Chapter 21

This morning's outing is for Meg's benefit. Caroline repeated the phrase for what felt like the twentieth time. So far, the repetition had not helped calm her nerves, but she continued to hold out a forlorn hope that eventually it would. She did not know if she would actually see Benedict at the farm, but simply being in a position where she might was enough to set her pulse tripping.

"Look, Mama!" Meg slowed her skipping long enough to point to a bunch of particularly large dandelions on the grass verge that ran along the lane. "Can I pick some for Lord Benting?"

"Just one." It seemed that Caroline was not the only person who thought it likely that they would run into the gentleman this morning. "You must leave some for others to enjoy."

Meg reached for the dandelion with the longest stem and waved it excitedly. "He will love this one."

Caroline considered it unlikely that Benedict actually loved dandelions. It was more likely that he loved pleasing Meg.

Caroline's treacherous stomach somersaulted. Love. The very word scared her. Yesterday, Benedict had told her that he'd fallen in love with her, but doubts had assailed her every moment since. How could his feelings for her be that strong? Especially when hers were so muddled.

She'd spent half the night attempting to block out the memory of the incredible kiss they'd shared so that she might better sort through her jumbled emotions. Unfortunately, all these hours later, she was no closer to an answer than she had been on the carriage ride home from Farwell Hall.

"I see the gate!" Meg began to hop. "And some cows."

With the way Caroline was currently feeling, a cow sighting was considerably better than a Saxon or Shep sighting. If neither of those animals was in the yard, it was probable that Benedict wasn't either. And that would be better for everyone. Except perhaps Meg.

After having been gone from her daughter all the previous day, it had been impossible for Caroline to deny her a trip to the farm. Meg's greatest desire was to ride Ginger, but Caroline was quite sure that they would not escape the place without a visit to the cow barn as well.

"Hurry, Mama!"

Caroline picked up her pace, grateful that Meg had heeded her injunction to not open the gate herself. She reached her daughter in time to see Giles crossing the farmyard from the milking parlor. Meg spotted him too.

"Good day, Mr. Giles!" she called.

The older man looked over and waved his hand. "Good day t' ya, young lady." He deviated from his course to join them at the gate. "Are ya come t' ride Ginger or t' see the cows?" he asked, releasing the latch.

"Ginger first." Meg hopped. "Then the cows."

Caroline had guessed correctly. Perhaps she should start counting her blessings that Farwell Farm didn't have an even greater variety of animals.

Giles waited until Caroline and Meg stepped into the yard, and then he closed the gate behind them. "I daresay John'll be right glad t' see ya. 'E's 'ad Saxon an' a couple o' the other horses out already, but I 'aven't seen Ginger yet."

"Saxon is Lord Benting's horse," Meg informed him.

Humor lit Giles's eyes. "So I believe."

She raised the dandelion in her hand. Sometime during the last minute or two, she had bent it, and the yellow head now drooped downward. "I picked this for him. Do you think he will like it?"

"No doubt about it." Giles's expression turned rueful. "But I'm afraid ya've just missed 'is lordship. 'E were 'ere fer the milkin' but left right after."

Meg turned her crestfallen face to Caroline. "Lord Benting is not here, Mama."

Caroline had expected that such news would bring a surge of relief. And it did, in small measure. But she had not been prepared for the much larger wave of disappointment that quickly followed.

"Perhaps Mr. Giles would appreciate the gift instead," she suggested.

Meg offered the bedraggled flower to the cowman. "Here, Mr. Giles. You can have it."

"That's right nice of ya, Miss Meg," he said, accepting the gift with an inclination of his head.

Meg smiled brightly, then she took Caroline's hand and gave it a tug. "Come, Mama. Mr. Giles said that John and Ginger need me."

"I don't believe that's exactly what he meant," Caroline said, offering Giles an apologetic look.

The older man chuckled. "I daresay she 'as the right of it though. Me an' the cows'll still be there whenever yer ready t' stop by."

"Thank you, Giles. That's very good of you."

"Alwus a pleasure, Miss Caroline." Holding the bowed dandelion in one hand, he tugged the brim of his hat with the other. "I wish ya both a good mornin' at the stables."

