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“Very good, my lady.” With a polite nod, the housekeeper slipped out of the room and disappeared down the passage.
Caroline followed Lady Farwell into the room. Heavy, maroon velvet curtains hung at the windows. Someone—Mrs. Abbot, Caroline presumed—had opened them a fraction so that enough light entered for her to make out the elegant tallboy and chest of drawers on one side of the room and a writing desk and chair on the other. Two large pastoral paintings hung on the wall. Caroline guessed they were scenes from the Farwell Estate. A fire burned in the grate, and the room felt overly warm.
Tugging at the ribbons beneath her chin, Caroline removed her bonnet, gloves, and shawl and set them on the writing desk as Lady Farwell approached the bed.
“Benedict.” Her ladyship spoke softly. “You have a visitor.”
The bedclothes rustled. “I have no need of the doctor, Mother. A day or two more and I shall be well again.”
“That is my hope also,” she said, “but in the meantime, I thought you might like to see Caroline.”
For a fraction of a second, the air in the room hung still.
“Did you say that Caroline is here?”
“Yes, dear.”
The bed creaked. Caroline waited, her heart pounding.
“Caroline?” Benedict’s voice held the same hesitation that she was experiencing.
“Go to him, dear.” Lady Farwell moved away from the bed. “I shall sit beside the writing desk should either of you need me.”
Caroline stepped closer. Maroon-and-white damask brocade hung from the corners of the four-poster bed. The rumpled bedspread was a maroon-and-gray jacquard pattern, and several white pillows had been stacked against the headboard. Benedict was sitting up, leaning against the pillows. His dark hair fell loose to his collar. He wore a nightshirt, open low enough at the neck to expose a portion of his chest. His arms lay across the bedcovers, and though the light was poor, she could make out the blisters, red and angry upon his skin.
Tears pricked her eyes. “Oh, Benedict.” Her voice broke. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed beside him and gently touched his damaged hand. “What were you thinking?”
“Truthfully?” His fingers moved to capture hers. “I was thinking of you.” His eyes shone with the slightly glassy look of someone fighting a fever.
“That makes no sense. Surely you know that this illness is the very last thing I would wish upon you.”
“Not this illness, Caroline. I am battling cowpox. You see the blisters on my hands and arms, but there are none on my face or neck. Already, my fever has lowered, and just as all the milkmaids before me have done, I shall put the illness behind me with limited scarring.” He held her gaze. “After I am fully recovered, you will never again have need to dread losing me to smallpox.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.” Surely something so incredible could not be true.
“Dr. Jenner—the gentleman who administered the cowpox vaccine to me—has made a study of the connection between cowpox and smallpox and has discovered that when a person has battled the lesser illness, he or she becomes immune to the more deadly one. It is manifest every day in the milkmaids who have been protected from the plague.”
“Such as Mr. Rowe’s maid.”
“Yes. Rachel’s seemingly miraculous escape from the illness further persuaded me that Dr. Jenner’s findings have merit.” Weariness hung over him, but he had yet to drop his gaze. “My insensitivity to your feelings when I told you of Mr. Rowe’s condition was unpardonable. You trusted me with details surrounding your own very personal and harrowing experience with smallpox, and I broke that trust by rekindling horrific memories and fears with my lack of thought and tactless delivery of the news. I am deeply sorry. If I can ever do anything that will help relieve your fears, Caroline, I will do it.” His smile was weak but sincere. “Unlike cowpox, I have determined that thinking of you above anyone or anything else is an all-pervading condition from which I have no hope of recovering.”
“Benedict,” she whispered, fighting her tears. He still held her hand, but she ached for more. She yearned to be in his arms, wanted his kisses. But this was not the time nor the place. “It is I who must apologize to you for reacting so poorly that day. My words were harsh, my accusations unjust. I do not deserve you.”
He groaned, and pulling himself upright, he raised their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a light kiss to her fingers. “If you truly believe that, then we are equally matched, my love.” For a brief moment, an impish light shone through the glaze in his eyes. “Although I am certain I shall never attain your degree of goodness and bravery, I take comfort in believing that in the future, if I practice well, I may consistently best you in toy sailboat racing.”
Caroline’s soft laughter filled the room. “I have no doubt Meg will encourage you in that endeavor.”
Benedict smiled. “Tell me about Meg. Is she well?”
“She has become Nora’s special helper in the house and has become quite adept at forming knotted bread rolls that look remarkably like snails. She continues to collect dandelions whenever we are in the garden but misses our rambles to the farm.” Caroline paused. “She asks about you every day and has not hopped or skipped much since she saw you last.”
This time, when Benedict smiled, she recognized the fatigue behind it. “Tell her that as soon as I am well enough, I shall ride to the vicarage to see her.”
“I will, and you may be sure she will be watching for you.” Caroline slid her hand free from his. “We both will. But now, you must rest.”
He leaned back against his pillows, his lack of disagreement further proof of his exhaustion. “Thank you for coming, Caroline.”
“If you need me, send someone, and I shall come.” She rose from the bed, and before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned over and brushed his forehead with her lips.
