Chapter 9

Caroline sat on the wooden stool Lord Benning had retrieved from the stables and watched her daughter circle the yard on Ginger's back. The groom, John, stood in the center of the yard, holding on to the lead rope. Lord Benning walked beside the pony. He was close enough to offer assistance, but Meg had shown no signs of needing it. She appeared completely at ease in the saddle, her face alight with the thrill of her very first pony ride.

Lord Benning said something to Meg, and the little girl giggled. Caroline's heart warmed at the sight. Despite Meg's childish social blunders, Lord Benning had been unfailingly patient with her. More than that, he seemed to genuinely enjoy interacting with her. How an unmarried gentleman of means had come to be so comfortable around children, Caroline could not fathom, but she was immensely grateful for his kindness.

"One more time around, Meg," she called. "We must allow Lord Benning to return to his other responsibilities."

From partway across the yard, Caroline saw her daughter's face fall. Lord Benning leaned closer. He must have spoken to her, because Meg nodded vehemently, and when she and the pony looped back around toward Caroline, her smile was restored. Lord Benning reached for the pony's bridle, and the animal came to a halt. Caroline stood, watching as the gentleman lifted Meg off the saddle.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she ran to Caroline. "Mama, Lord Benting said that if you are willing, I may come back and ride Ginger again another day." She hopped. "May I, Mama? May I?"

Lord Benning joined them. "Lest you are contemplating declining, let me say that it truly is no trouble. John exercises the horses every day. It would be good for Ginger to have a rider occasionally. Henry and his family visit Farwell so infrequently, the poor pony is rarely ridden."

Caroline met her daughter's pleading look. How could she refuse, especially when she had experienced the same love for this farm and its animals as a child? "Thank you, my lord. For Meg's sake, I will accept your kind offer; for your sake and the sake of your employees, I will ensure that we do not impose on you often."

"It is no imposition. Indeed, anytime Meg goes out with Ginger, she will be doing us a service."

Caroline was quite sure that equating Meg's riding Ginger with doing the stableboys a service was rather too generous, but it was not her place to argue.

"Is tomorrow ‘often'?" Meg asked.

"Yes," Caroline said. "It most certainly is."

"But I would submit that the day after tomorrow is not." Lord Benning had the audacity to wink at Meg. "You might try for that."

"The day after tomorrow is not," Meg repeated with newfound authority.

Lord Benning laughed, and no matter that she was quite obviously being outmaneuvered by his and her four-year-old's newfound pact, Caroline found herself laughing too.

"Very well," Caroline said. "We shall come again the day after tomorrow. But you, my lord, must not feel any obligation to meet us here. John can see to our needs quite nicely."

"I am sure you are right. Today, however, I had hoped to be here when you arrived, and I neglected to apologize for my late arrival." He paused. "For several months, my steward has been unsuccessful in trying to procure young apple trees for our orchard. I mentioned this in a letter to Henry's brother-in-law, Lord Dunsbourne. Dunsbourne runs a large apple orchard in Berkshire and was good enough to have some saplings sent to me. They arrived this morning, and with my steward gone, it was necessary for me to oversee the planting."

"I am glad to hear that you have the saplings now, even if their coming took longer than you'd hoped." She hesitated. "It does seem strange that your steward encountered so much difficulty locating something so seemingly commonplace as apple trees."

"Agreed. And I intend to discover who refused to sell to him."

Caroline offered him a puzzled look. "Is it certain that the fault lies with those who provide the trees, then? I had thought perhaps the error lay with your steward." He was silent for a moment, and Caroline experienced a wave of misgiving. "Forgive me," she said. "I know nothing of these things, so I should not have shared my thoughts so freely."

"No. I appreciate your insight." Lord Benning sounded thoughtful. "It was foolish of me to make that assumption. I should certainly look into both sides of the equation." His expression cleared slightly. "But enough on that subject. I also wished to tell you that upon my return from the vicarage, I spoke with Giles, and the family we spoke of yesterday should have received their first delivery this morning."

Caroline smiled. And then, realizing that he likely could not tell how pleased the news made her, she raised her veil so that he could see her face. "Thank you. I could not have asked for a better contributing partner for that endeavor."

The look in his dark eyes softened, and she found herself glad that she could see them more clearly.

"I hope you will not hesitate to inform me if you learn of others with a similar need."

"I will not," she promised.

A young man dressed in the clothing of a farm laborer exited the milking parlor. He carried a pail in each hand and was whistling the same tune Caroline had heard some time ago.

"I'd best take Meg home," she said, drawing down her veil so it covered her face once more. "We have been here far longer than I'd anticipated. Nora undoubtedly has our midday meal ready and will be wondering what has become of us."

Lord Benning stepped back a pace. "Ah, well, I learned at a very young age that displeasing the cook is never a good idea, so I will not delay you further."

A picture of young Lord Benning coming afoul of the Farwell Hall cook filled her mind. "I daresay there's a story there somewhere."

"Multiple stories, I fear." He gave a rather charming half grin. "I was a slow learner when it came to pestering our cook, but a full confession will have to wait for another day."

Unexpectedly pleased that he anticipated conversing with her again, Caroline smiled. "I shall remember to ask you about it."

He chuckled. "I would expect nothing less."

Meg appeared at her side, holding a dandelion she'd plucked from a plant growing up against the stable wall. She held it up to the gentleman. "Here, Lord Benting," she said. "This is for you. Thank you for helping me ride Ginger."

Lord Benning took the proffered flower. "Thank you, Meg. That is very kind."

Seizing her daughter's hand before Meg opted to go after a second dandelion, Caroline offered the gentleman a small curtsy. "Good day to you, my lord."

