Chapter 25

Benedict guided his mount toward the steward's cottage. The brief ride from the stables was hardly the exercise Saxon craved, but it was better than nothing, and this morning, it was all Benedict could offer him. He had only twenty minutes remaining before the carriage was scheduled to pick him up at the house for his long ride to Gloucester.

Giving Giles the letter he'd written to Caroline had taken longer than he'd anticipated. The cowman had been herding half a dozen cows from the milking parlor into the nearby pasture when Benedict had arrived at the farmyard, and Benedict had been forced to wait until the cattle were safely relocated before he'd approached. Giles had taken his rather odd request in stride and had promised to drop off the missive with this morning's milk. All that Benedict could do now was pray that the letter he'd written late last night would be well-received by its recipient.

With none of his farm laborers or stablehands reporting illness again today, Benedict was cautiously hopeful that they had managed to avert a potential smallpox crisis, so he was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes when he reined Saxon to a stop beside the gate leading to Rowe's cottage. Far below the now-familiar trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and the closed curtains at the upstairs windows, a blue scarf hung from the brass doorknob on the front door.

For a full three heartbeats, he stared at it, willing it to disappear. When it did not, he dismounted, tied Saxon's reins to the gatepost, and took the short path to the door. He had no way of knowing why Rachel had signaled that she needed assistance, but conjecturing would do him no good. He knocked twice, and then he retreated halfway down the garden path. He was honor bound to help Rachel, but if at all possible, he would do so without putting his own health and the health of those he loved at risk.

He heard the bolt draw back seconds before the door opened. Rachel appeared on the doorstep. Her dark hair lay limp across her shoulders. Her face was pale, and even from a distance of a few yards, Benedict could see the redness around her eyes.

"Are you ill, Rachel?" he asked.

Rachel raised her head, spotting him for the first time. "No, m'lord." Her chin trembled. "It's Mr. Rowe." She swallowed. "I tried me best, m'lord. I was up with 'im fer two nights straight, but there was nothin' I could do. 'Is fever was too great." A sob escaped, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

A weight as bleak as it was heavy settled on Benedict's chest. "When did he pass?"

"A... about 'alf p... past two this mornin'." Rachel was openly weeping now.

Benedict took an instinctive step toward her and then caught himself. "I will send for the undertaker." He was sure that Mr. May, the local undertaker, had had smallpox. The man was even more scarred than Caroline, and in his line of work, the disease would have been impossible to avoid.

Rachel sniffed. "I've c-covered 'im with a sheet. An' I'll m-make sure the rest o' 'is beddin' is b-burned."

Benedict took a breath. The maid was thinking more clearly than he was. Other than calling for the undertaker, he could not ascertain what should be done next. "That would be for the best. And I imagine Mr. May will have further instructions once he arrives."

"V-very well. I shall scrub th' floors and furnishin's until he comes."

"If you are able to rest, I would have you do so," Benedict said. "Are you sure that you have no symptoms of the illness yourself?"

"I am well, m'lord."

Given her wholesale exposure to the disease and obvious lack of sleep, her seemingly healthful presence at the door was astounding.

"I have no doubt Mr. Rowe's sister would wish to thank you personally for caring for Mr. Rowe during this trying time. Did the steward offer you any more information about her these last few days?"

"No, m'lord. 'E rarely spoke. An' when 'e did, it were just t' ask fer water."

Her update, although unsurprising, was disappointing.

"When I gathered the estate ledgers from Mr. Rowe's study the other day, I noticed a stack of letters on the desk. Would you fetch them for me? You can set them on the doorstep and I will take them with me to Farwell Hall. It is possible that Mr. Rowe exchanged some correspondence with his sister. If there is a letter from her in that pile, we may be able to discover her whereabouts and get word to her of her brother's passing."

Rachel did not hesitate. She disappeared into the house and was gone for only a few moments before she returned carrying a small bundle of paper. "This is all of 'em that was on the desk, m'lord." She set them on the slate doorstep before backing up a few steps into the passage. "If it pleases you, I'll close the door now."

He nodded. "Once I have gathered the letters, I shall go directly to Farwell Hall to inform my father of what has happened. I know he would want to join me in expressing immense gratitude for your service, Rachel."

She managed a weak smile. "I only wish it would've 'ad a better endin'."

It was probably for the best that Rachel not know that even if Rowe had recovered fully, his tenure on the Farwell Estate would have been over.

"When your work here is complete, come to Farwell Hall. I shall do all I can to assist you in securing a new position."

Her chin quivered as she reached for the doorknob. "Thank you kindly, m'lord."

Benedict waited until he heard the bolt slide into place before moving toward the doorstep. He gathered the pile of letters in one hand and hurried back down the path to his waiting horse. Saxon raised his head, snorting nervously as the garden gate clanged shut behind Benedict.

"It looks like you'll get a gallop in today after all, boy," Benedict said, drawing the straps free of the gate post. Saxon responded with a toss of his head. Benedict tucked Rowe's letters under his waistcoat and leaped into the saddle. Seconds later, they were thundering down the lane toward Farwell Hall.

