Chapter 28

By the time Benedict arrived back at Farwell Hall, his parents had retired for the night.

And so, when he entered the breakfast room the next morning, his father immediately lowered the newspaper he was reading and gave him his full attention. "What news, Benedict? Were you able to unravel any more of Rowe's threads of deception?"

"Most of them." Benedict poured himself a cup of drinking chocolate and claimed two pieces of toast from the offerings on the sideboard. Taking the chair beside his father, he sorted through his thoughts. "It would seem that the Blytons were as unaware of Rowe's underhanded dealings as we were."

"Did you enlighten them?"

"I did not. And I think that once you understand their situation better, you will agree with my decision."

His father eyed him thoughtfully. "I am anxious to hear what you discovered."

"It was a day filled with unpleasant reminders of how devastating smallpox can be."

"It certainly started that way," his father said grimly.

"Was Mr. May able to take care of the burial yesterday?"

"He was. I hope his sister will understand the need for expediency."

"More than you could possibly imagine," Benedict said, and he proceeded to tell his father about the Blytons' situation and their account of Rowe's aid.

When Benedict finished, his father leaned back in this chair. "I wish Rowe had been forthright with us."

"As do I," Benedict said. "But even if he had contemplated telling us of his sister's plight at the beginning, my guess is that he changed his mind when the additional money Mr. Blyton was able to exact for the flour began to arrive. I would surmise that he began by skimming that amount off the deposits he made in the estate bank account, and when he realized that he could take more without either of us realizing it, the temptation became too great."

"Rowe's personal bookkeeping corroborates your theory. The amount he deposited diminished over the months."

"Have you received confirmation of our lack of funds from the bank?"

"Not yet." His father released a tense breath. "We must do everything in our power to reclaim the money, Benedict. If we do not, the consequences could be ruinous."

There was a rustle of fabric, and both gentlemen looked to the doorway as Benedict's mother walked in. They stood.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said. "I am glad to see you returned safely, Benedict. Did all go well with your trip?"

"Well enough," he said, "but now that you are here, I would like to tell you of a singular experience that occurred in Berkeley on my way home."

"In Berkeley, you say?" his father said. "Isn't that where Dr. Edward Jenner hails from?"

"It is, and I went out of my way to meet him."

"Who is Dr. Edward Jenner?" his mother asked.

"He is a physician who believes a vaccination of fluid from a cowpox blister gives a person protection against smallpox," his father said.

Benedict did nothing to hide his surprise. "You know of his work?"

"I do. It is quite intriguing."

"I believe he may be onto something," Benedict said. "We have our own example of the efficacy of having had cowpox when exposed to smallpox with Rowe's maid, Rachel. To the best of my knowledge, she remains healthy."

"You cannot believe such a thing based on one person's experience, Benedict," his mother said.

"Agreed. But Dr. Jenner has conducted multiple trials, and the results are remarkable." He paused, bracing himself for his mother's reaction to what must come next. "After speaking with the gentleman yesterday, I decided to submit to the vaccination myself."

His mother paled. "Tell me you are jesting," she said.

"I cannot."

"Charles, say something!"

"What did Jenner say you might expect by way of symptoms?" his father asked.

"That is not what I meant!" his mother cried. "Did you not hear that your son and heir has willingly subjected himself to some kind of medical quackery?"

"I did nothing of the sort," Benedict said. "Rather, I listened to a trained physician who has developed what is likely to become a cure for one of the worst diseases this country has ever known. I pray that I am never exposed to smallpox, but now that I have been vaccinated, I truly believe that my chance of avoiding the illness is remarkably high."

"If you do not die from the vaccination first." His mother had yet to regain the color in her face.

"Vaccination is not variolation, Mother. I may develop some blisters and a fever, but they will last only a couple of days, and then I shall be well again."

"I believe Benedict is right, my dear." His father moved closer and placed a reassuring arm around her. "I know a little of Jenner's work. It is early days yet, but already, he has significant proof of success."

"But if he is wrong..."

"Consider what it means if he is right, Mother."

Benedict's father squeezed his mother tightly. "He has a point, you know."

"Why am I forever surrounded by logically minded men?" his mother asked. "For once, I should like an emotionally driven female to console me."

"I would suggest that you speak to Caroline," Benedict said, "but after what she has endured, I believe she is likely to side with the doctor seeking a cure." His mother's shoulders dropped in defeat, and Benedict experienced a pang of guilt. "I did not mean to worry you, Mother."

"That may be," she said. "But I shall worry regardless. It is a mother's prerogative."

He smiled. "And I shall continue to do something you consider extremely foolish at least once or twice a year because that is a son's prerogative."

"Begging your pardon, my lords and lady." Stokes spoke from the doorway. "I would not have interrupted your breakfast, but Mr. Rowe's maid, Rachel, is here, and she claims she must speak with you right away." He shifted his feet, looking more ruffled than Benedict had ever seen him. "She won't tell me what it's about, but she's in rather a flap."

