Page 4 of A Provincial Peer

“Bad enough. Especially for them with large families and no extra income.” Nora poured some milk into a cup and placed it on the table. “But ’ere at the vicarage, we’ve managed better than most. Lord Farwell’s cowman drops off milk every mornin’, and your father’s learned that you can make dry crusts of bread taste like new if you sop ’em in fresh, warm milk.”

At the talk of milk, Meg’s attention shifted from counting tulip petals to the cup Nora had set down. Scrambling onto the chair next to Caroline’s, she pointed a small finger at it. “Is it for me?”

“It is, pet,” Nora said. “And your mother shall have some, too, if she’d like.”

Caroline smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Nora, but no. I think I shall put the kettle on for some tea instead.”

“Don’t you lift a finger,” Nora ordered. “The water’s already hot. I’ll put the kettle back on the stove fer a minute, an’ it will be boilin’ in no time.”

Caroline had known Nora too long to bother arguing. The kindhearted woman had been with the family since Caroline was ten years old and Caroline’s mother’s weak heart had necessitated hiring help. Nora called herself the vicar’s cook, but she’d always done far more for the small family than prepare meals. Along with doing basic housework and laundry, she’d taken on a nurturing role when twelve-year-old Caroline had found herself lost and floundering after the death of her mother. And even though Caroline had been gone from the vicarage for six years, Nora’s motherly instinct had not dimmed. Ever since Caroline and Meg’s arrival three days before, she’d tasked herself with returning Caroline to full health. That assignment inevitably included enforced rest and feeding her at every possible opportunity.

“You are too good to me, Nora.”

“Nonsense. You could use a little spoilin’.” Nora lifted the kettle. “Did you enjoy the fresh air?”

“It was lovely.” This was not the time to tell the protective woman that she’d run all the way to Farwell Farm in a fright over Meg’s sudden disappearance. “The apple trees are starting to bloom.”

“So I noticed.” She opened a tin and took out a small biscuit. “Lord Farwell an’ ’is son planted a sizeable orchard a few years back. Over by the meadow where you used t’ play when you were little. Oh my, you should ’ave seen the blossoms there in the spring.” She shook her head sadly. “I ’eard tell that the floodin’ after the big freeze killed a good number of ’em. Such a shame.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Caroline settled back in her chair. Seeing as Nora had brought up the subject of the Farwell property more than once, perhaps she could shed some light on the cowman who’d shown Meg such kindness. “Lord Farwell is still running the dairy farm, I take it?”

“Oh yes. But it’s his oldest son who oversees it nowadays.”

Benedict. Caroline pictured the gangly, dark-haired youth she’d known in her childhood. He was five years her senior, and although she and his younger brother, Henry, had spent hours together racing sticks and toy sailboats down the river and catching caterpillars and butterflies, Benedict had rarely joined them. He’d been away at boarding school a good part of the time, but even when he’d been home, he’d never shown much interest in playing their childish games.

“How many cowmen does he have working for him?” she asked.

“That, I can’t tell you.” The kettle began to hiss, and Nora lifted it off the hob and poured the steaming water into the nearby teapot. “Giles is the one who always drops off milk at the vicarage. I daresay there’s others workin’ out in the fields, but I don’t know who they’ve taken on recently.”

Caroline pondered that information. “Do you know anyone in the village named Bent?” she asked.

“Not that I can think of right off.” Nora appeared thoughtful. “There’s old Bennett Thornton at the White Hart, but I’ve never ’eard anyone call ’im Bent.”

“Mr. Bent’s doggie likes me.” Meg spoke over the rim of her cup.

“His doggie?” Nora asked.

“Yes.” Before Caroline could prevent it, Meg wiped the smear of milk off her upper lip with the back of her hand. “His name is Shep.”

“We use a serviette to wipe our mouths, Meg,” Caroline said.

Meg searched the table and then peered beneath it. “I lost it.”

Caroline stifled a sigh. On the grand list of today’s parenting failures, it appeared that she would have to add table manners right below keeping track of her child.

“I don’t suppose you had a serviette with your cup of milk, but if you find yourself in need of one again, ask me for a handkerchief.”

Meg looked suitably contrite. “Yes, Mama.”

“Your mama looks as though she needs a rest.” Nora handed Caroline a cup of tea, concern shining in her eyes. “D’you think you’re big enough t’ ’and me the pegs whilst I ’ang the clothes on the line, Miss Meg?”

“Yes.” Meg was off her chair in an instant. “See how big I am?”

Nora chuckled. “I do, indeed. Seems like you might be just the right size.” She crossed to the corner of the kitchen and pulled a tin full of wooden pegs from the shelf. “’Ere you are.” She offered the tin to Meg. “Mind them well. I don’t want t’ find any on the ground.”

Meg wrapped both her small arms around the can and pressed it to her chest. “I’ll be ever so careful.”

Nora smiled and hoisted the basket of wet clothes lying in the corner of the kitchen onto her hip. “That’s the way. Now, if you’ll carry that and I bring the washin’, then your mama can take ’er cup o’ tea an’ go up t’ ’er room fer a bit.”