The carriage he was supposed to take to Gloucester was parked near the steps leading to the front door. Benedict brought Saxon to a halt beside it, grateful when John stepped out from behind the carriage horses.

"I must speak with my father," Benedict said, dismounting in one swift movement. "Will you tell the driver? I'm not sure how long I will be."

"Not to worry, m'lord," John said. "I'll tell 'im. An' I can take Saxon back t' th' stables fer ya."

"You have my thanks."

Benedict took the stairs two at a time. He reached the front door before Stokes had completely opened it and was at his father's study before the butler had the chance to ask for his hat.

Giving one cursory knock, Benedict walked in.

"Benedict," his father said, looking up from the newspaper on his desk. "I thought you'd be on your way by now."

"Rowe is dead."

His father stared at him. "I beg your pardon."

"I just came from the cottage. Rowe's maid placed the scarf on the doorknob, so I stopped. She came to the door to tell me."

The newspaper forgotten, his father rose to his feet. "Dear heaven. The man had much to answer for, but I would never have wished this upon him."

"Agreed." Now that he was standing in his father's study, the conversation he'd had with Rachel at the cottage felt like a dream. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out the only tangible proof he had that he'd actually been there. "I had Rowe's maid gather the personal correspondence on his desk in case there is something here that might lead us to his sister."

"I certainly hope so, but regardless of whether or not we are successful in that endeavor, we must send for the undertaker right away."

It was one of the first things done after any passing, but when the death was caused by a disease that might yet spread, there was even more urgency to the task. Allowing his father a few moments to assimilate the tragic news, Benedict stepped into the hall and called for Stokes. The butler appeared immediately.

"We need a man sent to fetch Mr. May from the village," Benedict said.

Stokes's training notwithstanding, he flinched. The butler knew full well what a message such as that meant. "Where would you have me send Mr. May, my lord?"

"To the steward's cottage. Inform him that Mr. Rowe succumbed to the smallpox and to take whatever precautions he deems necessary. Rowe's maid will let Mr. May into the house."

"I shall see to it immediately, my lord," Stokes said, his voice grave. "And may I offer my personal regrets."

"Thank you, Stokes."

The butler's clipped footsteps crossed the entrance hall, and Benedict returned to the study. Rowe's letters now lay strewn across the desk. His father had taken one from its envelope and was reading it. As Benedict drew nearer, his father lowered the piece of paper.

"I looked for an envelope addressed in a feminine hand. This was the first one I tried." He offered it to Benedict. "Is Rowe's sister named Agnes?"

"That's what Rachel thought." Benedict glanced at the signature at the bottom of the letter. Agnes Blyton. He froze. "Her last name is Blyton?"

"So it would seem." There was a hint of anger in his father's voice. "Which leads me to wonder whether it is her husband or her father-in-law who goes by the name of Geoffrey."

Benedict dropped into the nearest chair, his mind reeling. Geoffrey Blyton and Sons. They already knew that Rowe had been making money on his business interactions with that mill. Was his sister in on it, or was she innocent of the scheme?

"It seems that my visit to Gloucester has just taken on even more importance," he said.

"Yes," his father said grimly, reaching for another envelope on the desk. "And for that reason, I think it would be prudent to acquaint ourselves with the contents of all Rowe's sister's recent correspondence before you go."

* * *

"Look, Mama!" Meg entered the kitchen with three hops in a row.

Given that it was the first time Meg had shown such enthusiasm in over a week, Caroline gave her her full attention. "What do you have?" she asked.

Meg waved a cream-colored envelope above her head. "A letter. Mr. Giles left it with the milk. Nora said I'm to give it to you."

Nora followed Meg into the kitchen, a full crock of milk in her hands. "I'm afraid I missed talkin' to Giles meself, Miss Caroline," she said. "But it 'ad to be 'im. The letter were tucked behind the milk crock."

"Has he ever left anything before?"

"No. 'E stops by every Friday afternoon fer the farm's payment. Yer father knows it an' always 'as the money ready, so Giles don't even leave us a bill."

Meg had gone from excitedly waving the letter to studying the words on the envelope. She thrust it at Caroline. "What does it say, Mama?"

Caroline took it from her. The two short lines were written in strong, even strokes. She read them aloud:

Mrs. Caroline Granger

The Vicarage

"That's you." Meg skipped. "Perhaps Mr. Giles wants to show us another baby cow."

"I suppose that is possible." In truth, Caroline thought it extremely doubtful that the envelope contained information about an animal at Farwell Farm. Or that it was actually from Giles. She'd seen the precise penmanship before. On an envelope and in a letter inviting her and Meg to a sailboat regatta. With feigned calm, she set the envelope down on the table beside her teacup. "I shall read it after breakfast."

Meg's face fell. "Why not now?"

"Because now it is time for you to finish your porridge." Caroline pointed to the half-eaten bowl on the other side of the table. "You were excused from the table only long enough to help Nora bring in the milk. I see the crock on the counter, so it is time to resume your eating."

