Page 14 of A Provincial Peer

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.