhaps she would receive sufficient food and rest for her full strength to finally return. And if she rested for a little while this afternoon, she might have the energy to help bathe Meg this evening.

* * *

Freshly bathed and wearing the clothing befitting his station, Benedict stood in his father's office, his hands behind his back, his attention on the ledger lying open on the large wooden desk before him. Parliamentary affairs had kept his father in London longer than usual this year, and it had fallen to Benedict to meet with their steward in his stead. Usually, Phineas Rowe stopped by to receive approval for such things as the hiring of a new servant or the replacement of a carriage wheel. This time, it was the weightier matter of reviewing the farmland's overall assets and deficits.

"We have been waiting weeks," Benedict said, "and you have yet to acquire any saplings to replace the apple trees we lost?"

"That is correct, my lord." Rowe's feet shifted slightly, but he met Benedict's eyes without wavering. "As we were not the only ones to lose a goodly portion of our orchard, it goes without saying that we are not the only ones seeking replacement trees."

"I'm well aware of that, Rowe." Benedict was digging deep for patience. His lack of sleep was not helping. "But the devastating conditions occurred over a year ago. I have spoken to Lord Dunsbourne multiple times in the intervening months. The losses he experienced in his orchard were even greater than ours, and yet, by all accounts, he has managed to replace almost all his damaged trees. If that is true—and I have no reason to doubt Henry's brother-in-law—how is it that we cannot round up under a dozen apple saplings?"

"I shall continue making inquiries, my lord."

Benedict released a tight breath. Rowe's meager offer was hardly reassuring. The fellow was a trained solicitor. Surely he had the wherewithal to broker an agreement with those selling saplings to other orchards.

"Those inquiries will need to be made and acted upon with haste," Benedict said. "Already, the optimal time for transplanting trees is behind us. If we wait until the summer heat is here, our chances of success will drop considerably. To go two years with a significant loss of income from the orchards is bad enough. We cannot afford to extend the shortfall."

"I shall send out more letters first thing in the morning, my lord."

"Very well." Benedict did not bother adding that he, too, would be writing a letter. Dunsbourne had been more than helpful in the past, and Benedict had no reason to believe that anything had changed. Especially as the baron was fully aware that the Farwell orchard had only just reached the point of producing a sizeable volume of apples when the 1794 drought hit. It had been the worst possible timing, particularly because the drought had been followed by a long winter with the coldest temperatures on record. Already under stress, it was hardly surprising that the young tree roots had been unable to cope with the water-logged soil that had come after weeks of spring flooding. Unexpected or not, losing so many trees at once had been disheartening.

"What of the wheat crop?" Benedict asked. "Do you have better news for me there?"

"Yes, my lord. The autumn wheat looks to be coming along nicely. The spring wheat may suffer a little from the excess rain we've had these last few weeks, but the farm laborers remain hopeful that only a small portion of the seed will have been lost."

Benedict experienced a measure of relief. The apple trees were a sound investment in the future, but the wheat crop was a necessity to keep their tenants alive.

"There will be no shortage of demand for the wheat, Rowe," he said. "Weather willing, a plentiful harvest must be our priority."

"I have already received more wheat orders than we can possibly furnish," Rowe said.

Benedict frowned. The need for additional wheat flour in the country had prompted him to plant double the acreage he'd planted before. It was a step in the right direction but not nearly enough to help everyone. "The tenants must be our priority," he said, "followed by the local villagers." He glanced at the tidy row of numbers lining one side of the nearest page. The high cost of seed had been a deterrent for many farmers, and yet without an ample supply of wheat this year, the number of people going hungry would multiply. "I wish to be informed of the going price for a sack of wheat during the weeks preceding and immediately after harvest."

"Of course, my lord."

Benedict turned a page in the ledger. "And now, on to the cows."

"As you can see," Rowe said, pointing to the page Benedict had turned to, "milk production has been up for the last month."

"I am glad to hear it."

"And as of this afternoon, we have three new calves."

"Yes. I was at the barn earlier." Memory of the birth he'd recently witnessed flooded back. "We are fortunate that Giles was around for the latest one."

Before Rowe could respond, a knock sounded. Both men turned to face the door as the Farwells' butler, Stokes, entered the room.

The butler inclined his head politely. "I beg your pardon, my lord, Mr. Rowe. One of the farmhands just arrived at the house. It seems that Lord Benning's presence is required at the barn." Rowe gave Stokes an irritated look, but the butler remained marvelously unperturbed. "I was told that it was a matter of some urgency," he added.

Benedict glanced out the window. Gray clouds were rolling in, and if Giles had sent for him, his earlier prediction of a storm and more births was proving true; another cow was likely in distress, and he had limited time to change into his working clothes. "My apologies, Rowe." He started across the room. "We will have to schedule another day to go over the things we have missed."

"As you wish, my lord." Rowe's clipped tone belied his accommodating words. "Although, might I suggest that the hiring of two more milkmaids be done without delay?"

It seemed to Benedict that the imminent threat of the river flooding the north pasture and the prompt procuring of fruit trees were more pressing matters than bringing on additional milkmaids, but in the interest of time, he gave a brisk nod. "If you deem it necessary to bring on additional milkmaids, I leave that in your capable hands. We shall revisit the other issues this time next week." If he were fortunate, his parents would return soon, and he'd be able to relinquish this tedious job to his father. He gestured toward the open book. "Leave the ledger. I shall look over everything in the intervening days."

Rowe inclined his head. "Yes, my lord."

Benedict passed the butler at the door. "See Mr. Rowe out, if you would, Stokes. And have the farmhand tell Giles that I shall be there forthwith."