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Meg kept her arms wrapped around the tin, but her feet gave a hop of excitement. “I can be your helper.”

“Exactly right.” Nora gave Caroline a meaningful look. “Go on upstairs an’ rest. I’ll watch the little one.”

“Thank you, Nora.” Gratitude for the woman’s perceptiveness curbed Caroline’s frustration that her energy was so lacking. “I won’t stay up there for long.”

“Take all the time you need.” Nora opened the kitchen door that led into the back garden.

“Be a good girl for Nora, Meg,” Caroline said.

“Yes, Mama,” Meg said and skipped outside without a backward glance.

Rising slowly, Caroline left her half-finished cup of tea on the table and made her way down the passage and up the stairs.

The first door on the right led to her bedchamber. It was the same bedchamber she’d used as a child. The crack that had formed in the corner of the mirror when it had fallen off the wall after she’d closed the door too hard as an exuberant youngster was still there. So, too, was the old rocking chair, with its faded blue cushion, and the painting of an elegant young lady sitting in a flower garden hanging above the bed. And yet, notwithstanding its familiarity, the room seemed smaller than it had before. Smaller and emptier.

She glanced at the trunk lying at the end of the bed. Nora had helped unload her gowns the day after she’d arrived, but the handful of small items she’d brought with her from her home in Portsmouth remained within. Perhaps, when she’d set out a few books, the cut-glass vase Fred had given her, and her small wooden jewelry box, the bedchamber would feel more welcoming.

Lowering herself onto the side of the bed, she studied the reflection looking back at her from the mirror above her chest of drawers. A cluster of indentations ran along the length of her left cheek bone. From a distance, they could perhaps be mistaken for dimples. On her right side, however, the damaged skin began on her upper neck, followed her jaw toward her ear, and curved around the outer portion of her eye until it touched her forehead.

Even though the sight of her severely scarred face no longer reduced her to tears, an aching sorrow for what she had lost still lingered. Never again would she know porcelain-smooth skin or what it was to meet a stranger’s eyes without bracing for a negative response. It had been five weeks since she’d first ventured out of her sick room, but other than when she was with Meg, her father, or Nora, she had learned to keep her face covered. Her smallpox-ravaged body inevitably engendered gasps of shock or expressions of pity from those who caught a glimpse of her appearance beneath her wide-brimmed bonnets and veils.

She turned away from the painful image, even as she recognized the gift it was to view it. The zest for life that had previously shone so brightly in her blue eyes was gone, snuffed out by fever and suffering. But she could yet see. She could read a book, gaze on a beautiful sunset or flower, recognize those she knew and loved, catch Meg’s guileless expressions and watch her grow. And that was a blessing she counted every day. So many of those who survived the dreaded plague lost their eyesight in the process.

Smoothing her blemished hand across the pale-green counterpane, she slid farther onto the bed. God willing, now that she was back at the vicarage, perhaps she would receive sufficient food and rest for her full strength to finally return. And if she rested for a little while this afternoon, she might have the energy to help bathe Meg this evening.

* * *

Freshly bathed and wearing the clothing befitting his station, Benedict stood in his father’s office, his hands behind his back, his attention on the ledger lying open on the large wooden desk before him. Parliamentary affairs had kept his father in London longer than usual this year, and it had fallen to Benedict to meet with their steward in his stead. Usually, Phineas Rowe stopped by to receive approval for such things as the hiring of a new servant or the replacement of a carriage wheel. This time, it was the weightier matter of reviewing the farmland’s overall assets and deficits.

“We have been waiting weeks,” Benedict said, “and you have yet to acquire any saplings to replace the apple trees we lost?”

“That is correct, my lord.” Rowe’s feet shifted slightly, but he met Benedict’s eyes without wavering. “As we were not the only ones to lose a goodly portion of our orchard, it goes without saying that we are not the only ones seeking replacement trees.”

“I’m well aware of that, Rowe.” Benedict was digging deep for patience. His lack of sleep was not helping. “But the devastating conditions occurred over a year ago. I have spoken to Lord Dunsbourne multiple times in the intervening months. The losses he experienced in his orchard were even greater than ours, and yet, by all accounts, he has managed to replace almost all his damaged trees. If that is true—and I have no reason to doubt Henry’s brother-in-law—how is it that we cannot round up under a dozen apple saplings?”

“I shall continue making inquiries, my lord.”

Benedict released a tight breath. Rowe’s meager offer was hardly reassuring. The fellow was a trained solicitor. Surely he had the wherewithal to broker an agreement with those selling saplings to other orchards.

“Those inquiries will need to be made and acted upon with haste,” Benedict said. “Already, the optimal time for transplanting trees is behind us. If we wait until the summer heat is here, our chances of success will drop considerably. To go two years with a significant loss of income from the orchards is bad enough. We cannot afford to extend the shortfall.”

“I shall send out more letters first thing in the morning, my lord.”

“Very well.” Benedict did not bother adding that he, too, would be writing a letter. Dunsbourne had been more than helpful in the past, and Benedict had no reason to believe that anything had changed. Especially as the baron was fully aware that the Farwell orchard had only just reached the point of producing a sizeable volume of apples when the 1794 drought hit. It had been the worst possible timing, particularly because the drought had been followed by a long winter with the coldest temperatures on record. Already under stress, it was hardly surprising that the young tree roots had been unable to cope with the water-logged soil that had come after weeks of spring flooding. Unexpected or not, losing so many trees at once had been disheartening.

“What of the wheat crop?” Benedict asked. “Do you have better news for me there?”

“Yes, my lord. The autumn wheat looks to be coming along nicely. The spring wheat may suffer a little from the excess rain we’ve had these last few weeks, but the farm laborers remain hopeful that only a small portion of the seed will have been lost.”

Benedict experienced a measure of relief. The apple trees were a sound investment in the future, but the wheat crop was a necessity to keep their tenants alive.

“There will be no shortage of demand for the wheat, Rowe,” he said. “Weather willing, a plentiful harvest must be our priority.”

“I have already received more wheat orders than we can possibly furnish,” Rowe said.

Benedict frowned. The need for additional wheat flour in the country had prompted him to plant double the acreage he’d planted before. It was a step in the right direction but not nearly enough to help everyone. “The tenants must be our priority,” he said, “followed by the local villagers.” He glanced at the tidy row of numbers lining one side of the nearest page. The high cost of seed had been a deterrent for many farmers, and yet without an ample supply of wheat this year, the number of people going hungry would multiply. “I wish to be informed of the going price for a sack of wheat during the weeks preceding and immediately after harvest.”

“Of course, my lord.”