Chapter 26

Benedict stepped out of the carriage and stretched his back. Four hours was a long time to sit, particularly on uneven roads, but the long journey had granted him a great deal of time to think. His deliberations had jumped from worrying over the desperate state of the Farwell Estate's finances to the management of Rowe's burial to the need for Rachel to scrub the steward's cottage from top to bottom to the task that lay ahead when he reached Agnes Blyton's house. And interwoven between all other considerations, thoughts of Caroline remained ever present.

Pushing aside the vision of Caroline sitting beneath the tree beside the river, he focused on his current location. His driver had stopped the carriage not far from a different river. Several yards farther up the road, a large stone building stood perched on the riverbank. A large wheel up against one wall was slowly turning, the water pouring over the wooden slats before continuing downstream. At the front of the building, the graveled yard was larger than the one outside the gristmill in Leyfield, indicating, perhaps, that the facility enjoyed more business.

A short distance from the mill, two houses built of the same gray stone sat side by side. Benedict studied them curiously. The return address on Agnes Blyton's letters had been 2 Mill Race Road.

"Any idea which of those houses is number two, Roger?" he called up to his driver.

"Th' one with th' blue door, m'lord," he said, pointing at the farthest one with his whip. "I noticed the number painted on th' door as we drove up."

"Excellent. Thank you. I shouldn't be long." That was his hope, at least.

He started toward the far house, pondering the information he and his father had managed to extract from the two letters they'd read from Agnes Blyton as he walked. Her missives had been filled with news about her three children. There had been one brief mention of a payment made to Rowe and another informing Rowe of a new customer who had brought over 200 pounds of oats to the mill. But there had been no mention whatsoever of the Farwell Farm wheat. From her letters, it was impossible to know how much—if anything—Agnes knew about her brother's business dealings, but before day's end, Benedict intended to find out.

The paint on the blue door was peeling, and weeds grew at the base of the ragged broom bush growing beneath the front window. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the door. A child's voice called out, followed by another. Moments later, the door opened, and a short woman wearing an apron over her white blouse and faded green skirt appeared. Her fair hair—very similar in color to Rowe's—was topped with a mobcap, and her complexion showed the telltale scars of a battle with smallpox.

"Good day to you," Benedict said. "My name is Lord Benning."

The woman gasped and dropped into a hurried curtsy. "Forgive me, m'lord. I did not know you."

It stood to reason; they'd never met. "Think nothing of it," he said. "I am looking for Mrs. Agnes Blyton."

"I am Agnes Blyton." She paused, her pocked face paling. "Is it Phineas? Has he injured himself?"

"I wonder if I might come inside to speak with you," Benedict said.

"Of course." She stepped back to allow him entry.

He walked into a narrow passage, and she gestured to a room on the right. "The parlor is that way, m'lord."

The room was small. Four armchairs in various degrees of shabbiness surrounded the fireplace in a semicircle, with wide gaps between each one. A table filled one corner of the room, covered with an assortment of books, papers, and a couple of wooden spinning tops. No rugs lay on the wooden floor, and the mirror hanging over the fireplace reflected faded floral wallpaper.

"Anthony." Mrs. Blyton had followed Benedict into the room. "Lord Benning from Farwell Hall has come to pay us a call." At the sound of her voice, a gentleman rose from the chair closest to the fireplace. "This is my husband, Anthony Blyton, m'lord."

Like his wife, the gentleman's face and hands were scarred. His brown hair was flecked with gray. He turned toward Benedict but did not meet his eyes. "You are most welcome, m'lord."

It was not the greeting Benedict had expected from someone who had been participating in underhanded business dealings with the Farwell steward. Indeed, for someone who had stood to made a significant amount of money on their wheat, Mr. Blyton's home and its furnishings were surprisingly modest.

A young boy, who looked to be about ten years of age, sidled up to the gentleman's side. Mr. Blyton set his hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is our son George, m'lord."

"Good day to you, George," Benedict said. "And to you, sir."

The boy stared openly at Benedict, but when his father raised a finger to tap his shoulder, he hurriedly bowed his head.

"Please take a seat, m'lord." Mrs. Blyton hovered anxiously beside the nearest chair. "And, George, I need you to go upstairs with your brother for a bit."

"But, Ma—"

"Right away, son," his father said.

George gave Benedict an apprehensive look and scurried out of the room.

"May I make you a cup of tea, Lord Benning?" Mrs. Blyton asked.

"Thank you, but no." Benedict had no desire to prolong this visit. It would be difficult enough as it was. He waited until Mrs. Blyton took a seat before claiming the one next to her.