"Oh dear." Benedict's mother lowered herself onto the nearest chair. "Perhaps I should go back to bed and start this day again."

His father set a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Send her in, Stokes."

The butler disappeared only to reappear a moment later with Rachel in tow. Her bonnet was slightly askew, and if her heavy breathing was any indication, she had been running for some time. She dropped into a curtsy, and as she rose, she set two small burlap bags on the table.

"I didn't mean t' pry, but then I saw what these were, an' I knew I couldn't just leave 'em in th' 'ole." She wrung her hands together. "I brought 'em 'ere as fast as I could, m'lords."

Benedict's gaze shifted from Rachel's stricken face to the unexceptional bags.

"That will be all, Stokes," his father said. "Thank you."

The butler bowed and left the room. Grateful for his father's discretion, Benedict moved to the door and closed it. "Please be seated, Rachel," he said.

As though she wished to be rid of them, the maid chose a spot two chairs down from the bags.

"Why don't you tell us what this is all about," Benedict's father said.

"And there is no need to be afraid, dear," his mother added. "You are amongst friends."

It should not have surprised Benedict that while he had noticed where Rachel sat, his mother had noticed her distress. Caroline would have done the same thing.

"Thank you, m'lady." Rachel clasped her trembling hands together tightly. "I've been cleanin' th' cottage, ya see. Every nook an' cranny. Set fires in every fireplace t' clear th' bad air. Took out all th' rugs an' beat 'em. Washed all th' curtains." She took a breath. "Seein' as I 'ad the rugs off, I started on washin' and polishin' the floors. I were cleanin' under Mr. Rowe's desk in 'is office this mornin' when I noticed one o' th' boards were loose. Popped up, it did." She shook her head helplessly. "Must 'ave stood on it funny or somethin'. Anyway, I went t' push it back in place when I spotted th' bags in th' 'ole underneath. I know I shouldn't 'ave taken 'em out, but I didn't know what t' do."

"You were perfectly right to take them out," Benedict's mother said. "You were cleaning, after all."

"Yes, m'lady. That's what I was doin'."

"And once you had them out, you opened them?" Benedict's father asked.

"Yes, m'lord." She was wringing her hands again. "I shouldn't 'ave done that neither."

Benedict exchanged a look with his father and then reached for the nearest bag. He untied the string around the top and peered inside. A note written in Rowe's tidy script sat atop a thick bundle of bank notes. To be used to replace the aging millstones and waterwheel.

The air left Benedict's lungs. Surely not even Mr. Blyton—with all his praise of Rowe's loyalty to family and forward thinking—would have anticipated that the man would steal from the Farwell Estate to prepare for future repairs to the Blyton's gristmill. He opened the second bag. This, too, was filled with bank notes, but there was no accompanying tag. Perhaps this one had been designated for Rowe's personal use in the years ahead.

"Benedict?" The urgency in his father's voice shook him from his stupor.

He gave his father a subtle nod and cleared his throat. "Lord and Lady Farwell and I are in your debt, Rachel. It seems that you have discovered a large sum of money belonging to Farwell Farm that has been missing for some time."

"You... knew o' this money?" Her eyes darted from Benedict to his father.

"Only that it could not be accounted for," his father said. "Without your assistance, it is unlikely that we ever would have recovered it."

"Then, I really did do th' right thing?"

"Without question," Benedict's father said. "Your honesty and integrity are to be highly commended."

His mother might not have known what Rachel's flustered arrival was all about, but she had undoubtedly sensed the elation underlying the praise his father had offered. Without so much as a questioning glance at either gentleman, she gave the maid an encouraging smile. "Such values should also be rewarded," she said. "I assume it is too soon after Mr. Rowe's passing for you to have secured a new position."

"Yes, m'lady. This is th' first time I've left th' 'ouse since th' gentleman became ill."

"That is fortunate for me," Benedict's mother said. "If you are willing, when you have finished your work at the cottage, I would like to offer you a place as a house maid at Farwell Hall. I have no doubt you would be a wonderful addition to our staff."

Rachel looked as though she might burst into tears. "Thank you, m'lady. I would be ever so grateful."

"Excellent." His mother rose, and the young lady immediately did the same. "Come with me, Rachel. We shall visit the kitchen. You must have a cup of tea before you return to the steward's cottage."

As soon as the door closed behind the two women, Benedict dropped into a chair.

"Good heavens," his father said, staring at the closed door as though he thought someone else would suddenly appear. "I don't think either of us could have anticipated that."

"Never." Benedict ran his fingers through his hair. "What do you wish to do first?"

"Reconvene in my office. We shall see just how much money is contained in those bags and attempt to settle the books. The bags and their contents can go in the safe tonight. Tomorrow, I shall travel to London to deposit the money in the bank and to start making inquiries about hiring an honest steward."

