Page 28 of A Provincial Peer

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. If he wanted to be at the milking parlor in time for the first milking, he should retire for the night. Setting his mother’s letter on the desk, he reached for a candle. The light reflected off the cut-glass goblet where a dandelion hung its wilted head over the rim. The ghost of a smile crossed Benedict’s lips. He’d best dispense with Meg’s gift and have the goblet washed and set back in its proper place before his father reclaimed his study.

Exiting the room, Benedict cut across the large entrance hall and made for the stairs. The sound of his footsteps on the tile floor echoed off the vaulted ceiling, reinforcing the sensation that he was alone. At this time of night, most of the servants were belowstairs. Even Stokes was missing from his usual spot near the front door.

Benedict followed the stairs as they swooped in a gentle quarter circle to the upper floor. Memories of the time Henry had dared him to slide down the banister rail flitted through his mind. Henry had promised to give Benedict his pudding at dinnertime if Benedict would give it a go. Unfortunately for Benedict, he’d known that Cook was making raspberry tarts. They were his absolute favorite, and the opportunity to have an extra serving was too tempting to ignore. He’d taken Henry’s bait, and after mounting the railing on the landing, he’d shot down the highly polished wood like a bullet from a gun.

Henry had cheered so loudly from the upper floor that their mother had left the parlor to investigate. Upon finding Benedict in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, she’d panicked. Her cry had brought Stokes running, but after the butler had checked for broken bones and proclaimed him whole, their mother’s fear had turned to ire. She’d banished Benedict to the nursery for the rest of the day.

Benedict chuckled at the recollection. His poor mother. To this day, she likely had no idea that Henry had roped Caroline into helping him smuggle a piece of raspberry tart into the nursery. Henry had rightly assumed that if asked, Cook would give Henry’s pretty little playmate with the big blue eyes a piece of tart to take home. Caroline had proven herself a good friend to drop off the pastry at the nursery door rather than eat it herself.

Benedict’s footsteps faltered, and he allowed that thought to take root. He’d always considered Caroline to be Henry’s special friend, had rather envied their comfortable relationship. There’d been many times when he’d been home from school for the summer and had wished he could join them in their adventures, but he’d been unwilling to assert himself when he was not wanted. Was it possible that he’d been mistaken? If Caroline had been willing to go along with Henry’s madcap plan to make good on his bribe, perhaps she and Henry would also have included him in their games if he’d only asked.

A pang of sorrow at missed opportunities pierced him, and rather than turning left on the landing and going directly to his bedchamber, he turned right and kept walking until he reached the door to the nursery. Turning the handle, he pushed the door open and walked inside. The room was chilly, the fireplace clean and empty. Benedict raised his candle. A wooden rocking horse sat forlornly in one corner, and a small table surrounded by four short chairs was in another. The multipaned window overlooked the back garden and was sandwiched between a bookshelf filled with well-read books and a large wooden chest brimming with toys.

Benedict approached the toy box. Two small wooden boats sat atop a tin that Benedict knew contained toy soldiers. Beneath them, he spotted the rim of Henry’s old drum. Reaching for the red boat, he studied it in the candlelight. This one had been his. He’d painted it red because he’d been convinced it would make it sail faster. The logic had been proven false time and time again, since Henry and his blue boat had beaten him almost every time they’d raced.

He picked up the blue boat, holding the two small vessels side by side as the first inklings of an idea settled upon him. Caroline had loved playing with these boats almost as much as he and Henry had. Benedict was willing to wager that Meg would too. With the water level in the river dropping and the weather warming up, perhaps a rematch of the old blue and red sailboats was in order.

He’d been helping Giles relocate cows from the north barn to the pasture when Caroline and Meg had made their second visit to the stables this week. They’d been gone by the time he’d returned to the barnyard. John had reported that Meg’s confidence in the saddle had greatly improved, but as glad as he was to hear it, Benedict had been sorry to have missed witnessing her advancement himself. Introducing the little girl to toy-boat racing might make up for that loss.