* * *

Benedict stood on the short path that led to the front door of the cottage where Phineas Rowe resided. Built of gray stone, with a thatched roof, the cottage sat on the southwest corner of the Farwell Estate and had been used as the home of the Farwell family's stewards since the time that Benedict's grandfather was earl. It was a rather lovely home, with a small garden and a beautiful view of the estate from the upper windows. In years past, their stewards had raised their families in this cottage, and there had always been someone about. But Rowe had no wife or children, and the small house seemed empty because of it.

A bird sang from the rooftop, and Benedict raised his gaze. Although the curtains in the upper rooms were pulled closed, a thin trickle of smoke came from one of the chimney pots. Quiet or not, it appeared that someone was in residence.

He approached the door and knocked. Above his head, the bird took off in a flurry of feathers. He waited, listening for the sound of Rowe's heavy footsteps but hearing nothing. He knocked again. This time, Benedict heard a door close somewhere in the house. Moments later, a key turned, a bolt thudded back, and the door opened.

"Lord Benning!" The young woman dropped into a curtsy. Her dark hair was pulled back beneath a mobcap, and an apron covered her serviceable brown gown.

"Good morning, Rachel." Benedict had forgotten that Rowe had hired one of their former milkmaids as his housemaid.

"Good mornin', m'lord. I 'ope I didn't keep ya waitin' too long. It's right 'ard t' hear the front door from the kitchen."

"Not long at all," Benedict said. "I am here to speak with Mr. Rowe."

Her face dropped. "I... I fear he's not in any fit state t' meet with ya at th' moment, m'lord."

What the deuce did that mean? Had the man been drinking? "I beg your pardon."

Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced over her shoulder. The passage beyond was as empty as it had been when she'd opened the door, but when she spoke again, her voice was low. "Mr. Rowe's very poorly, m'lord. 'E didn't want anyone t' know, but I can't keep it from 'is own master, can I?"

"No, you cannot," Benedict said with a little more force than necessary. "What's wrong with the fellow?"

"It..." She swallowed. "It's the pox, m'lord."

Benedict stared at her. "Rowe has the cowpox?"

"No, m'lord. I've 'ad that one. What 'e 'as is much worse."

The first prickles of dread inched up Benedict's spine. "How much worse?"

"Burnin' up, 'e is, an' covered in blisters from head t' toe. No matter what, there's nothin' I can do t' bring 'is temperature down." She looked at him with wide eyes. "I've tried, m'lord, 'onest, I 'ave."

Dear heaven. Benedict attempted to steady his reeling thoughts. Rowe had smallpox. And he'd brought it to the Farwell Estate. "When did he become ill?"

"'E arrived back from Gloucester two nights back," Rachel said. "Late, it was. 'E dropped 'is horse off at th' stables and walked t' the cottage. I could tell 'e weren't feelin' 'is best, but 'e put it down t' the long ride. By mornin', 'e was feverish. 'E 'asn't left 'is bed since."

Benedict was already calculating the potential damage done. No doubt Rachel had been exposed to the illness. Possibly the stablehand who'd assisted Rowe that night. Had the steward spoken to anyone else? Touched anything belonging to anyone else? Benedict did not know exactly how one caught smallpox, but surely any association with someone who clearly had the disease was not good.

"If you have assisted him all this time, I fear you, too, will become ill," he said.

She shook her head. "Not me, m'lord. I was a milkmaid. Milkmaids don't get smallpox."

He wished containing diseases was as simple as choosing the right profession. "Would that we could guarantee that," he said.

"Everyone says that it's so, m'lord." She extended her hands so he could see the scars on them. "See. I 'ave the cowpox marks still. Me body don't need any more."

"Still, I cannot have you remain here."

"I must, m'lord. Mr. Rowe don't 'ave anyone else close by, an' I can't leave 'im here alone. Not as poorly as 'e is."

"Does he have family members elsewhere?" It was something he undoubtedly should already know, but Rowe had never been forthcoming about his family situation—other than the fact that he himself was unmarried.

"One sister is all," Rachel said. "I think 'er name's Agnes, but I've never met 'er. She don't live in Leyfield."

Knowing the Christian name of Rowe's sister was not enough. There was no hope of locating her without more information than that. Benedict ran his fingers through his hair. Rachel was right. Rowe could not be left unattended. And yet how could he knowingly leave this young lady in so untenable a situation?

His struggle must have shown on his face, because Rachel offered him a reassuring nod. "I can manage, m'lord. Me sister, Rebecca, she were a milkmaid as well. She's cared fer three people with smallpox and 'as never came down with it. I'll be th' same. I just know it."