* * *

Six hours later, Benedict watched his father lock the bags of money in the safe with an uncommon mixture of relief and exhaustion. They had combed through all the ledger books, tallying the figures on each page multiple times until they were sure every pound, shilling, and pence was accounted for. They were short seven pounds, two shillings. It was unlikely they would ever recoup the money, but it was impossible to regret the loss given the amount Rachel had recovered.

"I think we missed luncheon," Benedict said, glancing at the clock on the mantel as he tugged at his already loosened cravat.

"We did, indeed," his father responded. "And no matter what your mother says to the contrary, a cup of tea and a biscuit sustains a man for only about twelve minutes."

Perhaps that was the reason Benedict felt so drained. Sometime earlier, one of the maids had brought them tea and a small plate of filbert biscuits. He and his father had been so absorbed in their work, Benedict could not remember consuming anything, but the teapot and plate had been empty when the maid had returned. Or the reason could be lack of sleep. During the last twenty-four hours, he'd spent far too long in a carriage and not nearly enough time in his bed.

"It might be worth a trip to the kitchen to see what Cook can offer us." Benedict didn't feel hungry, but he was willing to eat if it restored his usual energy.

"A worthy suggestion," his father said, gathering the ledgers and stacking them on the bookshelf behind his desk. "Especially as I will undoubtedly need sustenance before tackling today's discouragingly large stack of correspondence."

Removing all the ledgers from the desk had exposed the letters that had arrived in this morning's post. Stokes always delivered the ones for Benedict and his father to the study, while Benedict's mother preferred to read hers over breakfast. Grateful that the pile bearing his name was significantly smaller than the one bearing his father's, Benedict reached for it and flipped through the three envelopes. When he reached the last, his fingers stilled. It was addressed in a feminine hand and bore no postmark.

He hadn't dared hope that Caroline would respond to his letter so quickly, but if she'd followed his example and employed Giles as a courier, it was possible. Barely. With his heart beating an uncomfortable tattoo, he moved over to the nearest armchair and sat down. A quick glance at his father reassured him that the gentleman had fallen into the same trap as Benedict. He had begun sorting through his letters, and his attention was currently focused on the one in his hand.

Benedict broke the seal, withdrew a single piece of paper, and began to read. Gratitude swelled within him. Caroline had not walked away from him never to return. He reached the last line of her letter and could not restrain his smile. He glanced at the clock again. Was it too late for him to ride to the vicarage today? It was long past traditional visiting hours, but his longing to see Caroline was far greater than his desire to follow conventions.

He rose, and a shiver ran down his spine. What the deuce was the matter with him? An hour ago, he'd been so warm that he'd removed his jacket. His cravat was as loose as it could be without shedding it completely. And now he was cold. A low fire burned in the grate, just as it always did at this time of day. The weather outside appeared moderate.

"How do you find the room's temperature, Father?" he asked.

His father looked up from his letter. "The temperature? Why, I am quite comfortable." He paused, scrutinizing Benedict's face more closely. "You, on the other hand, appear distinctly uncomfortable. Is that sweat on your brow?"

Was it? Benedict could hardly tell. One minute, he was hot, and the next, he was chilled. "I am beginning to wonder if I might be fighting a fever."

"It certainly appears that way." His father set his letter down, his expression grave. "Do you think you are suffering the effects of the vaccination?"

"Possibly." It was unlikely to be anything else.

"Are you experiencing any other symptoms? What of your arm where the doctor scratched you?"

Benedict rolled up his sleeve. At the spot where Dr. Jenner had inserted his blade, a large blister had formed. He stared at it, taking a moment to assimilate what this meant. What he had done. "It appears that my body is fighting cowpox."

His father's jaw tensed. "You'd best take to your bed, son. I shall inform your mother that you will not be joining us for dinner."

Benedict did not bother to argue. At that precise moment, returning to bed held enormous appeal. The only thing that sounded better was being with Caroline. Clutching her letter in one hand and taking up his jacket in the other, he started for the door. "I think that might be best," he said. "Thank you, Father."

Exiting the room, he walked directly to the stairs leading to the upper floor. He reached for the banister and missed. Shaking his head slightly, he homed his focus in on the wooden railing. The task would have been easier had there been only one of them floating before him. A shiver coursed through him, and his knees wavered.

"Stokes!"

The tap of the butler's footsteps crossing the entrance hall echoed loudly in Benedict's head.

"My lord?" Stokes had reached his side. He took Benedict's arm, steadying him.

"It seems that I may need some assistance reaching my chambers," Benedict mumbled.

"Of course, my lord." Stokes's arm came around him, and the floor appeared to tip. "Steady now."

Benedict ran his tongue across his dry lips. "I fear steady is beyond me. I think we may have to settle for stumbling."

"Stumbling it is, then," Stokes said, guiding him up the first step. "Either way, we shall have you in bed directly, my lord."