With newfound eagerness, he tucked the two sailboats beneath his arm and left the nursery. He would invite Caroline and Meg to their own miniature regatta. He smiled into the empty passage. For some unaccountable reason, the possibility of spending an hour or two with them, racing boats on the river, did far more to dispel his feelings of loneliness than did the prospect of his parents’ return and the house filling with his mother’s guests.

Chapter 10

Caroline stopped to shift the basket containing a crock of Nora’s soup from her right hand to her left. The distance between the vicarage and Sarah Trilby’s house seemed considerably longer when it was traversed on foot rather than in a horse and trap, and the crock of soup seemed to be gaining weight with every step she took. At least on the way back, the basket would be empty.

She’d been wanting to visit Sarah again for several days, and when Nora made an exceptionally large batch of soup, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to take something to the Trilby family. Indeed, her plan would have been perfect had her father not already gone out in the trap. He was not expected back for some time, so Caroline had decided to leave Meg with Nora and walk.

Whooshing a persistent fly off the towel covering the crock, Caroline started up again, grateful when she turned the corner and caught sight of the small cottage up ahead. In truth, she had a great deal more than that to be grateful for. The long walk had tired her, certainly, but three weeks ago, she would not have been able to travel a quarter the distance without stopping to rest. She’d noticed the difference in her endurance between her first visit to Farwell Farm and the last. Lord Benning had not been there to bring her a stool, and she’d stood for half an hour, watching Meg ride Ginger around the yard. Her legs had been a little unsteady on the walk home, but she’d been pleased to see such tangible evidence of her improvement in health.

Young voices reached her now, coming from the cottage’s back garden. As she drew closer, she caught sight of several children playing together. She counted the heads. Five. Even if baby Peggy were among them, the Trilby children would account for only four. Her feet slowed. Hesitant to interrupt if Sarah already had visitors, she considered leaving the basket on the doorstep. Doing so would prevent her from discovering how Sarah was faring, but Caroline could come back later in the trap to collect the container and could speak with her then.

She started up the short path to the front door and had almost reached the doorstep when the door opened.

“Good day, Caroline.” Sarah stood in the doorway, Peggy on her hip. “I saw ya comin’ through th’ window.”

“Good afternoon, Sarah.” Leaving without exchanging a few words was no longer an option. She offered her the basket. “I brought you some of Nora’s soup, and I came to see how you and the children are managing.”

She took the gift, her gratitude obvious. “Thank you, kindly. We shall all enjoy it.” Stepping aside, she gestured toward the parlor. “Come in. I’ve friends who’ve come t’ visit. You must meet ’em.”

Almost without thinking, Caroline straightened the veil attached to her bonnet. “I would be happy to,” she said.

Sarah led her into the parlor. Two young women rose from the armchairs. One was short, with dark hair and eyes. The other guest was taller and had reddish-brown hair. Her fair skin was covered in freckles. An ugly scar ran from her right ear across her cheek, distorting the skin around one corner of her mouth. Heavy with child, she stood with one hand at her back, as though needing the extra support.

“Caroline,” Sarah said, “this is Molly Lumley an’ Hester Simkins. They’re both Farwell tenants and moved ’ere after ya left fer Portsmouth. Ladies, this is Caroline Granger. She’s Reverend Moore’s daughter.”

While the women exchanged polite greetings, Sarah went into the kitchen, deposited the crock of soup, and returned with a stool. “You’d best sit down,” she said, claiming the stool for herself. “’Specially you, Hester. I don’t want ya ’avin’ that baby in my ’ouse.”

“When do you expect the baby to arrive?” Caroline asked.

“Any day now. Least ways, that’s what I’m ’opin’.”

“I’m sure you are.” Caroline remembered that uncomfortable stage all too well.

“This is Hester’s first,” Sarah said. “Molly ’as two. They’re out back with mine.”

Caroline smiled. “I saw them as I came down the lane. It made me wish I’d brought my daughter with me.”

“’Ow old is yours?” Molly asked.