The Soldier (35 page)

His tone had been perfectly, utterly civil, musing even, but Emmie felt like Winnie had slapped her soundly and St. Just had followed up with a swift kick to the ribs.

Like my heart would never mend
, St. Just had said. Emmie watched through her back window, listening to the steady, solid
wump!
of the splitting ax cleaving seasoned logs, underscored by Winnie’s soft weeping from the parlor. She went to the child and put her arms around her.

“I’m sorry, Win,” Emmie said, meaning it like she’d never meant it before. “I’m sorry I’m running away.” Winnie nodded, wrapped her arms around Emmie’s neck, and cried harder.

***

Hadrian Bothwell loved a pretty snowfall. Here there was real beauty, and lots of it. He’d cadged a useful idea for the sermon from one of his confreres the previous week; in fact, he’d come home with a whole recipe box of homilies and traded off some his more popular efforts in exchange.

Which meant yesterday had been available for much-needed rest and even more-needed thought. He was to resolve his situation with Emmie Farnum today, and Rosecroft’s visit yesterday morning had plagued him unmercifully. He’d gone to bed falling back on that old chestnut of faith, that the way would be made clear if he just showed patience and attentiveness.

Here it was, though, Sunday morning, bright and early, and the way was no more clear than it had been a day ago.

So he took his rested self out on a morning constitutional, his most trusted means of organizing a sermon for presentation and one of his favorite pastimes. He got an early start because he had been such a sloth the day before, but also because he loved a fresh snowfall, and this one was perfect. There was probably six inches of soft, powdery snow blanketing the entire landscape. The sky was a brilliant blue, the rising sun casting everything in sharp, bright relief, and no one was about yet. It was a perfect morning for a walk in the woods. God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world.

***

“Eat something, Winnie,” Emmie pleaded. “You hardly had anything yesterday, and you’ll need energy if you’re to be out in this cold.”

“Scout kept me warm yesterday. I’m just not very hungry.”

Emmie’s gaze met St. Just’s, but he gave a slight shake of his head and reached for Winnie’s plate of eggs. The child wasn’t being manipulative, she was simply honestly upset.

“I’ll eat these, then,” St. Just said, “as they are very good, and even the Duke of Scout does not deserve something quite this tasty.”

Winnie frowned. “The Duke of Scout?”

“Every hour you were gone,” St. Just said between bites, “every hour he stayed with you and protected you and kept you warm, his title was elevated. He ought to be some kind of deity, but one doesn’t want to disrespect our regent.”

Winnie smiled faintly at this nonsense. “I could call him Your Grace, just like Rose’s grandpapa.”

“Like Rose’s grandpapa, indeed.” St. Just arched an eyebrow. “But if you’re not going to eat breakfast, Win, you need to finish getting dressed and bundle up. It looks warmer outside than it is, with all that bright sunshine.”

Emmie came over and cleared Winnie’s tea mug.

“You have some old clothes up in your bedroom, Winnie. Wear at least two sets of leggings and a sweater, if you can find one.” Winnie disappeared up the steps, Scout trotting along at her heels, oblivious to his newly acquired consequence.

“I’d better bundle up, as well.” St. Just rose and brought his empty plates to the sink. “Are my clothes still in the parlor?”

“I’ll get them,” Emmie said. “Have another cup of tea.”

He did, for no reason other than to comply with her order. She brought his waistcoat and cloak to him, both warm and stiff from being near the fire for so long.

“I also found these in your pocket,” Emmie said, passing him some folded papers. “I took them out so the damp wouldn’t get to them. They seem all right.” St. Just paused as he was buttoning up his waistcoat and recognized three of his mother’s letters.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the letters. “Those are of sentimental importance to me, and I would have missed them.” He should make copies of the entire lot for safekeeping—something to occupy him while he was missing Emmie.

“I’ll see what’s keeping Winnie,” Emmie said as she watched him closing the fastenings of his heavy cape.

He frowned at her retreating back and looked at the letters where they sat on her wooden table. Something was stirring in the back of his mind, just as it used to stir when he was about to figure out how to dodge murderously stupid orders from a pompous general. The best solutions often came to him that way, emerging whole from below his awareness rather than approaching by steady steps of reason and calculation.

His gaze switched to the letters, which sat right in the shaft of a bright winter sunbeam. The letters…

“Oh, ye gods…” he murmured, but not ye gods, ye
mothers
. His mother, Kathleen, and his mother, Her Grace, had given him one last round of very heavy artillery indeed, and he was going to fire it broadside at Emmie’s heart, even as she thought he was making his final retreat. He resisted the urge to trot up the stairs to see what was keeping the ladies and sat down to read the letters instead.

Both ladies were fairly composed when they gained the kitchen, but Emmie looked unnerved to see both St. Just and Winnie dressed to leave.

“Where’s His Highness, Win?” St. Just asked.

