Page 45 of A Provincial Peer

Concern creased his forehead. “I would rather not leave until I know you are safely inside.”

She attempted another step, this time toward the gate. “You see,” she said. “I am steady enough.”

With seeming reluctance, Benedict dropped his hands from her waist. Breathing was instantly easier.

“I shall wait here until you reach the door,” he said.

“Thank you, Benedict.” She walked through the gate, closing it behind her before turning back to him.

“I wish you a pleasant evening, Caroline.” He was standing beside Saxon, still waiting to mount.

“And I would wish the same for you,” she said, and then she continued down the path without looking back.

* * *

Benedict lay with his head on his pillow, staring at the canopy hanging above his bed. He didn’t know what time it was. The pearl gray of early morning was softening the dark of night and sending slivers of pale light through the curtains at his bedchamber’s windows. Birds would be waking before long, and he had yet to sleep. He groaned and dropped an arm over his eyes. If only he could turn off the mental images of the day before as easily as he could block his vision of the shadowy canopy.

The previous afternoon had been a swirling combination of wonderful experiences and terrifying moments. Racing boats with Caroline and Meg had been the highlight of his month. Truth be told, he had yet to think of anything he’d done all year that had brought him more genuine happiness. On the other hand, Meg’s tumble into the river had frightened him more than he cared to admit. And then there was the unfortunate and horribly public revival of his long-standing feud with his mother.

Perhaps he should have ignored the way she’d masterfully reinvented a peaceful teatime into a social event. But if he had waited to confront her about it later, Caroline would have been left in agony. There was no doubt in his mind that Caroline had been excessively anxious about his mother’s burgeoning plans. Her relief when his mother had agreed to moderate them was obvious. As was the sense of camaraderie he’d felt when they’d touched on the subject of escaping large gatherings during their ride to the vicarage. But when they’d arrived at the gate and he’d lifted her off Poppy, everything had changed.

The same indefinable attraction he’d felt at the river had surged through him the instant he’d placed his hands on Caroline’s waist, but this time, he’d found himself reluctant to let her go. Assisting a lady off her mount was a simple thing, but after all the day had brought, that final moment together—just the two of them, standing so close—had felt unaccountably right. Until he’d looked into her deep-blue eyes and seen a new emotion flickering in their depths. Something that hinted at distress.

It had still been there when she’d all but fled from him to the vicarage. And these many hours later, he was still trying to determine what he might have said or done to cause it.

With a grunt of frustration, he tossed the covers back and climbed out of bed. After lighting the candle on his bedside table with a nearby flint, he pulled a pair of breeches on under his nightshirt and shoved his feet into the nearest pair of shoes. The ensemble would not pass his mother’s standard of dress, but it was good enough for a late-night excursion to the kitchen.

Taking the candle with him, he let himself out of the room and headed for the servants’ back staircase. Darkness filled the narrow staircase, but his candle’s small flame was sufficient to light his way as he headed downward. He was almost to the last step when he heard a clang. He froze. It had come from the kitchen; he was sure of it.

Moving more carefully, he approached the kitchen door. It was ajar, and light flickered from within. He set his hand on the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. A drawer thudded closed, followed by another clang. A lamp shone from a shelf above the stove, illuminating a figure bent over the counter. He stepped into the room and raised his candle to see more clearly. Recognition brought with it a blend of relief and confusion.

“Mrs. Newson?”

The older lady swung around, one floury hand clutching her apron at her chest. “Mercy, Lord Benning! You gave me a terrible scare!”

“My apologizes. Although I confess, you gave me a rough moment as well.” His gaze moved from her flour-covered hands to the mound of dough on the counter. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

Cook released her hold on her apron and took an unsteady breath. “I believe four o’clock qualifies as mornin’, my lord, even if it’s earlier than most of us like to get up.”

Benedict strained to see the clock on the wall. Surely it wasn’t that time already. Unfortunately, the black hands corroborated Cook’s pronouncement. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Although I have yet to understand why you are here.”

“Bread, my lord.” She lifted the mass of dough and dropped it into a large bowl. “If Lord and Lady Farwell are to ’ave fresh rolls for their breakfast, the dough must start rising now.”

And so, she had cut short her own sleep. He shook his head slightly. “You are too good to us, Mrs. Newson.”

“I’m just doin’ my job, my lord.”

Personally, Benedict thought this effort went above and beyond her prescribed duties, but he could not fault her. He would be one of the beneficiaries of her early-morning labor.

She gave the dough a final thump. “I was right glad you let the staff know your parents were comin’ this week. It gave me a few days to order extra flour. Lady Farwell will be wantin’ more baked goods if she’s to start entertainin’ again.”

Cook’s comment brought to mind Caroline’s information about the villagers going without. Even though he’d set up the milk delivery for the Trilbys, he’d not had the opportunity to ask the vicar about others who may be in need.

“Why did you need to order flour? Surely Mr. Wallace at the shop keeps something so basic in stock at all times.”

“Well, ’e would if ’e could find it.” She set a pan on the stove, poured some milk into it, and opened the small door beneath to add a log to the faintly glowing coals. “It’s been months since the local shop’s ’ad flour. I ’ave to send to Gloucester for it.”

Benedict stared at her, scarcely able to believe his ears. “Do you mean to tell me there’s been no flour in the village since the start of the year?”