Still holding the yellow weed, he inclined his head. "Good day, Caroline."

* * *

Benedict leaned back in the comfortable leather-upholstered chair in his father's office and gazed into the last of the flames flickering in the fireplace. After three productive days on the farm, he had every reason to feel well pleased. The new apple trees were planted and seemed to be taking to their new soil well. No more cows had contracted cowpox, and those they'd quarantined in the north barn had all recovered well enough to be released into the pasture again. The milkmaids who had become ill were healthy again and had each returned to work at the milking parlor. Even the weather had improved over the last few days, with sunny skies and warm temperatures filling the fields with wildflowers and the air with buzzing insects. He had no reason to feel despondent, yet he could not deny the unfamiliar ache of loneliness that filled his chest.

He reached for the letter on the end table beside him and reread it. It was from his mother. She had written to inform him that she and his father would be returning to Farwell late next week. He'd informed the staff this morning. The maids were already airing out rooms, and Cook had placed a large order at the local shop.

Having his parents here would surely help dispel the feeling of emptiness in the house. His mother would begin inviting local friends over for afternoon tea and organizing dinner parties right away. She loved the social whirl almost as much as Benedict disliked it. His penchant for escaping London for the country was well documented. His parents had come to expect it. But perhaps this time, he had been alone too long.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. If he wanted to be at the milking parlor in time for the first milking, he should retire for the night. Setting his mother's letter on the desk, he reached for a candle. The light reflected off the cut-glass goblet where a dandelion hung its wilted head over the rim. The ghost of a smile crossed Benedict's lips. He'd best dispense with Meg's gift and have the goblet washed and set back in its proper place before his father reclaimed his study.

Exiting the room, Benedict cut across the large entrance hall and made for the stairs. The sound of his footsteps on the tile floor echoed off the vaulted ceiling, reinforcing the sensation that he was alone. At this time of night, most of the servants were belowstairs. Even Stokes was missing from his usual spot near the front door.

Benedict followed the stairs as they swooped in a gentle quarter circle to the upper floor. Memories of the time Henry had dared him to slide down the banister rail flitted through his mind. Henry had promised to give Benedict his pudding at dinnertime if Benedict would give it a go. Unfortunately for Benedict, he'd known that Cook was making raspberry tarts. They were his absolute favorite, and the opportunity to have an extra serving was too tempting to ignore. He'd taken Henry's bait, and after mounting the railing on the landing, he'd shot down the highly polished wood like a bullet from a gun.

Henry had cheered so loudly from the upper floor that their mother had left the parlor to investigate. Upon finding Benedict in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, she'd panicked. Her cry had brought Stokes running, but after the butler had checked for broken bones and proclaimed him whole, their mother's fear had turned to ire. She'd banished Benedict to the nursery for the rest of the day.

Benedict chuckled at the recollection. His poor mother. To this day, she likely had no idea that Henry had roped Caroline into helping him smuggle a piece of raspberry tart into the nursery. Henry had rightly assumed that if asked, Cook would give Henry's pretty little playmate with the big blue eyes a piece of tart to take home. Caroline had proven herself a good friend to drop off the pastry at the nursery door rather than eat it herself.

Benedict's footsteps faltered, and he allowed that thought to take root. He'd always considered Caroline to be Henry's special friend, had rather envied their comfortable relationship. There'd been many times when he'd been home from school for the summer and had wished he could join them in their adventures, but he'd been unwilling to assert himself when he was not wanted. Was it possible that he'd been mistaken? If Caroline had been willing to go along with Henry's madcap plan to make good on his bribe, perhaps she and Henry would also have included him in their games if he'd only asked.

A pang of sorrow at missed opportunities pierced him, and rather than turning left on the landing and going directly to his bedchamber, he turned right and kept walking until he reached the door to the nursery. Turning the handle, he pushed the door open and walked inside. The room was chilly, the fireplace clean and empty. Benedict raised his candle. A wooden rocking horse sat forlornly in one corner, and a small table surrounded by four short chairs was in another. The multipaned window overlooked the back garden and was sandwiched between a bookshelf filled with well-read books and a large wooden chest brimming with toys.

Benedict approached the toy box. Two small wooden boats sat atop a tin that Benedict knew contained toy soldiers. Beneath them, he spotted the rim of Henry's old drum. Reaching for the red boat, he studied it in the candlelight. This one had been his. He'd painted it red because he'd been convinced it would make it sail faster. The logic had been proven false time and time again, since Henry and his blue boat had beaten him almost every time they'd raced.

He picked up the blue boat, holding the two small vessels side by side as the first inklings of an idea settled upon him. Caroline had loved playing with these boats almost as much as he and Henry had. Benedict was willing to wager that Meg would too. With the water level in the river dropping and the weather warming up, perhaps a rematch of the old blue and red sailboats was in order.

He'd been helping Giles relocate cows from the north barn to the pasture when Caroline and Meg had made their second visit to the stables this week. They'd been gone by the time he'd returned to the barnyard. John had reported that Meg's confidence in the saddle had greatly improved, but as glad as he was to hear it, Benedict had been sorry to have missed witnessing her advancement himself. Introducing the little girl to toy-boat racing might make up for that loss.

With newfound eagerness, he tucked the two sailboats beneath his arm and left the nursery. He would invite Caroline and Meg to their own miniature regatta. He smiled into the empty passage. For some unaccountable reason, the possibility of spending an hour or two with them, racing boats on the river, did far more to dispel his feelings of loneliness than did the prospect of his parents' return and the house filling with his mother's guests.