Chapter 5

Caroline scarcely knew what had come over her. One minute, she was attempting to regain her equilibrium after rising too quickly, and the next moment, she was sharing far too much personal information with Lord Benning. She stifled a groan. What had she been thinking? No matter his polite consideration, he could not possibly wish to know the details of events so wholly unconnected to him.

She watched him from behind the relative security of her veil. He was pouring water from a bucket into a shallow water trough in the last of the stalls. Meg had insisted upon visiting every single calf, and although it had been Giles who had taken her to see each one, Lord Benning had remained close by, alternating between standing near Caroline and actively helping with the animals. Caroline shook her head slightly. How many English noblemen willingly waded into a mucky cow stall to refresh an empty water trough because his head cowman was otherwise engaged with a four-year-old visitor?

Meg giggled, and Caroline redirected her gaze from Lord Benning to her daughter. The calf in the final stall was on its feet and was gently nuzzling Meg's hand.

"I think this one likes me," Meg said.

"I believe yer right," Giles responded. "Ya don't see 'er kissin' me, do ya?"

Meg's giggles increased. "Look, Mama, she's kissing me."

"So I see." Nora would undoubtedly be less than pleased when Meg returned home with clothing covered in bits of straw and calf drool, but Caroline could not help but smile. She'd forgotten the simple joy children experienced when spending time with young animals. Her own childhood seemed very distant, but reliving that childlike wonder through Meg was an unforeseen delight. "Be sure to mind what Mr. Giles tells you," she added.

"I will."

Lord Benning exited the stall and set the empty bucket on the ground beside the gate. They'd exchanged only a few words since her unwarranted disclosure of Fred's passing and her ill health. For the most part, their conversation since then had centered on the calves—their age, coloring, and hesitancy to approach Meg. It was well past time that Caroline express her appreciation.

"I must thank you, my lord. This has been a marvelous experience for Meg, and I can say with complete surety that she will be speaking of nothing else for at least a week."

"Oh dear." He appeared mildly concerned. "Perhaps if she shares her excitement about the calves with you, your father, and Nora equally, her eagerness will be diluted sufficiently that no one will wish me ill for having issued the invitation."

Caroline laughed. "For having met Meg so recently, you have a sound understanding of the way in which she distributes her enthusiasm."

"It was a lucky guess." He smiled. "I am glad you feel that her visit has been a success. You are both welcome to return anytime. Indeed, now that Giles knows you are back at the vicarage, I daresay he will be quite put out if he does not see you both here occasionally."

"That's right." Giles exited the stall, closed the gate, and handed Meg off to Caroline. "As long as ya don' go chasin' after cats on th' milkin' parlor roof, it would be a treat t' 'ave ya visit."

Gratitude filled her. Portsmouth was a bustling city. She'd discovered a love for the sea there, and over the years, she'd made some good friends in the neighborhood where Fred had found them lodging. But she'd never truly experienced the feeling of belonging that she felt in Leyfield. Nor had Portsmouth ever truly felt like home. She'd sometimes scolded herself for comparing her happiest childhood memories with her more challenging, lonely moments in Portsmouth, but the warmth she felt in her chest at this moment suggested that perhaps there was more to it than that.

"You are very kind," she said.

"Nah," Giles said. "'Avin' you an' Miss Meg come just gives me an excuse t' get out o' cleanin' th' milkin' parlor."

Caroline smiled. She knew full well that Giles worked exceptionally hard and that there were younger farm laborers charged with that onerous chore. A quick look at Lord Benning's face told her that he was not fooled either. The gentleman's brown eyes sparkled with something that looked remarkably like mischief.

"Ah," Lord Benning said. "It seems I have a shirker on my hands. Have Millie hitched to the cart, and as penance for neglecting the milking parlor all this time, I request that you drive Mrs. Granger and Meg back to the vicarage."

If Caroline had not caught Giles's grin, she might have objected to Lord Benning's demand. But it was likely that the gentleman had noticed her reach for the barn's doorframe so as to steady herself as she exited the building, and as much as she hated to admit it, a ride back to the vicarage would be welcome.

"Yes, m'lord," Giles said, starting for the stables right away.

Lord Benning turned to Meg. "What do you say to that, Meg? Would you like a ride back up the lane?"

Meg's eyes widened. "On a horse?"

He chuckled. "I had thought a cart might suit you and your mother better this time."

She cocked her head to one side and eyed him thoughtfully. "Do you have a horse?"

"I do, indeed."

"May I see it one day?"

