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“And now Phineas is gone.” Mrs. Blyton’s tears began anew.

“I wish it were otherwise,” Benedict said. “He was obviously a devoted brother.” Certainly more devoted in that regard than he had been as a steward.

“The very best.” She sniffled.

“He was that,” Mr. Blyton agreed. “He had a remarkable head for business and understood the importance of preparing for the future better than anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

His own future, perhaps. But not, it seemed, the future of the Farwell Estate. Benedict fought to maintain a calm exterior even as he inwardly seethed. Rowe had most certainly shown generosity to his suffering family members, but Benedict could not bring himself to join in their adulation of the man. If the steward had been honest with him and his father, they likely would have stepped in to help the Blytons. As it was, Rowe had chosen a path of deception and theft. No matter the reason, it was a course Benedict could not condone.

It appeared that the Blytons were innocent of Rowe’s financial manipulation, but that did nothing to ease Benedict’s own family’s grim situation. Or, come to that, the dire shortage of flour in Leyfield. Attempting to push past his personal grievance with Rowe, Benedict focused on what must be done for those in his community. Until his father heard from the bank, he had no way of knowing if the funds existed to purchase flour for the local shop, but he’d pledged to do it. If worse came to worst, he would sell some of his cattle to settle the bill.

“Does your mill have flour for sale at present?” he asked.

“We do, m’lord,” Mr. Blyton said. “But we are down to our last ten sacks.”

“I wish to purchase them.”

“All of them, m’lord?”

“Yes. At your lowest possible price, if you please.”

There would be no paying inflated amounts on this purchase. Benedict’s goodwill toward Rowe’s family was stretched dangerously thin already.

Mr. Blyton gave an accepting nod. “Of course, Lord Benning.”

“I wish to have them delivered to Mr. Wallace’s shop in Leyfield.”

“Mr. Wallace’s shop in Leyfield,” Mr. Blyton repeated, giving no outward indication of surprise at the assigned destination. “I shall see that the sacks leave the mill first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, sir.” Benedict rose to his feet. “Please send the bill to Farwell Hall.” All being well, by the time it arrived, he would know what he would be forced to do to pay it.

Mrs. Blyton had also risen. Mr. Blyton must have heard the movement because he followed suit.

“I shall leave you now so that you may have the opportunity to grieve in private,” Benedict said. “I appreciate you welcoming me into your home. I will share with my father the insights you have given me with regard to how important you all were to Mr. Rowe.”

“Given the heaviness of the task, it was very good of you to take it upon yourself to come, m’lord,” Mr. Blyton said. “I am glad of the opportunity to personally thank you for sending us your grain those many months ago.”

“I am pleased that it offered you the assistance you needed,” Benedict said. “I am also happy to hear that you have other farmers planning on using your mill this year. I have promised the Farwell Farm’s fall harvest to the miller in Leyfield. He finds himself in a position not far removed from the one you were in last year.”

“Then we wish him well,” Mr. Blyton said.

Benedict inclined his head. “I daresay we shall all be praying for a good harvest and sufficient wheat and flour for everyone.”

The clatter of feet and boys’ voices came from somewhere upstairs, and Benedict assumed that it would not be long before the younger members of the family made their appearance.

Mrs. Blyton must have thought the same because she led the way out of the parlor to the front door. “Thank you for coming, m’lord.” Her eyes were red, but for now, her tears had stopped.

“Good day, Mrs. Blyton,” Benedict said. “Someone at Farwell Hall will send word regarding Mr. Rowe’s personal effects very soon.”

She bobbed a curtsy before opening the door, and Benedict exited the house.

Chapter 27

The sun had risen, and the blackbirds and wrens were already singing their first songs of the morning. Caroline slipped out of bed and tiptoed across her bedchamber toward the small desk near the window. Beneath the bed covers, Meg stirred. Caroline stood still, waiting. Sure enough, moments later, Meg’s even breathing resumed. Continuing to the desk, Caroline picked up the piece of paper lying beside the quill and ink. She had written the letter soon after receiving Benedict’s the day before, but she wanted to read it one more time before handing it to Giles for delivery.

Shifting so she could hold the paper up to the sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains, she reviewed the words she’d penned.

The Vicarage,