Meg's pout lasted only until she put the first spoonful into her mouth, and then memory of how hungry she was must have returned, because she was soon fully engrossed in finishing the food. Knowing the distraction would not last long, Caroline slid the letter off the table and into the pocket of the apron she'd donned to make breakfast. It rustled against the fabric, sending her nerves skittering.

Gathering her teacup and saucer, she rose and set the dishes in the nearby washtub. Meg had been correct. Waiting any longer to read the letter was a bad idea. Reading it in front of Meg and Nora, however, was an even worse one.

"I shall be back momentarily, Nora," she said.

"Right you are, my dear." Nora's attention was on the kettle just starting to whistle on the hob.

Caroline glanced at Meg. She had just discovered the container of clothes pegs Nora had left on the corner of the table and was lining the pegs end to end as she ate.

Caroline slipped out of the room unnoticed. She moved down the passage quickly until she reached the parlor. At this time in the morning, with no fire burning in the hearth, the parlor was chilly and uninviting. It was also empty. Closing the door behind her, she moved to the nearest chair. Withdrawing the envelope from her pocket, she took a steadying breath and then broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of paper. A glance at the bottom of the page confirmed what she'd already known. Benedict had written to her.

Starting at the top, she began to read.

Farwell Hall,

Leyfield, Gloucestershire

29th June 1796

Dear Caroline,

My concern over your and Meg's welfare since you were last at the farm has been all-consuming, and so you can imagine my relief when I learned that my mother had conversed with you at the Simkinses' house and that you both remain well. I pray your good health continues.

Regardless of the impression you received when I first delivered the news of Mr. Rowe's illness, complete containment of the smallpox has been my overriding priority from the moment I learned of its presence on the Farwell Estate. Thankfully, I, too, have remained free of illness, and as of yet, no one else on the farm has developed any smallpox symptoms. Since it has now been over a week since Mr. Rowe returned, I feel a greater measure of hope that our containment efforts have been successful.

By the time you read this letter, I will be on my way to Gloucester, seeing to some pressing estate business. I wish I were at liberty to share more details with you, but suffice it to say, if the outcome of this trip did not have the potential of impacting every person associated with the estate, I would postpone my departure until after I had spoken with you. It is my sincere hope that you will allow me to call upon you when I return.

Yours sincerely,

Benedict

Slowly, Caroline lowered the letter to her knee and gazed through the parlor window, her vision blurred with unshed tears. Benedict wished to see her again. Even after she had been so manifestly rude to him. She looked down at the paper, and a single tear escaped. She must respond to his letter. But what should she say? Should she admit in a letter to her remorse over what she had said to him or wait until she saw him in person? Her fingers trembled. In the end, it would make little difference. Either scenario would require her to be sufficiently courageous to give Benedict a glimpse into her aching heart.

The door clicked open. Startled, Caroline came to her feet.

"Caroline?" Her father stood in the doorway. "Why are you sitting here in the cold?"

"I... I needed a moment alone."

A concerned line cut across his forehead. He walked into the room, pausing at the small table beside his favorite armchair to pick up his spectacles. Retrieving them had undoubtedly been his reason for entering the room. "Is something amiss, child?" He continued toward her and reached for her hand. "You know you may share your burdens with me anytime."

Her father was a vicar. He was well used to listening to people's troubles. He also cared deeply for her welfare. But to tell him what truly troubled her would mean confronting one of her greatest concerns. Another tear fell. It landed on the letter in her hand, smudging the last part of Benedict's name.

"My dear child." Her father's grip on her hand tightened. "How can I help you?"

She took an unsteady breath. "Do you think I can ever experience the complete and lasting adoration you and Mother knew? I... I thought I had found it with Fred, but I was mistaken. I have always desired more than amiable affection in a spouse, but I hardly trust myself to recognize something deeper." She wiped away another tear before it could fall. "Besides that, I sometimes wonder whether, with my disfigurement, I have no place desiring anything more. After all, my life has been spared, and I have Meg."

"There should always be a place for love in your life, Caroline. Our sojourn here on earth would be meaningless without it. Just because you have loved before does not mean that you cannot love again. Likewise, just because you were disappointed in love once, it does not mean you will be similarly disappointed another time. I know your heart, my dear. It is capable of deep emotion. Do not allow past experiences to stifle your ability to love or be loved. You owe yourself and Meg that much—not to mention the exceptionally fortunate gentleman who stirs those feelings in you."

"But to open my heart to love again..." Her throat ached. "It would mean opening myself up to the risk of losing everything again."

"It would." Her father smiled gently. "But that is what it means to love completely and to live life to its fullest, is it not? We willingly set aside our fears and take a step into the unknown—a leap of faith, if you will—so that we might experience true joy."

"I wish to know true joy," Caroline whispered.

"And I believe you shall." He leaned forward to kiss her damp cheek. "Listen to your heart, my dear. God will lead you aright."

Did she have the courage to trust herself—to trust God? "I will try, Papa."

"What will your first step be?"

The answer was obvious. "I need to write a letter."

"Good." With a smile, he released her hand. "I shall delay you no longer."