Chapter 20

Benedict stood back to allow Caroline to enter the kitchen ahead of him. He needed as long as possible to straighten his thoughts if he was to have any hope of conversing with his mother coherently. Caroline's skirts brushed his leg as she walked by, and he took an unsteady breath. He'd kissed her. In the cleaning cupboard. His heart rejoiced even as the foolishness of his impetuous act shook him to his core. Of all the reckless things he could have done, this one surely won the prize.

It could have ended in complete disaster. If they'd been discovered by another member of the household, no excuse would have been sufficient to overcome the black mark. Worse, if Caroline had spurned him, he would have had to live with the humiliating knowledge that he had acted beneath himself. Relief coursed through him as memory of the feel of her lips on his flooded back. She'd not rejected him. She'd met his kisses with her own and had filled him with a hope he'd barely dared dream of. He took another breath. This time, it flowed more easily. He did not know exactly what lay ahead; he only knew that he wanted Caroline beside him. And if he needed to kiss her in every cupboard in the house to prove it to her, he would.

"Ah! There you are, Benedict. And, Caroline."

At his mother's greeting, Benedict shook off his contemplation and managed a remarkably natural smile. "I'm sorry we kept you waiting, Mother. We thought you would still be with the Flocktons."

"Thankfully, no." His mother turned to Caroline. "You have my deepest apologies, Caroline. If Benedict had not given Mary Flockton such a sound dressing-down for the way in which she spoke to you, I would have done so myself."

Caroline's wide-eyed gaze landed upon him. "You gave her a dressing-down?"

"I simply spoke the truth." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, it likely has been some time since anyone offered her that particular service, so it may have come as rather a shock."

His mother looked uncommonly pleased. "It was marvelous. And the best of it was that she decided to leave immediately afterward. I sincerely hope we do not see anything more of her for a long time."

"Or ever," Benedict muttered.

His mother's smile was thin. "Yes. Or ever."

Caroline's hands were clasped, and Benedict had the sinking feeling that her eyes were filling with tears.

"Thank you, my lady," she said. "I'm not sure that my behavior was worthy of such kindness."

"Nonsense," his mother said. "Everyone deserves kindness. It should be at the foundation of every act and every conversation. I only wish that those who refuse to accept so simple a truth would understand that when all is said and done, thoughtless or cruel behavior ultimately causes more damage to the giver than the receiver."

Benedict's heart warmed. He had instinctively known that his mother was the person who could best help Jim and Hester Simkins. Her message to Caroline only proved it.

"We came to you because we recently learned of others who are in need of some acts of kindness," he said.

He had his mother's full attention.

"Who?" she asked.

"Jim and Hester Simkins."

His mother's brow furrowed. "They're tenants of Farwell Hall."

"They are. Jim is an exceptionally hard worker, as was Hester until she was required to be at home with her baby."

"The baby has come already?" His mother set a hand to her cheek. "Oh my. I have so much catching up to do. Your father was right. We should have returned to Farwell Hall sooner."

"Be that as it may," Benedict said, "you are here now, and the Simkinses will undoubtedly benefit because of it."

A look of determination settled upon his mother's face, and she pointed to the kitchen table. "Sit. Both of you. I wish to hear everything."

After Benedict had told his mother about Jim's recent fall, he had Caroline tell her about the empty state of the kitchen cupboards, Hester's exhaustion, and their newborn child's obvious hunger. When Caroline had finished speaking, deep concern shone in his mother's eyes.

"Oh, poor, sweet Hester! She must be beside herself."

"She's badly lacking in sleep and food," Caroline said. "But once those things improve, I believe she will manage."

"She may need some extra help until Jim is back on his feet again," Benedict added.

"Most certainly." His mother studied the stove thoughtfully. Two pots were on the boil, and if the smell coming from the oven was any indication, the pots' contents would be accompanying roast duck. "Mrs. Newson?"

Cook was at the counter, rolling out pastry. She stopped, wiped her floured hands on her apron, and approached the table. "Yes, m'lady."

"Have you prepared enough for our evening meal to fill two extra plates?"

Cook glanced at the half-prepared pie on the counter. "If I supplement the apple pie with some steamed apples, I can manage that, m'lady."

"Wonderful." His mother offered Cook a pleased smile. "We have a duty to fulfill, Mrs. Newson, and I rather think we are both going to enjoy the exercise."

"Very good, my lady. What can I do t' help?"

"We shall begin with two plates of food, and then we shall move on to filling a food basket," his mother said.

Cook appeared remarkably unperturbed, and Benedict received the strong impression that this was not the first time these two ladies had had a conversation such as this.

"You will be assisting an injured father, a nursing mother, and a hungry baby, Mrs. Newson," Caroline said.

Cook's expression softened. "Lady Farwell and me, we'll know just what t' do, Miss Caroline. Don't you fret."

Caroline's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and Benedict marveled at the perception exhibited by each of the women at the table. How they recognized needs and emotions so readily, he could not fathom, but he was immensely thankful for it.

"What would you have me do to help, Mother?"

