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“He is a physician who believes a vaccination of fluid from a cowpox blister gives a person protection against smallpox,” his father said.
Benedict did nothing to hide his surprise. “You know of his work?”
“I do. It is quite intriguing.”
“I believe he may be onto something,” Benedict said. “We have our own example of the efficacy of having had cowpox when exposed to smallpox with Rowe’s maid, Rachel. To the best of my knowledge, she remains healthy.”
“You cannot believe such a thing based on one person’s experience, Benedict,” his mother said.
“Agreed. But Dr. Jenner has conducted multiple trials, and the results are remarkable.” He paused, bracing himself for his mother’s reaction to what must come next. “After speaking with the gentleman yesterday, I decided to submit to the vaccination myself.”
His mother paled. “Tell me you are jesting,” she said.
“I cannot.”
“Charles, say something!”
“What did Jenner say you might expect by way of symptoms?” his father asked.
“That is not what I meant!” his mother cried. “Did you not hear that your son and heir has willingly subjected himself to some kind of medical quackery?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Benedict said. “Rather, I listened to a trained physician who has developed what is likely to become a cure for one of the worst diseases this country has ever known. I pray that I am never exposed to smallpox, but now that I have been vaccinated, I truly believe that my chance of avoiding the illness is remarkably high.”
“If you do not die from the vaccination first.” His mother had yet to regain the color in her face.
“Vaccination is not variolation, Mother. I may develop some blisters and a fever, but they will last only a couple of days, and then I shall be well again.”
“I believe Benedict is right, my dear.” His father moved closer and placed a reassuring arm around her. “I know a little of Jenner’s work. It is early days yet, but already, he has significant proof of success.”
“But if he is wrong . . .”
“Consider what it means if he is right, Mother.”
Benedict’s father squeezed his mother tightly. “He has a point, you know.”
“Why am I forever surrounded by logically minded men?” his mother asked. “For once, I should like an emotionally driven female to console me.”
“I would suggest that you speak to Caroline,” Benedict said, “but after what she has endured, I believe she is likely to side with the doctor seeking a cure.” His mother’s shoulders dropped in defeat, and Benedict experienced a pang of guilt. “I did not mean to worry you, Mother.”
“That may be,” she said. “But I shall worry regardless. It is a mother’s prerogative.”
He smiled. “And I shall continue to do something you consider extremely foolish at least once or twice a year because that is a son’s prerogative.”
“Begging your pardon, my lords and lady.” Stokes spoke from the doorway. “I would not have interrupted your breakfast, but Mr. Rowe’s maid, Rachel, is here, and she claims she must speak with you right away.” He shifted his feet, looking more ruffled than Benedict had ever seen him. “She won’t tell me what it’s about, but she’s in rather a flap.”
“Oh dear.” Benedict’s mother lowered herself onto the nearest chair. “Perhaps I should go back to bed and start this day again.”
His father set a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Send her in, Stokes.”
The butler disappeared only to reappear a moment later with Rachel in tow. Her bonnet was slightly askew, and if her heavy breathing was any indication, she had been running for some time. She dropped into a curtsy, and as she rose, she set two small burlap bags on the table.
“I didn’t mean t’ pry, but then I saw what these were, an’ I knew I couldn’t just leave ’em in th’ ’ole.” She wrung her hands together. “I brought ’em ’ere as fast as I could, m’lords.”
Benedict’s gaze shifted from Rachel’s stricken face to the unexceptional bags.
“That will be all, Stokes,” his father said. “Thank you.”
The butler bowed and left the room. Grateful for his father’s discretion, Benedict moved to the door and closed it. “Please be seated, Rachel,” he said.