“Scout!” Winnie hailed the dog from the far reaches of the house. “He’s here,” she said unnecessarily when Scout was panting at her side.

“So he is. Why don’t you let him out to romp for a minute while I go find something to use for a bridle on Caesar? I’ll meet you in the stables.”

“C’mon, Scout.” Winnie snapped her fingers and headed for the door.

“Let her go,” St. Just murmured in a low voice. “This is not the last time you’ll see her, and she’s trying to stay composed as it is.” Emmie glanced at him sharply, for he’d allowed something almost fierce in his tone, but she didn’t argue. “No need to come to the stables, Em,” he said, moving toward the back door. “I’ll ride us over on Caesar and send Stevens for the gig when the roads are more passable. Thank you.” He paused and smiled down at her, “for everything.”

She accepted his hug but did not move to kiss him.

“Those letters you found?” he said as he stepped back. “I don’t want to risk them falling in the snow, as they are precious. I’d like to leave them here for the present.”

“Of course.” Emmie murmured, her eyes huge and conveying some nameless desperation. The barking of the dog and happy shrieks of his owner only underscored the heartache of the moment.

“But I have a favor to ask, Emmie Farnum.”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“Read those letters. There are only three, and you can send them back with Stevens later, but read them before your vicar comes a-courting, please?”

She blinked, and he could tell he’d surprised her. She’d no doubt been expecting him to ask that she write to Winnie, or possibly to him, that she not give away his apple tart recipe, but not… this.

“I promise,” she said, walking to the back door with him.

“Don’t come out here,” he warned as he gained the porch. “It’s damned cold, and you were out in nasty weather yester—”

But she was plastered against him anyway, hugging him as if her heart would break, as if it had broken and would never, ever mend.

“Good-bye, Emmie,” St. Just said, giving her one last answering squeeze then stepping back. “Read the letters. You promised.”

She nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Inside with you now,” he said gently. “Winnie will see you crying and then I’ll start crying and Scout will howl and Winnie will know we’re daft.” She smiled at him brokenly, whirled, and fled back to the warmth of the house.

Scout came bounding up the porch steps, obviously pleased with the snow, while Winnie trudged along more slowly.

“Emmie was crying again, wasn’t she?” Winnie said in a tired old voice.

“She was, a little.” They crossed the yard in silence, Scout snuffling in the snow after some scent or other.

“Rosecroft?” Winnie called over her shoulder as she fed a carrot to Herodotus in his back stall.

“Yes?” He sorted through the gear in Emmie’s stable and found a serviceable old bridle as well as some grooming equipment.

“Yesterday, did you cry so hard your stomach hurt?” Winnie asked as she broke off part of the carrot for the mule then took a bite for herself.

“I did,” he said, watching her pet the mule. “I cried like a motherless child.”

“It’s stupid,” Winnie said, giving the mule one last pat on his shoulder, “getting that upset when it doesn’t change anything. I’m not doing it again.”

“Me neither, until next time.”

“What does that mean?” Winnie frowned and fed the last bite of carrot to Caesar where he stood in the cross ties.

“It means, if something were to happen to you today, Winnie Farnum, I would probably cry that hard again, or at least hurt that much. If something happened to His Highness, you would be just as upset. You can’t tell your heart what to do or how to feel. If you love somebody, then you can hurt for them.”

“So you love Miss Emmie?”

“I most assuredly do, and I love you, too.”

Winnie was silent for a long moment, stroking Caesar’s muscular shoulder. “Are we going to visit Rose in the spring?”

“We well might. Your new cousin is due to be born then, and Rose will cut me completely if I do not introduce the two of you posthaste.”

“Do you think Scout would like to live in Surrey?”

“He might. Why?” St. Just straightened and reached for the bridle.

“Rose might want a dog. He’d be happier with her.”

***

There was something chilling in the way Winnie casually considered giving away her beloved pet, and Hadrian Bothwell’s own stomach was getting a little unsettled at what he’d overheard. After ambling through the woods, he thought he’d stop by and pay his respects to Emmie’s mule, a creature he considered a wise, thoughtful sort of animal, one who might bring a little wisdom to weighty matters on a vicar’s mind.

But as he slipped from the woods, Bothwell had seen Emmie and Rosecroft come out onto her back porch. She was barely dressed, but he was obviously ready to travel.

What was the man doing in Emmie’s kitchen at this indecent hour? Bothwell stored that question away, determined to believe there was an innocent explanation. The earl could not have spent the night under the same roof as Emmie, not when there were only a few inches of snow on the ground and he lived the very next property over. Still, the uneasy feeling escalated to an ache when Bothwell noticed there was not one human track marring Emmie’s entire yard beyond her wood box. Unless the earl had flown onto the roof and come down the chimney, he’d arrived yesterday evening before the snow started.

But then, God help him, