Page 74 of A Provincial Peer

Benedict’s shoulders dropped. One sentence and he had said too much.

His mother stepped closer and raised her hand to his cheek. It was a familiar but long-unused gesture, one that she’d employed during his childhood when she’d wished him to give her his full attention.

“Benedict,” she said softly. “I love you more than I can say. I recognize that you may have been hurt, but now is not the time to be defensive. With me or with Caroline. I will not ask what happened between the two of you. Rather, I ask that you do whatever you can to smooth things over. If that can be accomplished in a letter, so much the better. Give the note to Giles. He delivers milk to the vicarage every morning. A letter will reach Caroline faster that way than by giving it to Stokes to put in the post. If, however, you feel that your reconciliation must be done in person, then do what you must to speak with her again.” She met his eyes. “Your happiness and hers is worth the effort.”

Benedict dropped his gaze. Behind him, the ledgers he’d taken from Rowe’s house lay open on his father’s desk, a tangible reminder of Caroline’s fiery accusations. Her criticism had stung, but she had no way of knowing that the welfare of everyone living on the estate was dependent upon his father having access to those books. It was not the kind of information he could freely share—especially with Giles within hearing. If she’d given him the chance to reassure her that his concern for the lives of others far superseded his interest in finances, it would have helped. But his mother was correct; he was not the only one who had been hurt in their exchange. And he needed to do something to set things right.

“I appreciate your wise counsel, Mother,” he said, facing her once more.

Her expression softened. “I do not believe you have ever told me that before.”

There was more truth to her statement than Benedict cared to admit. He acknowledged the fact with a chagrined smile but could not help but tease her as well. “Ever, Mother? Surely that is an exaggeration. I have a clear memory of expressing my gratitude for your insight when I was eight years old and you told me that eating too many gooseberries caused a stomachache.”

“You only listened then because you’d been sick all the previous night,” she huffed.

“That may be, but I have been exceptionally wary of gooseberries ever since.” He lowered his head and brushed her cheek with a light kiss. “And I shall consider today’s counsel equally carefully,” he said. “You have my word.”

With an approving nod, Benedict’s father approached and offered her his arm. “You have given Benedict sound advice, my dear, but may I suggest that we now go in to dinner and allow him to work the rest of this out for himself?”

Benedict’s mother set her hand upon his father’s sleeve. The smile she gave him was filled with genuine affection. “Thank you, Charles,” she said. “Dinner would be marvelous.”

* * *

Caroline stared up at the ceiling of her small bedchamber. A sliver of moonlight peeking through a narrow chink in the curtains touched the rafters and cast a shadow across the room’s furnishings. The bulky tallboy loomed over her bed, its presence deepening the color of the pale-green comforter from dark gray to black. Her father slept in the next room, and Meg was curled up beside her in the large feather bed. And yet, not since the first time Fred had left her all alone in Portsmouth had she felt so terribly lonely. A tear trickled down her cheek.

It had not taken long for the physical distance that lay between her and Fred to develop into an emotional distance. Although not what she had imagined or wished for in a marriage, the detachment had made their extended time apart bearable. Spending the last few weeks with Benedict had reminded her of what it was to feel true attachment to another. To have the day seem brighter when that person was with her and dimmer when he was not.

Another tear escaped, and Caroline let it roll onto her pillow. After all she’d been through—all she’d learned from past mistakes—how had she allowed her heart to let Benedict in? If only he weren’t so kind or considerate or patient with her and with Meg . . . If only he weren’t the man who made her feel stronger, prettier, and better than she really was, then separating herself from him would be so much easier.

Every day since she’d run from him, memories of his laughter at the river and his passionate embrace in the closet had haunted her. Hope rose in her chest whenever she heard a horse approach the vicarage, only to deflate again when the rider continued past. She missed Benedict. More than she ever would have thought possible. And if Meg’s constant requests to return to Farwell Farm were any indication, Caroline wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

At her side, Meg stirred and muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep. Caroline reached over and ran a soothing hand over her daughter’s blonde curls. Meg’s even breathing returned, and Caroline offered a silent prayer of thanks that her little girl remained healthy.

Meg loved Benedict. Caroline’s hand stilled as the thought took root. Meg loved Benedict. It was a childlike love filled with adoration and complete trust, but was it really so very different from what she herself was feeling? Caroline’s fingers trembled. Fears from her past had caused her to speak harshly to Benedict and had sent her running from him, but now that her initial terror had subsided, it was possible to hear the quiet whispers of her heart more clearly. She loved Benedict.

Wiping her damp cheeks, she closed her eyes. “Please, God,” she whispered into the darkness. “Let Benedict remain well. And if it be possible, help him forgive me for my unkind words and weakness.” She could not bring herself to ask for more. For now, those two things were of most importance.

Chapter 25

Benedict guided his mount toward the steward’s cottage. The brief ride from the stables was hardly the exercise Saxon craved, but it was better than nothing, and this morning, it was all Benedict could offer him. He had only twenty minutes remaining before the carriage was scheduled to pick him up at the house for his long ride to Gloucester.

Giving Giles the letter he’d written to Caroline had taken longer than he’d anticipated. The cowman had been herding half a dozen cows from the milking parlor into the nearby pasture when Benedict had arrived at the farmyard, and Benedict had been forced to wait until the cattle were safely relocated before he’d approached. Giles had taken his rather odd request in stride and had promised to drop off the missive with this morning’s milk. All that Benedict could do now was pray that the letter he’d written late last night would be well-received by its recipient.

With none of his farm laborers or stablehands reporting illness again today, Benedict was cautiously hopeful that they had managed to avert a potential smallpox crisis, so he was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes when he reined Saxon to a stop beside the gate leading to Rowe’s cottage. Far below the now-familiar trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and the closed curtains at the upstairs windows, a blue scarf hung from the brass doorknob on the front door.

For a full three heartbeats, he stared at it, willing it to disappear. When it did not, he dismounted, tied Saxon’s reins to the gatepost, and took the short path to the door. He had no way of knowing why Rachel had signaled that she needed assistance, but conjecturing would do him no good. He knocked twice, and then he retreated halfway down the garden path. He was honor bound to help Rachel, but if at all possible, he would do so without putting his own health and the health of those he loved at risk.

He heard the bolt draw back seconds before the door opened. Rachel appeared on the doorstep. Her dark hair lay limp across her shoulders. Her face was pale, and even from a distance of a few yards, Benedict could see the redness around her eyes.

“Are you ill, Rachel?” he asked.

Rachel raised her head, spotting him for the first time. “No, m’lord.” Her chin trembled. “It’s Mr. Rowe.” She swallowed. “I tried me best, m’lord. I was up with ’im fer two nights straight, but there was nothin’ I could do. ’Is fever was too great.” A sob escaped, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

A weight as bleak as it was heavy settled on Benedict’s chest. “When did he pass?”

“A . . . about ’alf p . . . past two this mornin’.” Rachel was openly weeping now.

Benedict took an instinctive step toward her and then caught himself. “I will send for the undertaker.” He was sure that Mr. May, the local undertaker, had had smallpox. The man was even more scarred than Caroline, and in his line of work, the disease would have been impossible to avoid.