Page 63 of A Provincial Peer

Meg offered the bedraggled flower to the cowman. “Here, Mr. Giles. You can have it.”

“That’s right nice of ya, Miss Meg,” he said, accepting the gift with an inclination of his head.

Meg smiled brightly, then she took Caroline’s hand and gave it a tug. “Come, Mama. Mr. Giles said that John and Ginger need me.”

“I don’t believe that’s exactly what he meant,” Caroline said, offering Giles an apologetic look.

The older man chuckled. “I daresay she ’as the right of it though. Me an’ the cows’ll still be there whenever yer ready t’ stop by.”

“Thank you, Giles. That’s very good of you.”

“Alwus a pleasure, Miss Caroline.” Holding the bowed dandelion in one hand, he tugged the brim of his hat with the other. “I wish ya both a good mornin’ at the stables.”

* * *

Benedict stood on the short path that led to the front door of the cottage where Phineas Rowe resided. Built of gray stone, with a thatched roof, the cottage sat on the southwest corner of the Farwell Estate and had been used as the home of the Farwell family’s stewards since the time that Benedict’s grandfather was earl. It was a rather lovely home, with a small garden and a beautiful view of the estate from the upper windows. In years past, their stewards had raised their families in this cottage, and there had always been someone about. But Rowe had no wife or children, and the small house seemed empty because of it.

A bird sang from the rooftop, and Benedict raised his gaze. Although the curtains in the upper rooms were pulled closed, a thin trickle of smoke came from one of the chimney pots. Quiet or not, it appeared that someone was in residence.

He approached the door and knocked. Above his head, the bird took off in a flurry of feathers. He waited, listening for the sound of Rowe’s heavy footsteps but hearing nothing. He knocked again. This time, Benedict heard a door close somewhere in the house. Moments later, a key turned, a bolt thudded back, and the door opened.

“Lord Benning!” The young woman dropped into a curtsy. Her dark hair was pulled back beneath a mobcap, and an apron covered her serviceable brown gown.

“Good morning, Rachel.” Benedict had forgotten that Rowe had hired one of their former milkmaids as his housemaid.

“Good mornin’, m’lord. I ’ope I didn’t keep ya waitin’ too long. It’s right ’ard t’ hear the front door from the kitchen.”

“Not long at all,” Benedict said. “I am here to speak with Mr. Rowe.”

Her face dropped. “I . . . I fear he’s not in any fit state t’ meet with ya at th’ moment, m’lord.”

What the deuce did that mean? Had the man been drinking? “I beg your pardon.”

Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced over her shoulder. The passage beyond was as empty as it had been when she’d opened the door, but when she spoke again, her voice was low. “Mr. Rowe’s very poorly, m’lord. ’E didn’t want anyone t’ know, but I can’t keep it from ’is own master, can I?”

“No, you cannot,” Benedict said with a little more force than necessary. “What’s wrong with the fellow?”

“It . . .” She swallowed. “It’s the pox, m’lord.”

Benedict stared at her. “Rowe has the cowpox?”

“No, m’lord. I’ve ’ad that one. What ’e ’as is much worse.”

The first prickles of dread inched up Benedict’s spine. “How much worse?”

“Burnin’ up, ’e is, an’ covered in blisters from head t’ toe. No matter what, there’s nothin’ I can do t’ bring ’is temperature down.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “I’ve tried, m’lord, ’onest, I ’ave.”

Dear heaven. Benedict attempted to steady his reeling thoughts. Rowe had smallpox. And he’d brought it to the Farwell Estate. “When did he become ill?”

“’E arrived back from Gloucester two nights back,” Rachel said. “Late, it was. ’E dropped ’is horse off at th’ stables and walked t’ the cottage. I could tell ’e weren’t feelin’ ’is best, but ’e put it down t’ the long ride. By mornin’, ’e was feverish. ’E ’asn’t left ’is bed since.”

Benedict was already calculating the potential damage done. No doubt Rachel had been exposed to the illness. Possibly the stablehand who’d assisted Rowe that night. Had the steward spoken to anyone else? Touched anything belonging to anyone else? Benedict did not know exactly how one caught smallpox, but surely any association with someone who clearly had the disease was not good.

“If you have assisted him all this time, I fear you, too, will become ill,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not me, m’lord. I was a milkmaid. Milkmaids don’t get smallpox.”

He wished containing diseases was as simple as choosing the right profession. “Would that we could guarantee that,” he said.