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“I will speak with Giles about it myself,” he said.

Rowe accepted his response with a slight nod. “As you wish, my lord.”

They were approaching the stables, and one of the stableboys came running out to meet them.

“Have you had any success locating more fruit trees?” Benedict asked.

“Not yet.” Rowe dismounted and offered his reins to the waiting lad. “At this point, it may be wiser to wait until autumn to plant.”

If they waited until autumn, it would set them back another season before the trees began producing well. He’d been somewhat surprised that he’d heard nothing from Dunsbourne after sending him a personal note, but if Rowe was correct about the shortage of saplings, perhaps the baron had no information to share.

“Continue making inquiries. If we have nothing to plant by the end of the month, we will wait. But if the scarcity is as bad as you believe, we should place an order now for autumn. I do not wish to be in this same predicament then.”

“I shall see to it before day’s end.”

Rowe appeared confident. Benedict wished he felt the same. A broken stanchion, a cowpox infection, and no replacement fruit trees. There were times when navigating the exhausting social whirl in London seemed less taxing than directing the basic affairs of a country estate.

Benedict dismounted and handed his reins to the stableboy. “Thank you, Tim.”

“Yer welcome, m’lord. Mr. Rowe.” And with a nod and a tentative smile, he led the two horses into the stable.

“I must speak with Giles,” Benedict said. “I imagine he’s with the calves at present, so I shall meet you in the parlor momentarily. I wish to take a look at the stanchion myself.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Benedict made straight for the barn. “Giles!” he called as he entered.

“Over ’ere, m’lord.” Giles appeared carrying a bucket.

“Why did you not tell me that we have a dozen cows with cowpox?”

Giles set down the bucket, and with a puzzled expression, he wiped his jacket sleeve across his forehead. “Mr. Rowe said ’e wus goin’ t’ tell ya. I figured since ya made no mention of it, ya weren’t too worried.”

“Cowpox is always a concern.”

“Agreed,” Giles said. “But Mr. Rowe seemed t’ think we ’ad it in ’and.”

“Do you think we have it in hand?” Benedict had far more faith in his seasoned cowman than in the city-born steward.

Giles shrugged. “There’s been no new cases in five days. I’m takin’ that as a good sign.”

“What of the milkmaids?”

“There’s four o’ them that went down with th’ blisters,” Giles said. “A couple o’ them were feverish fer a day or two, but last I ’eard, they’re all improvin’.”

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief. “Keep me informed, will you? Particularly if any of them unexpectedly worsens.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“From now on, along with getting word to Mr. Rowe, I wish you to personally inform me if there’s ever any problem with the cows.”

“Well, in that case . . .” Giles scratched his head and offered Benedict an apologetic look. “It’s not the cows exactly, but we ’ave a broken stanchion in th’ parlor.”

Benedict managed a rueful smile. He’d asked, and Giles had accommodated him. “So I understand. I’m heading over there now.”

Giles nodded his approval. “I’ll come with ya. It’ll save me tryin’ t’ explain th’ problem.”

Chapter 6