Page 3 of A Provincial Peer

“Mama!” Meg ran to her.

The woman crouched and enveloped the child in her arms. “Meg.” She turned her head so that the brim of her bonnet did not hit the child. “Whatever possessed you to wander off like that? I was so worried about you.”

Worried but not cross, Benedict surmised, since she had not called Meg by her full name. A fact that was somewhat remarkable, given that the child had obviously strayed without permission.

“I was picking flowers.” Meg presented the sad bunch of dandelions to her mother. “I gave one to Mr. Bent. But only one. The rest are for you to help you feel better.”

The woman sighed, and Benedict received the distinct impression that the sound was born of fatigue rather than frustration.

“That is very thoughtful of you, dear.” She took the proffered posy. “Next time, however, I would have you limit your picking to the yellow flowers in our garden.”

“So you don’t worry?” Meg said, and Benedict guessed they’d had a similar conversation before.

“Yes.” Slowly, the woman rose to her feet, but her head remained lowered. “I apologize for my daughter’s trespassing, sir. It will not happen again.”

“She caused no trouble.” Benedict extended his arm so that if the woman looked up, Meg’s gift of a solitary dandelion was clearly visible. “Indeed, as you can see, she was very thoughtful.”

If the woman smiled, he could not see it. Was her veil to protect her face from the sun or dust? He’d seen ladies use them before but rarely outside London.

“It is good of you to say so.” She took Meg’s hand with her own gloved one. “What do you say to the nice gentleman, Meg?”

Meg managed a stumbling curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Bent.”

“Good day, Meg,” Benedict said. “And to you, ma’am.”

The woman acknowledged his words with a tilt of her bonnet, and then, almost before Benedict knew what she was about, she turned and guided Meg back through the gate. He stood watching as she latched it and started back up the lane.

Where did Margaret Jane Granger and her mother live? Benedict had thought he knew all the Farwell tenants and local villagers, and they could not have traveled far if the child had wandered into the yard alone. He was none the wiser after his brief interaction with Mrs. Granger, although the same could likely be said of her. She’d not looked any higher than his muddy boots and straw-flecked breeches, and given that she’d offered no curtsy, she likely assumed he was a farmhand by the name of Mr. Bent.

With a long, last look up the now-empty lane, Benedict whistled for Shep and started across the yard toward the north pasture. He offered the enthusiastic dog a wry smile. If he were fortunate, farmhand Bent would have just enough time to check the river’s water level before he was required to become Lord Benning and be back at the house to meet with the Farwell Estate’s steward, Mr. Rowe.

Chapter 2

Caroline Granger pushed open the door to the vicarage. Her daughter, Meg, scurried in ahead of her, anxious to find a cup in which to deposit her bedraggled dandelion posy. Caroline followed more slowly. It had been weeks since her illness, but she had yet to regain her full strength. And when she’d realized Meg was no longer in the back garden, she’d panicked, which had drained even more of her limited stamina.

Spring had been exceptionally wet, and the nearby river fed by frigid groundwater was running high. No matter the many warnings Caroline had given her young daughter about the danger inherent in going too close to the river, for a full twenty minutes, Caroline had known real fear. Meg’s natural curiosity and sense of adventure were difficult to assuage. Caroline understood. She’d been the same way at that age. But not anymore. Now, merely running the short distance from the vicarage to Farwell Farm had left her barely able to move her limbs.

Wearily, she slipped off her gloves and untied the ribbons beneath her chin. Setting her bonnet and gloves on the nearby hall table, she began unbuttoning her jacket. Her fingers trembled slightly, further indicating that she’d pushed herself too hard. She sighed. One day, if her prayers were answered, she would feel whole again—even though her appearance was forever altered.

Turning away from the door, Caroline followed the sound of Meg’s chatter down the passage and into the kitchen. The sunny room welcomed her with a warm and gentle embrace. Brick-red tile covered the floor, worn smooth by many feet. A serviceable wooden table was surrounded by half a dozen wooden chairs, and in the corner, a large black stove filled the room with the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

“Oh, Nora.” Caroline dropped onto the nearest chair. “The kitchen smells divine.”

Her father’s aging cook smiled and set a cup of water and dandelions on the windowsill beside two other cups containing Meg’s earlier offerings: half a dozen tiny daisies picked from the lawn and an assortment of tulip petals gathered from the flowerbed.

“There’s nothin’ quite like the smell of bakin’ bread, is there?” she said.

“No. Especially when it’s a rarity.”

Nora’s smile dimmed. “Yer father told me things were right hard for you in Portsmouth, even afore the smallpox came.”

Caroline managed a weak smile. Returning to her childhood home after Fred’s death was proving to be both a blessing and a challenge. On the one hand, she was surrounded by those who loved her, who sincerely cared for her well-being and her daughter’s. On the other hand, she had been forced to close a chapter of her life in an unexpectedly abrupt way, and recounting the memories was often painful. Overall, the last six years had been difficult, certainly, but they’d not been without their joyful moments, and she was mature enough to recognize the personal growth she’d experienced during the trying times.

“It wasn’t just me, Nora,” she said. “The past year has been hard for everyone. Food has been scarce, and wheat flour all but nonexistent.”

Nora frowned, the wrinkles on her old face deepening. “By all accounts, it weren’t so bad ’ere as it were in other places, but I know the vicar was right worried about several families in the parish.” She reached for the crock of milk on the nearby counter. “Still is, come t’ that.”

Caroline did not doubt it. When her father left the house earlier today to visit several families in the village, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d placed a basket of provisions in the cart. “How bad has it been?” she asked.