Page 64 of A Provincial Peer

“Everyone says that it’s so, m’lord.” She extended her hands so he could see the scars on them. “See. I ’ave the cowpox marks still. Me body don’t need any more.”

“Still, I cannot have you remain here.”

“I must, m’lord. Mr. Rowe don’t ’ave anyone else close by, an’ I can’t leave ’im here alone. Not as poorly as ’e is.”

“Does he have family members elsewhere?” It was something he undoubtedly should already know, but Rowe had never been forthcoming about his family situation—other than the fact that he himself was unmarried.

“One sister is all,” Rachel said. “I think ’er name’s Agnes, but I’ve never met ’er. She don’t live in Leyfield.”

Knowing the Christian name of Rowe’s sister was not enough. There was no hope of locating her without more information than that. Benedict ran his fingers through his hair. Rachel was right. Rowe could not be left unattended. And yet how could he knowingly leave this young lady in so untenable a situation?

His struggle must have shown on his face, because Rachel offered him a reassuring nod. “I can manage, m’lord. Me sister, Rebecca, she were a milkmaid as well. She’s cared fer three people with smallpox and ’as never came down with it. I’ll be th’ same. I just know it.”

It was a terrible risk, but Benedict could see no better solution. Not if there was to be any hope of containing the disease.

“You are sure of this?”

“Yes, m’lord.” She looked thoughtful. “Fer the moment, I ’ave all that I need, but if Mr. Rowe’s not improved by next week, I may be needin’ some provisions.”

“Are you able to write a list of those items?”

She shook her head regretfully. “No, m’lord. I never did learn t’ read and write.”

“Very well,” he said. “I shall ensure that some staples are left on the doorstep before week’s end. Someone will pass by the cottage at least once a day. If you or Mr. Rowe require assistance or something beyond the items provided, tie a rag to the doorknob. The person who sees it will knock.”

“Thank you, m’lord. I ’ave a blue neckerchief in th’ ’ouse. I’ll use that so it’s easily seen.”

“That will work nicely.” He paused. If Rowe’s condition were as dire as Rachel suggested, it would be some time before the gentleman was in any position to answer Benedict’s or his father’s questions regarding any possible mismanagement of the estate. If they wanted answers, they would have to conduct their own investigation. And that would require access to the current ledgers.

Entering a smallpox-contaminated house was a dangerous gamble. But he could not send Rachel into the steward’s office to retrieve those ledgers. Since she was illiterate, she would be unable to tell one book from another. He glanced at the curtained windows above his head. If Rowe had not left his bed, he was surely in one of the upstairs bedchambers. He likely had not entered his office since his return—or since he’d become ill.

Desire to learn exactly what Rowe had been about burned within him. Neither he nor his father would countenance a dishonest steward, but being forced to wait to discover if their newfound suspicions were correct would be intolerable.

“Lord Farwell desires to go over the estate ledgers,” Benedict said. “I came to ask Mr. Rowe for them. As he is unavailable, I shall have to retrieve them myself.”

Rachel blinked. “You wish to enter the house?”

Not at all. But he also could not ignore this opportunity. “With Mr. Rowe indisposed, Lord Farwell must have access to those books.”

“Of course.” Rachel backed into the passage a few paces. “Mr. Rowe’s office is the first door on the left.”

Benedict hesitated for only a moment. Then he crossed the threshold and walked directly to the closed office door. He opened it and stepped inside. The room was damp, the air stale. If Benedict had to guess, he would say that Rowe had not entered this room since before he left for Gloucester. So much the better.

He glanced around the room. Two leather armchairs sat on a faded rug near the fireplace. A small table bearing a glass decanter of amber liquid and two glasses was positioned between them. Three foxhunt paintings hanging on the wall appeared to be the study’s token decoration. A large desk and wooden chair commanded the remainder of the small room’s floor space, and the wall behind the desk was masked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Benedict eyed the bookshelves grimly. If he had to peruse every shelf to find the ledgers he sought, he would be here far longer than he’d hoped. He stepped closer to the desk. Vaguely aware that Rachel had followed and was standing in the doorway, he lifted the book sitting at the edge of the desk. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. Interesting but not what he was looking for. He set it down again. A pile of unopened correspondence sat on one side of the desk. Benedict ignored it, his attention shifting instead to a stack of books sitting on the opposite corner.

He reached for the first book on the pile. It was a notebook. He flipped it open. Rows of numbers filled the pages, with names and notes written in their steward’s tidy handwriting jotted beneath the sums. Benedict’s jaw tightened. This was not one of the estate’s ledgers, but it looked to be a separate accounting of Farwell Farm’s sales and purchases. A name jumped out at him. Geoffrey Blyton. He stilled. Geoffrey Blyton and Sons was the name Cook had given him. It was the establishment supplying Farwell Hall with flour.

A creak sounded above his head. Benedict looked up and then turned his eyes on Rachel. “Is Mr. Rowe’s bedchamber above us?”

“It is, m’lord.” There was a muffled moan, and a crease appeared on the young woman’s forehead. “P’raps I’d best check on ’im. It’s been a while.”

“Yes.” Benedict’s gaze fell on the other books that had been hidden beneath the one in his hand. The black leather covers were familiar. He opened the first one, looking for the all-important dates on the first page. Relief filled him. This was the current Farwell ledger. The others were undoubtedly the ones used for the previous quarters of this year and last. “I have what I was seeking,” he said, gathering the three black books and adding them to the brown one he already held. “Go to Mr. Rowe. I shall let myself out of the cottage.”

Rachel bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, m’lord.”

She disappeared in a rustle of skirts, and Benedict made directly for the door.