Page 24 of A Provincial Peer

Chapter 8

The next day, Benedict had just finished reviewing a bill from the blacksmith who had taken over for Will Trilby when Stokes walked into the study.

“Good morning, my lord.” He set a silver salver containing half a dozen envelopes on the desk. “I apologize for not bringing your letters in before now. The post arrived later than usual today.”

“No apology necessary, Stokes,” Benedict said. “Such things cannot be helped.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The butler bowed and then exited the room as quietly as he’d entered.

Benedict sifted through the small pile of correspondence. Unless he discovered something that needed his immediate attention, he planned to wait until this evening to respond to them. He wanted to be at the stables when Caroline and Meg arrived.

He’d almost made it to the bottom of the stack when his fingers stilled. Separating one of the letters from the others, he studied the bold script on the envelope. Unless he was mistaken, the handwriting belonged to Henry’s brother-in-law, Lord Dunsbourne. A quick glance at the clock on the mantel reassured him that he still had time to read the baron’s letter.

Breaking the envelope’s seal, Benedict withdrew the piece of paper within. The letter was short and ended with Dunsbourne’s distinctive signature. Benedict started reading.

Dunsbourne Manor, Berkshire

8th June 1796

Dear Benning,

I was sorry to hear that your steward has had difficulty locating new saplings for your apple orchard. Although the loss of trees was widespread last year, it is my understanding that most apple growers have successfully replanted.

I took the liberty of reaching out to Mr. Thomas Sedgewick, an arborist in Berkshire, who has provided me with saplings in the past. As luck would have it, he had some ready for transplanting, and since your correspondence led me to believe that you were anxious to locate saplings as soon as possible, I asked him to send them your way.

If memory serves, you favor Genet Moyle and Blenheim Orange apples. All being well, Sedgewick will deliver four saplings of each variety to Farwell Hall on Monday, 13th June.

You may settle the bill with Sedgewick directly. I have found him to be fair with his prices and honest in his dealings.

Yours sincerely,

Dunsbourne

Benedict lowered the letter to the table, his thoughts whirling. Given how long it had been since he’d first asked Rowe to seek out replacement apple trees, it was mystifying that the steward had been unable to procure them if the many apple farmers known to Dunsbourne had not experienced similar shortages. Who was it that had turned down Rowe’s requests? And why? They were questions worth investigating, and upon Rowe’s return to Farwell Hall, Benedict intended to do just that.

He shook his head slightly. It was no wonder he hadn’t heard from Dunsbourne before now. The gentleman had done far more than steer Benedict in the direction of an arborist. He’d arranged everything—right down to choosing the correct variety of apple. Leaning back in his chair, Benedict rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. There could be no doubt; he was in the baron’s debt for this. Today was the thirteenth of June. Assuming the trees arrived on time, his men could have them planted by evening.

The news was cause for elation, yet his heart sank. Rowe had gone to Gloucester to purchase more wheat seed and was not expected back until later in the week. No matter how badly Benedict wished to personally introduce Caroline and Meg to the horses in his stable, he owed it to Dunsbourne to be present when his arborist arrived at the house.

* * *

Caroline closed the farmyard gate and reached for Meg’s hand. The sun was shining, bathing the redbrick farm buildings with morning light. In the milking parlor, someone was whistling, and a gentle mooing reached them from the cow barn. The scene was as tranquil as it was familiar, yet Caroline’s nerves were humming like a swarm of bees.

After Lord Benning had left the vicarage the day before, she’d circled the back garden at least half a dozen times, but she’d been as confused when she’d ended her pacing as she had been when she’d started it. Somehow—without the gentleman saying or doing anything in particular—her feelings had shifted from indignation that he had encroached upon her privacy to reluctant acceptance that he would now see her as she really was.

No matter that she’d warned him about what the smallpox had done to her, she’d expected to see shock or pity in his eyes. But she’d seen neither. And that had enabled her to push past her own insecurities in a way that she’d not done since the first time she’d looked in the mirror after her raging fever had subsided. For a short time in the garden, Lord Benning had made her feel whole again. It had been a moment of longed-for release, but it had ended all too soon. A new awareness of her deformity had come as soon as she’d glanced at the wilted daisies in her scarred hand, and the burden of moving forward in her condition had settled upon her once more. Lord Benning’s reaction—or lack thereof—had been an anomaly. She should not expect others to repeat it.

Squaring her shoulders, she guided Meg toward the half-open barn door. Sometime during the next dozen or so steps, she needed to wrestle her wayward emotions into submission. She was taking Meg to visit horses and cows—something she’d done countless times during her youth. She pressed her gloved hand to the top of her veiled bonnet. It was secure. All would be well. She raised her chin a fraction. Even if she were to encounter Lord Benning again, there was absolutely no call for nervousness.

“I hear the baby cows, Mama.” At her side, Meg hopped excitedly. “Do you think they will remember me?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

Caroline opened the lower portion of the barn door and led Meg inside. The smells of cows and straw assailed her.

“Well now, look who’s come t’ see us!” Giles’s voice was filled with welcome. “If it ain’t Miss Caroline and Miss Meg.”

Caroline smiled. “Good morning, Giles.”