"Most certainly." He smiled, and Caroline marveled once again at his patience with her daughter. "His name is Saxon, and if I am here the next time you visit, I shall take you to meet him in the stable."

That, it seemed, was all the reassurance Meg required. Skipping the short distance between them, Meg reached for Caroline's hand. "Come, Mama. We are going to ride in a cart."

Summoning the last of her strength, Caroline gave Meg a questioning look. "What do you say to Lord Benning before we leave?"

Meg dropped into a tumbling curtsy. "Thank you for showing me the baby cows, Lord Benting."

The gentleman bowed politely. "It was my pleasure, young lady."

The rumble of wheels sounded on the cobblestones, and Giles appeared around the corner of the carriage house, driving a horse-drawn cart. He reined the horse to a stop opposite them.

Lord Benning offered Caroline his hand. "May I?"

Grateful for his assistance, she placed her gloved hand in his. His grasp was gentle, but she sensed the strength in his arm and shoulders as he guided her onto the cart seat. Once she was situated, he lifted Meg off her feet and set her beside Caroline.

"I am most appreciative, my lord," Caroline said.

Acknowledging her thanks with a slight inclination of his head, he stepped away from the vehicle. "I hope you will both return very soon," he said. "Good day to you."

Giles snapped the reins, and the horse ambled toward the gate now being held open by a stableboy.

* * *

It had been the best part of a fortnight since Caroline Granger and her daughter had visited the barn, and yet Benedict was still haunted by the series of tragedies Caroline had endured in the last few months. He knew full well that misfortune could befall anyone at any time, but as a titled gentleman of considerable means, he was far more used to solving such problems than being stymied by them. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he'd tried, he had yet to come up with a way to ease Caroline's burdens. And he was discovering that feeling helpless was a sensation he disliked immensely.

He'd seen Caroline and Meg only once since their visit to the farm. They'd been at church the previous Sunday, sitting with Nora in the Moore family pew. But as he'd been seated across the aisle, in the Farwell pew, he'd not had the opportunity to speak with either of them. As before, Caroline's face had been obscured by her headwear, which made it all but impossible to ascertain whether her health had improved since her arrival in Leyfield. And he'd been given no opportunity to inquire. By the time he'd made his way out of the church and into the churchyard, Caroline, Meg, and Nora had disappeared.

Arriving at the far corner of the north pasture, he wheeled his horse around and studied the river that cut through this portion of his land. After an unusually wet six weeks, the sun had finally emerged. And just in time. The riverbanks had held. Barely. And with ten dry days now behind them, the water level had begun to drop. It was a great relief. All but the youngest two calves were now old enough to enter the pasture, and he would worry less about them if the river were flowing normally rather than as a mighty torrent.

He eyed the rolling pasture critically. The grass was long and lush, and most of the cows were grazing happily. Benedict did not desire a repeat of their rainy April, but he had to concede the moisture had caused the vegetation to thrive.

Coaxing Saxon into a canter, he crossed the pasture quickly. When he reached the gate, he leaned forward, releasing the catch without leaving his saddle. He guided his horse into the lane and pulled the gate closed behind him. The autumn wheat growing in the field on the other side of the stone wall rippled in the slight breeze. The crop appeared to be growing well, but it would need warmth and sunshine if the grain were to ripen on time.

The sound of hooves reached him. Benedict turned in his saddle. Their steward was approaching on his white mare.

Rowe touched the brim of his hat. "Good day, my lord."

Benedict acknowledged the greeting with a nod. "Rowe. I am glad to see you." He waited until the gentleman's horse had moved up alongside his own. "I am just come from the north pasture. I believe—for now, at least—the risk of flooding has abated."

"I agree, my lord. I rode the length of the river yesterday and encountered no noticeable water damage."

"We are most fortunate," Benedict said, grateful that the steward's assessment matched his own. "Where are you off to now?"

"The milking parlor, my lord. Giles sent word that one of the stanchions has broken."

Benedict frowned. A broken stanchion was no small thing. It was essential to the safety of the milkmaids that the frame holding the cow's head in place during milking be secure. "I will ride with you," he said. "I wished to ask you about the new milkmaids you hired."

"Of course, my lord."

Guiding their mounts into a gentle walk, they started down the lane together.

"I have been going over the ledger you left at the house," Benedict said. "We are currently milking seventy-three cows, and by my calculations, that would require no more than four milkmaids."

"That is correct, my lord. A skilled milkmaid can manage twenty cows within the allotted milking time."

