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Chapter 22
Benedict stood in his father’s office, still wearing his working clothes. “I came here first,” he said, “to tell you of Rowe’s condition and to give you the books I found. But I must inform the men at the farm of the situation right away. It’s been over two days since Rowe dropped off his mount. If any of the stablehands are feeling unwell, we must isolate them immediately.”
Benedict’s father ran a hand across his face, his expression haggard. “I had concocted numerous ill-fated reasons for why Rowe had yet to appear in my office, but this—this disaster—trumps them all.”
“Agreed,” Benedict said. “But now that we know what we are dealing with, we must do all in our power to prevent the current scenario from becoming far worse.”
His father turned his back on the books Benedict had set on his desk. “You are sure this maid, Rachel, can manage?”
“Not at all,” Benedict said. “But I do believe she will use our prearranged signal to let us know if she needs assistance.”
“She’s a godsend.”
“Without a doubt,” Benedict agreed. “Unfortunately, she is convinced that she will not become ill simply because she’s been a milkmaid.”
“I see.”
Benedict paused. He’d expected far more reaction to Rachel’s ridiculous suggestion. “Father?”
“I’ve heard the claim before,” his father said.
“From milkmaids?”
“About milkmaids but from farmers.”
Benedict stared at him. “You believe there’s some truth to it?”
“I’m not sure what to believe,” his father said. “When your mother and I were in London, we attended a party at Lord Chesterville’s house. The subject of Lady Mary Wortley Montague’s campaign to have members of the royal family and nobility variolated against smallpox arose.”
“Her ladyship fought that battle years ago,” Benedict said. “And though variolation may have benefitted some, the practice does not promise full protection from smallpox. When those who are variolated become ill—no matter how mildly—they spread the disease to others. Not only that, but a significant number of variolated patients also die from the procedure.”
“True,” his father said. “But the issue of variolation is more complex than a debate between risk and benefit. What too many members of the nobility forget is that smallpox is no respecter of status. Variolation has experienced some popularity amongst the upper classes, but it has never been offered to those of the working class. Until a cure is available to all, we have no cure.”
“I concur,” Benedict said. “But as much as we all wish it were different, I fail to see how Rachel’s belief in a special protection offered to milkmaids will help. Even if there is any truth to it, there are even fewer milkmaids in the country than there are members of the nobility.”
For a moment, it seemed that his father might say more, but then he shook his head. “I daresay you are right. Regardless of how much I wish it were a real phenomenon, in the cold light of day, milkmaid immunity does seem a farfetched notion.”
“Would that it were true.”
“Wishing, hoping, praying. I have come to learn that those things have a great deal of power when one is confronted with supposedly farfetched notions.”
Benedict did not have to think hard to recognize the truth of his father’s words. He’d experienced it firsthand when he’d set out to turn Farwell Farm’s half dozen cows into a viable dairy. More recently, he had begun applying fervent wishing, hoping, and praying to his dream of having Caroline see him as someone more than her childhood friend’s older brother. “We may need to rely rather heavily on those principles for a while,” he said.
“Indeed. Along with sincere vigilance.” His father walked around the desk and dropped onto the chair. “Go now to let Giles and the stablehands know what we are facing. If there is any hint of smallpox anywhere on our property, I wish to be informed of it immediately.” He studied the books and papers before him grimly. “In the meantime, I shall make a start on these.”
* * *
“One minute more, Meg,” Caroline warned.
Meg looked up from the bucket of grain she and Giles were holding. “He’s almost finished.” The calf’s tail swished even as its head lowered farther into the pail. “You see? We cannot leave until he eats the very last bit.”
“Very well, but the moment the bucket is empty, we must go. We have taken up far too much of Mr. Giles’s day already.”
Caroline did not know exactly what time it was. She only knew that drawing Meg out of the cow barn was proving as difficult as removing her from the stables had been. Thankfully, John had seemed genuinely pleased to see Meg, and he’d been more than happy to saddle Ginger so Meg could ride the pony around and around the yard. It was likely that Ginger had had a far longer turn outside than normal, but it had been heartwarming to see Meg’s confidence increase with each circuit they’d made. Benedict would have been proud of her. The thought startled Caroline. And yet she knew it was accurate. Benedict genuinely cared about Meg. But was that enough? Caroline’s grip on the stall tightened. No matter what Benedict had told her in the closet, to believe that he would choose Caroline over all the elegant young ladies vying for his hand was senseless. Quite apart from her own failings and scarred appearance, she came with a four-year-old companion.
On the other side of the stall, the calf licked Meg’s hand, and she giggled. It was a light, happy sound that drew a chuckle from Giles. Caroline released the latch on the stall gate. “Come along, Meg. It’s past time for us to go. What do you say to Mr. Giles?”
“Thank you for helping me feed the calves, Mr. Giles,” Meg said.