"Nothing." She waved her hand as though shooing him away. "You have done your part already by bringing this to my attention. Cook and I will make sure the Simkinses are well cared for." She paused. "It has been far too long since I have visited our tenants. I shall make it a priority to stop at every house over the next fortnight."

"Thank you, Mother. And if you learn that any are wanting for flour or bread, would you tell them that I shall be ordering flour from Gloucester to be delivered to the local shop?"

"Whyever would you need to do that?"

Benedict shook his head. "The entire story will need to wait until I have uncovered the whole of it. Suffice it to say, there is a need in the community for more flour, and as I feel a rather significant measure of responsibility for the shortage, I intend to do something to put it right."

"Very well." His mother's perplexed expression suggested that she would have preferred to know more, but Benedict was grateful that she did not push. Until he spoke with Rowe, there was little he could offer her.

"If there is truly nothing further that Caroline or I can do, we shall leave you to your planning," he said.

"Yes." His mother rose. He and Caroline came to their feet, and his mother circled the table to stand before Caroline. She took her hands. "Thank you for your help today. I know full well that when you gave your report on Hester's condition, you glossed over the assistance you offered her. We are all most grateful you are back in Leyfield."

"Thank you, my lady. You are very generous."

"As are you, my dear." She squeezed Caroline's hands and then released them. "Now, off with you. Have Benedict call you a carriage. Rain or shine, I will not have you walking home from Farwell Hall."

Benedict smothered a grin. He was quite sure Caroline would have demurred if he'd suggested calling for a carriage, but she'd be disinclined to ignore his mother's command.

"Thank you, my lady." Caroline bobbed a curtsy.

Benedict took it as an acceptance. "Come," he said, offering Caroline his arm. "I am quite sure Stokes can have the carriage here in short order."

He led Caroline down the passage. Purposely avoiding looking at the entrance to the cleaning cupboard, he opened the door to the servants' stairs.

"May I accompany you home?" he asked.

"There's no need." Her weary smile hinted at her exhaustion. "It was very good of your mother to insist that I take the carriage. I daresay my legs will be glad of the rest, but they are perfectly capable of getting me in and out of the vehicle unassisted."

It was not the answer he'd hoped for, but he suspected what little endurance she had left to her was waning fast. Whether it was walking or conversing, she could not manage much more.

"Would you rather be alone?"

"It might be for the best," she said. "If I were to fall asleep on your shoulder, it would only add to today's growing list of embarrassments."

"And to my list of immense pleasures."

Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, but before he could say anything more, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Stokes appeared.

"Ah, Lord Benning," he said, stepping back to allow Benedict and Caroline into the entrance hall. "I was just coming to look for you. Your father has asked that you join him in his study."

Benedict frowned. It was not often that he received a summons from his father. Chances were good he had a serious matter to discuss.

"Go," Caroline whispered. "I shall be fine."

"You are sure?"

"Perfectly."

With a reluctant nod, Benedict gave his attention to the butler. "Thank you, Stokes. If you would be good enough to call for a carriage to take Mrs. Granger back to the vicarage, I shall join my father right away."

"Very good, my lord." Stokes bowed and then started toward the front door. "This way, if you please, Mrs. Granger."

Caroline offered Benedict a small smile. "You see? Stokes has me well in hand."

It was true. Stokes could be counted on to ensure Caroline was cared for. But it was disconcertingly difficult to leave and allow the butler to do his job.

"I hope you are able to rest once you are back at the vicarage," he said.

"Nora will insist upon it." She hesitated. "I shall check on Hester again soon, but would you be so good as to notify me if her husband's condition worsens?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Benedict." She bobbed a brief curtsy, then hurried after Stokes.

Benedict watched her go. Stokes was already talking to Wesley at the door. The young footman would undoubtedly be sent off to the stables again straightway. Caroline would not have long to wait, and it would behoove Benedict to have his father able to claim the same.

Crossing the great hall quickly, Benedict gave a brief knock on the door to his father's study and walked in. His father was sitting at his desk, an open ledger and a pile of correspondence before him.

"Ah, Benedict. There you are." His father stood to greet him, his dark hair streaked with gray. He was more reliant upon the spectacles he held in his hand than he had been in years past, but his commanding presence had yet to dim.

"This room is not the same when you are gone, Father," Benedict said, moving to join him. "I daresay the desk and chair are glad to have you back."

"Is that so? I rather thought you would be reluctant to have me reclaim them." His father raised a questioning eyebrow. "Should I be asking how many weeks you have neglected them in favor of working in the cow barn?"

Benedict would far rather that he didn't. He'd had Stokes place incoming correspondence on the desk, which had required him to make a daily visit to the room. But other than the days he was required to meet with Rowe or a tenant, he'd tended to steer clear of the room. The study was his father's domain.

"I put in enough seat time to prevent the maids from setting dust covers on the furniture," he said.

"Hm." His father frowned. "I fear that may not have been enough."

Benedict tensed. He'd been correct about his father's summons. Something was amiss. "What have you found?"

His father handed him the letter at the top of the pile. "I hope you will forgive me for reading this. I erroneously assumed that all the letters Stokes had placed on the desk were meant for my perusal. It was only after I'd opened the envelope that I realized this one was written to you." He looked at him curiously. "I would be interested to know what prompted your inquiry."