"And yet we have five milkmaids under our employ, and you wished to hire two more."

"There has been some illness amongst the milkmaids, my lord. Those recently hired were made aware that theirs are temporary positions. They will no longer be employed by Farwell Farm when the maids they replaced are well enough to return."

Benedict tossed him a concerned look. "Why was I not informed of this illness?"

"I beg your pardon, Lord Benning. Cowpox is a common enough complaint amongst milkmaids, I did not think it worth mentioning."

"They have cowpox?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Deuce take it, Rowe. That is sufficiently serious that I should know about it. How many of our cows are infected?"

"Twelve, at the last count."

Twelve. That was no small number. Why on earth had Giles not told him of this?

"What is being done to contain it?" he asked.

"The infected cows have been separated from the herd," Rowe said. "They are in the north barn and will remain there until their blisters have healed."

"What of the remainder of the cattle? Is someone checking the herd regularly for new outbreaks?"

"Yes, my lord. The milkmaids are under strict instructions to inform me or Giles if they notice any symptoms on another cow. The infected cows are milked after the others have returned to the pasture—and only by the milkmaids who have already had cowpox."

"They believe they will not become ill if they have already had the disease." It was a commonly held belief.

"Yes, my lord," Rowe said. "The more seasoned milkmaids are quite adamant about it, and Giles concurs."

Benedict shifted in his saddle. He refused to allow complacency to overrule wisdom. Especially after learning how a severe illness had impacted Caroline. Cowpox was not nearly so dangerous as smallpox, but this new outbreak most certainly warranted monitoring.

"I will speak with Giles about it myself," he said.

Rowe accepted his response with a slight nod. "As you wish, my lord."

They were approaching the stables, and one of the stableboys came running out to meet them.

"Have you had any success locating more fruit trees?" Benedict asked.

"Not yet." Rowe dismounted and offered his reins to the waiting lad. "At this point, it may be wiser to wait until autumn to plant."

If they waited until autumn, it would set them back another season before the trees began producing well. He'd been somewhat surprised that he'd heard nothing from Dunsbourne after sending him a personal note, but if Rowe was correct about the shortage of saplings, perhaps the baron had no information to share.

"Continue making inquiries. If we have nothing to plant by the end of the month, we will wait. But if the scarcity is as bad as you believe, we should place an order now for autumn. I do not wish to be in this same predicament then."

"I shall see to it before day's end."

Rowe appeared confident. Benedict wished he felt the same. A broken stanchion, a cowpox infection, and no replacement fruit trees. There were times when navigating the exhausting social whirl in London seemed less taxing than directing the basic affairs of a country estate.

Benedict dismounted and handed his reins to the stableboy. "Thank you, Tim."

"Yer welcome, m'lord. Mr. Rowe." And with a nod and a tentative smile, he led the two horses into the stable.

"I must speak with Giles," Benedict said. "I imagine he's with the calves at present, so I shall meet you in the parlor momentarily. I wish to take a look at the stanchion myself."

"Very well, my lord."

Benedict made straight for the barn. "Giles!" he called as he entered.

"Over 'ere, m'lord." Giles appeared carrying a bucket.

"Why did you not tell me that we have a dozen cows with cowpox?"

Giles set down the bucket, and with a puzzled expression, he wiped his jacket sleeve across his forehead. "Mr. Rowe said 'e wus goin' t' tell ya. I figured since ya made no mention of it, ya weren't too worried."

"Cowpox is always a concern."

"Agreed," Giles said. "But Mr. Rowe seemed t' think we 'ad it in 'and."

"Do you think we have it in hand?" Benedict had far more faith in his seasoned cowman than in the city-born steward.

Giles shrugged. "There's been no new cases in five days. I'm takin' that as a good sign."

"What of the milkmaids?"

"There's four o' them that went down with th' blisters," Giles said. "A couple o' them were feverish fer a day or two, but last I 'eard, they're all improvin'."

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief. "Keep me informed, will you? Particularly if any of them unexpectedly worsens."

"Yes, m'lord."

"From now on, along with getting word to Mr. Rowe, I wish you to personally inform me if there's ever any problem with the cows."

"Well, in that case..." Giles scratched his head and offered Benedict an apologetic look. "It's not the cows exactly, but we 'ave a broken stanchion in th' parlor."

Benedict managed a rueful smile. He'd asked, and Giles had accommodated him. "So I understand. I'm heading over there now."

Giles nodded his approval. "I'll come with ya. It'll save me tryin' t' explain th' problem."