"We are seated, Anthony," Mrs. Blyton said.

Mr. Blyton reached out an arm until his fingers touched the chair, and then he carefully lowered himself onto it. Schooling his features in an attempt to hide his shock, Benedict watched in silence as the gentleman fumbled to straighten his waistcoat, his eyes toward the wall. The reason for the wide spaces between the chairs and the absence of rugs or any other obstacles on the floor was suddenly clear. Mr. Blyton was blind.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Lord Benning?" Mr. Blyton asked.

Rallying his wits, Benedict cleared his throat. "I fear I am the bearer of unhappy news."

"It is Phineas, isn't it?" Mrs. Blyton said.

"It is." Benedict paused. There was no easy way to break the news. "Your brother contracted smallpox the last time he was in Gloucester. He succumbed to the disease in the early hours of this morning."

For three entire seconds, Mrs. Blyton stared at him, and then she lifted her apron and pressed it to her face to smother a sob.

"I am truly sorry for your loss," Benedict said. "It was only today, when I asked his maid for your brother's recent correspondence, that my father and I learned your full name and address. Had we known it sooner, we would have informed you earlier of Mr. Rowe's ill health."

"He had someone to take care of him, then?" Mr. Blyton's hands were now gripping the armchair's sides.

"He did. His maid, Rachel, was with him day and night."

"Did she contract the disease?"

"Miraculously, no."

"Phineas told me about her." Mrs. Blyton spoke through her tears. "He said she took care of the house well. She... she was a milkmaid before she went to work for him."

"That explains how she remained well," Mr. Blyton said.

Benedict frowned. Was he truly the only man in Gloucestershire who had not heard of the milkmaids' supposed immunity to smallpox before now? "The undertaker has been summoned, and as I'm sure you are aware, those who pass of smallpox must be buried immediately. Rachel remains at the house and will clean it thoroughly. When she has finished, you are welcome to come to the Farwell Estate to claim whatever personal items of Mr. Rowe's you wish."

"When will we ever be rid of this awful disease?" Mrs. Blyton sobbed. "It has taken my brother, my daughter, and my father-in-law. It's left me and my oldest son disfigured and my husband blind."

The Blytons' loss was staggering, and not for the first time since he'd set off from Farwell Hall, Benedict wished Caroline were with him. She would know just what to say and how to comfort this grieving woman. "The Farwell family stands ready to do whatever we can to assist with your brother's burial."

"You have already done more than we ever thought possible," Mr. Blyton said. "We can hardly ask for additional assistance."

Benedict's thoughts spun. What did the gentleman believe they had done before now? "Forgive me, but I hardly think bringing you this news in person warrants such praise."

"It was very good of you," he said, "but your willingness to pay for our services at the gristmill truly saved us."

"Mr. Rowe told me very little about your situation." Very little was a gross understatement, but Benedict was not above using it if it helped bring clarity to whatever scheme Rowe had masterminded here.

"It was the smallpox," Mr. Blyton said. "It swept through us all like a raging fire. First, my father, then my brother, then me, and the rest of my family.

"We lost my father right before the wheat harvest two years ago. That was the year of the great shortage, so there was little wheat to grind. At the time, the lack of business seemed a blessing. My brother and I were in no fit state to work, and there were fewer people to turn away. But it meant that those customers who did have wheat to grind took it elsewhere. Last year, knowing that my brother was the only one able to run the mill, and likely fearing they'd have to wait longer than they'd like to sell their flour, our former customers chose to take their grain to the mills they used the year before."

"Phineas came to visit." Mrs. Blyton picked up the story. "A few weeks earlier, he'd given us enough money to get by for a month or so, but he didn't have to ask to realize that our situation had not improved. The mill wheel was silent, and our cupboards were bare. He said he'd talk to you about sending wheat our way. When it arrived the very next week along with your payment for service, we could scarcely believe our good fortune." She dabbed her eyes with her apron. "The Farwell Farm wheat saved us. Anthony's brother, Amos, started training our oldest boy on the equipment, and between the two of them, they managed to get all the wheat ground in a timely manner."

"Feeling useless doesn't sit well with me, m'lord," Mr. Blyton said. "Phineas told us to sell the flour and send the payments for Farwell Farm to him, which we did. I also took it upon myself to dictate letters to Agnes for our former customers, telling them that the mill is fully operational again. Many have written back, promising to bring their grain to us this year. We're hopeful that this coming harvest will see us turning a profit again."