Puzzled, Benedict took the letter from his father. A quick glance at the signature told him it was from Reginald Smead, the owner of the tree nursery in Upper Millbury. His interest was piqued, and he began to read from the top.

Smead Tree Nursery,

Upper Millbury, Gloucestershire

20th June 1796

Dear Lord Benning,

I regret to inform you that I have no record of Farwell Hall's steward, Mr. Phineas Rowe, requesting apple trees from my nursery. You may be assured that had I known of your need, I would have acted upon it immediately.

We currently have five varieties of apple saplings at various stages of development. The Blenheim Orange, Genet Moyle, and Golden Pippin are sufficiently mature to withstand transportation. Inclement weather notwithstanding, I believe they could be successfully transplanted this late in the season.

If you remain interested in purchasing any saplings, please inform me of the variety you would prefer, and I shall see them delivered within the week.

Sincerely,

Reginald Smead

Benedict lowered the letter, frustration smoldering within him. "Have you spoken to Rowe since your return?"

"I have not. He was supposed to meet with me this morning. When word of Jim Simkins's fall reached me, I sent Wesley to Rowe's house to fetch him. No one responded to his knocking." His father clasped his hands behind his back, his expression grim. "I spoke to Rowe about ordering new trees long before I left for London. In fact, when I reviewed the books in November, he had already itemized the expense."

Benedict's brows came together. "Are you telling me that we paid for trees we never received?"

"It appears so." His father pointed at the ledger on the desk. "Rowe must have the current book, but this is the one from the last quarter of last year. You can see the amount written out to Reginald Smead there."

Benedict stepped closer so he could read the tidy line of figures. The amount supposedly paid to Smead was significantly higher than the amount Benedict had recently paid to Dunsbourne's arborist from Berkshire. His frustration was rapidly becoming anger. "Rowe knew full well that you would not be here to see the trees delivered—or not delivered—and that I would not think to review the ledgers you had gone over with him."

His father paced to the window and gazed outside. The mellow light of early evening bathed the garden. It filtered through the glass, illuminating the concern etched on Benedict's father's face. "I think perhaps you should tell me why you wrote to Mr. Smead in the first place." He swung around to face Benedict. "It seems to me that you would not have taken the time to do that unless you were questioning whether or not Rowe had placed an order with the man."

Benedict thought back on his exasperating interactions with the steward and then upon his brief conversation with Caroline after Sedgewick's trees had arrived. It was she who had first planted the seed of doubt, had first made him wonder if the fault was on Rowe's side rather than on the side of tree nurseries the steward had claimed to have contacted. How could Benedict have been so blind? He'd relied so heavily on the man to take care of the business side of things while his father was in London that he'd neglected to make him accountable. "Unfortunately, I believe my letter was prompted more by frustration than suspicion," he said. "And I only wish I had acted sooner. I am feeling the weight of my neglect on multiple fronts today."

His father eyed him uneasily. "I do not like the sound of that."

"You will like it even less when I tell you the whole of it." Benedict gestured toward the room's two armchairs. "We should probably make ourselves comfortable. After I have shared all I know about the missing apple trees, I shall tell you what I recently learned about our last wheat harvest."

His father sat in silence as Benedict recounted his experience with procuring apple trees through Dunsbourne's arborist. Learning that Rowe had been nowhere to be found when the saplings had arrived obviously did not sit well, but it was when Benedict laid out what he had learned at the mill about the missing wheat that a spark of fury lit his father's eyes.

"Do you mean to tell me that our tenants have been going hungry because Farwell Farm's wheat was not where it was supposed to be?"

"In short," Benedict said, "yes."

His father leaped to his feet and began to pace. "Were we paid for the wheat?"

"According to the ledgers, we were, but given what we have just learned about the apple saplings purchase, those figures may be suspect." Benedict eyed him grimly. "Regardless of whether the bookkeeping is correct, we can be sure that almost no money came from the local miller."

"I must contact the bank immediately." His father dropped into the chair behind his desk and reached for a fresh piece of paper.

Benedict joined him at the desk. His father's concern regarding the estate's cash flow was both understandable and needful, but Benedict had seen the Simkinses' empty cupboards, and his worries lay elsewhere. "I intend to send for wheat from Gloucester," he said. "Cook tells me that is where Rowe procured the flour she has been using. If it's to be had there, I shall ensure that a goodly portion is delivered to the local shop."

His father nodded his approval. "I leave that in your hands. Rowe and the missing ledgers, however, I wish to take care of myself." He set his jaw. "I shall give him one more night to make an appearance. If he's not standing in this office tomorrow morning, I shall seek out the authorities."

"I will stop at his house on the way back from the morning milking," Benedict said. "If Rowe is there, it will serve as a summons. If he is not, I shall speak with his maid. It should not be difficult to retrieve the most recent ledgers from his office."

"Very well." His father gazed at the open book on the desk. "God willing, when tomorrow comes, we shall have a better understanding of what has transpired, and we will know how to act."