Page 87 of A Provincial Peer

Perhaps that was the reason Benedict felt so drained. Sometime earlier, one of the maids had brought them tea and a small plate of filbert biscuits. He and his father had been so absorbed in their work, Benedict could not remember consuming anything, but the teapot and plate had been empty when the maid had returned. Or the reason could be lack of sleep. During the last twenty-four hours, he’d spent far too long in a carriage and not nearly enough time in his bed.

“It might be worth a trip to the kitchen to see what Cook can offer us.” Benedict didn’t feel hungry, but he was willing to eat if it restored his usual energy.

“A worthy suggestion,” his father said, gathering the ledgers and stacking them on the bookshelf behind his desk. “Especially as I will undoubtedly need sustenance before tackling today’s discouragingly large stack of correspondence.”

Removing all the ledgers from the desk had exposed the letters that had arrived in this morning’s post. Stokes always delivered the ones for Benedict and his father to the study, while Benedict’s mother preferred to read hers over breakfast. Grateful that the pile bearing his name was significantly smaller than the one bearing his father’s, Benedict reached for it and flipped through the three envelopes. When he reached the last, his fingers stilled. It was addressed in a feminine hand and bore no postmark.

He hadn’t dared hope that Caroline would respond to his letter so quickly, but if she’d followed his example and employed Giles as a courier, it was possible. Barely. With his heart beating an uncomfortable tattoo, he moved over to the nearest armchair and sat down. A quick glance at his father reassured him that the gentleman had fallen into the same trap as Benedict. He had begun sorting through his letters, and his attention was currently focused on the one in his hand.

Benedict broke the seal, withdrew a single piece of paper, and began to read. Gratitude swelled within him. Caroline had not walked away from him never to return. He reached the last line of her letter and could not restrain his smile. He glanced at the clock again. Was it too late for him to ride to the vicarage today? It was long past traditional visiting hours, but his longing to see Caroline was far greater than his desire to follow conventions.

He rose, and a shiver ran down his spine. What the deuce was the matter with him? An hour ago, he’d been so warm that he’d removed his jacket. His cravat was as loose as it could be without shedding it completely. And now he was cold. A low fire burned in the grate, just as it always did at this time of day. The weather outside appeared moderate.

“How do you find the room’s temperature, Father?” he asked.

His father looked up from his letter. “The temperature? Why, I am quite comfortable.” He paused, scrutinizing Benedict’s face more closely. “You, on the other hand, appear distinctly uncomfortable. Is that sweat on your brow?”

Was it? Benedict could hardly tell. One minute, he was hot, and the next, he was chilled. “I am beginning to wonder if I might be fighting a fever.”

“It certainly appears that way.” His father set his letter down, his expression grave. “Do you think you are suffering the effects of the vaccination?”

“Possibly.” It was unlikely to be anything else.

“Are you experiencing any other symptoms? What of your arm where the doctor scratched you?”

Benedict rolled up his sleeve. At the spot where Dr. Jenner had inserted his blade, a large blister had formed. He stared at it, taking a moment to assimilate what this meant. What he had done. “It appears that my body is fighting cowpox.”

His father’s jaw tensed. “You’d best take to your bed, son. I shall inform your mother that you will not be joining us for dinner.”

Benedict did not bother to argue. At that precise moment, returning to bed held enormous appeal. The only thing that sounded better was being with Caroline. Clutching her letter in one hand and taking up his jacket in the other, he started for the door. “I think that might be best,” he said. “Thank you, Father.”

Exiting the room, he walked directly to the stairs leading to the upper floor. He reached for the banister and missed. Shaking his head slightly, he homed his focus in on the wooden railing. The task would have been easier had there been only one of them floating before him. A shiver coursed through him, and his knees wavered.

“Stokes!”

The tap of the butler’s footsteps crossing the entrance hall echoed loudly in Benedict’s head.

“My lord?” Stokes had reached his side. He took Benedict’s arm, steadying him.

“It seems that I may need some assistance reaching my chambers,” Benedict mumbled.

“Of course, my lord.” Stokes’s arm came around him, and the floor appeared to tip. “Steady now.”

Benedict ran his tongue across his dry lips. “I fear steady is beyond me. I think we may have to settle for stumbling.”

“Stumbling it is, then,” Stokes said, guiding him up the first step. “Either way, we shall have you in bed directly, my lord.”

Chapter 29

Caroline stood at the window of her bedchamber, watching the sun rise over the Farwell Farm orchard. It had been four days since she had heard from Benedict, but it felt like four weeks. When she’d given Giles her letter, the cowman had suggested that Benedict might be back that evening. She’d hoped for a message every day since then, but nothing had come, and no amount of reading or chasing butterflies with Meg had been sufficient to set her mind at ease.

Of course, there was a chance that Benedict had simply been delayed in Gloucester, but Caroline’s treacherous thoughts continued to argue that he had not. She had expressed her pleasure at the prospect of his visiting, but she could not help but wonder if he had changed his mind about coming. Why would he spend any more time with a young lady who had been inexcusably rude to him? Then there was always the agonizing possibility that her letter had been misplaced and that he had never received it.

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, wishing it had the power to calm her thoughts and sooth her heart. But as much as she wished it otherwise, there was no escaping the likelihood that another horrible reason for Benedict’s ongoing silence existed. Given his exposure to smallpox at Mr. Rowe’s house and his visit to the very city where the steward had contracted the disease in the first place, it was entirely possible that he had become ill.

The rumble of wooden wheels reached her through the glass. Startled, she raised her head. Giles. At this time in the morning, it could hardly be anyone else. Hurriedly, she shed her nightgown and put on the clothing she’d worn the day before. Sliding her bare feet into her slippers, she tiptoed across the floor, exited the room, and flew down the stairs.

Pulling open the front door, Caroline stepped outside. Giles was on his way back down the path toward the wagon, the empty crock Nora had left on the doorstep in his hand.