It was a terrible risk, but Benedict could see no better solution. Not if there was to be any hope of containing the disease.

"You are sure of this?"

"Yes, m'lord." She looked thoughtful. "Fer the moment, I 'ave all that I need, but if Mr. Rowe's not improved by next week, I may be needin' some provisions."

"Are you able to write a list of those items?"

She shook her head regretfully. "No, m'lord. I never did learn t' read and write."

"Very well," he said. "I shall ensure that some staples are left on the doorstep before week's end. Someone will pass by the cottage at least once a day. If you or Mr. Rowe require assistance or something beyond the items provided, tie a rag to the doorknob. The person who sees it will knock."

"Thank you, m'lord. I 'ave a blue neckerchief in th' 'ouse. I'll use that so it's easily seen."

"That will work nicely." He paused. If Rowe's condition were as dire as Rachel suggested, it would be some time before the gentleman was in any position to answer Benedict's or his father's questions regarding any possible mismanagement of the estate. If they wanted answers, they would have to conduct their own investigation. And that would require access to the current ledgers.

Entering a smallpox-contaminated house was a dangerous gamble. But he could not send Rachel into the steward's office to retrieve those ledgers. Since she was illiterate, she would be unable to tell one book from another. He glanced at the curtained windows above his head. If Rowe had not left his bed, he was surely in one of the upstairs bedchambers. He likely had not entered his office since his return—or since he'd become ill.

Desire to learn exactly what Rowe had been about burned within him. Neither he nor his father would countenance a dishonest steward, but being forced to wait to discover if their newfound suspicions were correct would be intolerable.

"Lord Farwell desires to go over the estate ledgers," Benedict said. "I came to ask Mr. Rowe for them. As he is unavailable, I shall have to retrieve them myself."

Rachel blinked. "You wish to enter the house?"

Not at all. But he also could not ignore this opportunity. "With Mr. Rowe indisposed, Lord Farwell must have access to those books."

"Of course." Rachel backed into the passage a few paces. "Mr. Rowe's office is the first door on the left."

Benedict hesitated for only a moment. Then he crossed the threshold and walked directly to the closed office door. He opened it and stepped inside. The room was damp, the air stale. If Benedict had to guess, he would say that Rowe had not entered this room since before he left for Gloucester. So much the better.

He glanced around the room. Two leather armchairs sat on a faded rug near the fireplace. A small table bearing a glass decanter of amber liquid and two glasses was positioned between them. Three foxhunt paintings hanging on the wall appeared to be the study's token decoration. A large desk and wooden chair commanded the remainder of the small room's floor space, and the wall behind the desk was masked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Benedict eyed the bookshelves grimly. If he had to peruse every shelf to find the ledgers he sought, he would be here far longer than he'd hoped. He stepped closer to the desk. Vaguely aware that Rachel had followed and was standing in the doorway, he lifted the book sitting at the edge of the desk. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. Interesting but not what he was looking for. He set it down again. A pile of unopened correspondence sat on one side of the desk. Benedict ignored it, his attention shifting instead to a stack of books sitting on the opposite corner.

He reached for the first book on the pile. It was a notebook. He flipped it open. Rows of numbers filled the pages, with names and notes written in their steward's tidy handwriting jotted beneath the sums. Benedict's jaw tightened. This was not one of the estate's ledgers, but it looked to be a separate accounting of Farwell Farm's sales and purchases. A name jumped out at him. Geoffrey Blyton. He stilled. Geoffrey Blyton and Sons was the name Cook had given him. It was the establishment supplying Farwell Hall with flour.

A creak sounded above his head. Benedict looked up and then turned his eyes on Rachel. "Is Mr. Rowe's bedchamber above us?"

"It is, m'lord." There was a muffled moan, and a crease appeared on the young woman's forehead. "P'raps I'd best check on 'im. It's been a while."

"Yes." Benedict's gaze fell on the other books that had been hidden beneath the one in his hand. The black leather covers were familiar. He opened the first one, looking for the all-important dates on the first page. Relief filled him. This was the current Farwell ledger. The others were undoubtedly the ones used for the previous quarters of this year and last. "I have what I was seeking," he said, gathering the three black books and adding them to the brown one he already held. "Go to Mr. Rowe. I shall let myself out of the cottage."

Rachel bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, m'lord."

She disappeared in a rustle of skirts, and Benedict made directly for the door.