A vision of the ledger book pages floated through Benedict's mind. If Rowe had given the family a lump sum about a month before the wheat harvest, it had likely been the money Benedict's father had given Rowe for the purchase of new apple trees. The outgoing money they had thought had gone to the Leyfield gristmill to pay for grinding their wheat had come here. The incoming payments listed in Rowe's personal book had been for the flour sales the Blytons had made afterward.

Given that those figures had been significantly higher than those written in the estate ledgers, Benedict made a calculated guess and posed a leading question. "It seemed that you were able to ask a good price for the flour."

"Yes, m'lord." Mr. Blyton's shoulders straightened a fraction. "I may not be able to run the mill's equipment anymore, but as long as I have a buyer in front of me, I can negotiate the best possible price for our products. There wasn't a single purchase that didn't bring in more money for Farwell Farms than the price Phineas had requested."

There it was. The discrepancy in the wheat flour's sale price was explained. What Benedict had yet to discover, however, was where all the money had gone. The Blytons gave no indication that any of it had returned to them.

"And now Phineas is gone." Mrs. Blyton's tears began anew.

"I wish it were otherwise," Benedict said. "He was obviously a devoted brother." Certainly more devoted in that regard than he had been as a steward.

"The very best." She sniffled.

"He was that," Mr. Blyton agreed. "He had a remarkable head for business and understood the importance of preparing for the future better than anyone I've ever encountered."

His own future, perhaps. But not, it seemed, the future of the Farwell Estate. Benedict fought to maintain a calm exterior even as he inwardly seethed. Rowe had most certainly shown generosity to his suffering family members, but Benedict could not bring himself to join in their adulation of the man. If the steward had been honest with him and his father, they likely would have stepped in to help the Blytons. As it was, Rowe had chosen a path of deception and theft. No matter the reason, it was a course Benedict could not condone.

It appeared that the Blytons were innocent of Rowe's financial manipulation, but that did nothing to ease Benedict's own family's grim situation. Or, come to that, the dire shortage of flour in Leyfield. Attempting to push past his personal grievance with Rowe, Benedict focused on what must be done for those in his community. Until his father heard from the bank, he had no way of knowing if the funds existed to purchase flour for the local shop, but he'd pledged to do it. If worse came to worst, he would sell some of his cattle to settle the bill.

"Does your mill have flour for sale at present?" he asked.

"We do, m'lord," Mr. Blyton said. "But we are down to our last ten sacks."

"I wish to purchase them."

"All of them, m'lord?"

"Yes. At your lowest possible price, if you please."

There would be no paying inflated amounts on this purchase. Benedict's goodwill toward Rowe's family was stretched dangerously thin already.

Mr. Blyton gave an accepting nod. "Of course, Lord Benning."

"I wish to have them delivered to Mr. Wallace's shop in Leyfield."

"Mr. Wallace's shop in Leyfield," Mr. Blyton repeated, giving no outward indication of surprise at the assigned destination. "I shall see that the sacks leave the mill first thing tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, sir." Benedict rose to his feet. "Please send the bill to Farwell Hall." All being well, by the time it arrived, he would know what he would be forced to do to pay it.

Mrs. Blyton had also risen. Mr. Blyton must have heard the movement because he followed suit.

"I shall leave you now so that you may have the opportunity to grieve in private," Benedict said. "I appreciate you welcoming me into your home. I will share with my father the insights you have given me with regard to how important you all were to Mr. Rowe."

"Given the heaviness of the task, it was very good of you to take it upon yourself to come, m'lord," Mr. Blyton said. "I am glad of the opportunity to personally thank you for sending us your grain those many months ago."

"I am pleased that it offered you the assistance you needed," Benedict said. "I am also happy to hear that you have other farmers planning on using your mill this year. I have promised the Farwell Farm's fall harvest to the miller in Leyfield. He finds himself in a position not far removed from the one you were in last year."

"Then we wish him well," Mr. Blyton said.

Benedict inclined his head. "I daresay we shall all be praying for a good harvest and sufficient wheat and flour for everyone."

The clatter of feet and boys' voices came from somewhere upstairs, and Benedict assumed that it would not be long before the younger members of the family made their appearance.

Mrs. Blyton must have thought the same because she led the way out of the parlor to the front door. "Thank you for coming, m'lord." Her eyes were red, but for now, her tears had stopped.

"Good day, Mrs. Blyton," Benedict said. "Someone at Farwell Hall will send word regarding Mr. Rowe's personal effects very soon."

She bobbed a curtsy before opening the door, and Benedict exited the house.