Page 77 of A Provincial Peer

Gathering her teacup and saucer, she rose and set the dishes in the nearby washtub. Meg had been correct. Waiting any longer to read the letter was a bad idea. Reading it in front of Meg and Nora, however, was an even worse one.

“I shall be back momentarily, Nora,” she said.

“Right you are, my dear.” Nora’s attention was on the kettle just starting to whistle on the hob.

Caroline glanced at Meg. She had just discovered the container of clothes pegs Nora had left on the corner of the table and was lining the pegs end to end as she ate.

Caroline slipped out of the room unnoticed. She moved down the passage quickly until she reached the parlor. At this time in the morning, with no fire burning in the hearth, the parlor was chilly and uninviting. It was also empty. Closing the door behind her, she moved to the nearest chair. Withdrawing the envelope from her pocket, she took a steadying breath and then broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of paper. A glance at the bottom of the page confirmed what she’d already known. Benedict had written to her.

Starting at the top, she began to read.

Farwell Hall,

Leyfield, Gloucestershire

29th June 1796

Dear Caroline,

My concern over your and Meg’s welfare since you were last at the farm has been all-consuming, and so you can imagine my relief when I learned that my mother had conversed with you at the Simkinses’ house and that you both remain well. I pray your good health continues.

Regardless of the impression you received when I first delivered the news of Mr. Rowe’s illness, complete containment of the smallpox has been my overriding priority from the moment I learned of its presence on the Farwell Estate. Thankfully, I, too, have remained free of illness, and as of yet, no one else on the farm has developed any smallpox symptoms. Since it has now been over a week since Mr. Rowe returned, I feel a greater measure of hope that our containment efforts have been successful.

By the time you read this letter, I will be on my way to Gloucester, seeing to some pressing estate business. I wish I were at liberty to share more details with you, but suffice it to say, if the outcome of this trip did not have the potential of impacting every person associated with the estate, I would postpone my departure until after I had spoken with you. It is my sincere hope that you will allow me to call upon you when I return.

Yours sincerely,

Benedict

Slowly, Caroline lowered the letter to her knee and gazed through the parlor window, her vision blurred with unshed tears. Benedict wished to see her again. Even after she had been so manifestly rude to him. She looked down at the paper, and a single tear escaped. She must respond to his letter. But what should she say? Should she admit in a letter to her remorse over what she had said to him or wait until she saw him in person? Her fingers trembled. In the end, it would make little difference. Either scenario would require her to be sufficiently courageous to give Benedict a glimpse into her aching heart.

The door clicked open. Startled, Caroline came to her feet.

“Caroline?” Her father stood in the doorway. “Why are you sitting here in the cold?”

“I . . . I needed a moment alone.”

A concerned line cut across his forehead. He walked into the room, pausing at the small table beside his favorite armchair to pick up his spectacles. Retrieving them had undoubtedly been his reason for entering the room. “Is something amiss, child?” He continued toward her and reached for her hand. “You know you may share your burdens with me anytime.”

Her father was a vicar. He was well used to listening to people’s troubles. He also cared deeply for her welfare. But to tell him what truly troubled her would mean confronting one of her greatest concerns. Another tear fell. It landed on the letter in her hand, smudging the last part of Benedict’s name.

“My dear child.” Her father’s grip on her hand tightened. “How can I help you?”

She took an unsteady breath. “Do you think I can ever experience the complete and lasting adoration you and Mother knew? I . . . I thought I had found it with Fred, but I was mistaken. I have always desired more than amiable affection in a spouse, but I hardly trust myself to recognize something deeper.” She wiped away another tear before it could fall. “Besides that, I sometimes wonder whether, with my disfigurement, I have no place desiring anything more. After all, my life has been spared, and I have Meg.”

“There should always be a place for love in your life, Caroline. Our sojourn here on earth would be meaningless without it. Just because you have loved before does not mean that you cannot love again. Likewise, just because you were disappointed in love once, it does not mean you will be similarly disappointed another time. I know your heart, my dear. It is capable of deep emotion. Do not allow past experiences to stifle your ability to love or be loved. You owe yourself and Meg that much—not to mention the exceptionally fortunate gentleman who stirs those feelings in you.”

“But to open my heart to love again . . .” Her throat ached. “It would mean opening myself up to the risk of losing everything again.”

“It would.” Her father smiled gently. “But that is what it means to love completely and to live life to its fullest, is it not? We willingly set aside our fears and take a step into the unknown—a leap of faith, if you will—so that we might experience true joy.”

“I wish to know true joy,” Caroline whispered.

“And I believe you shall.” He leaned forward to kiss her damp cheek. “Listen to your heart, my dear. God will lead you aright.”

Did she have the courage to trust herself—to trust God? “I will try, Papa.”

“What will your first step be?”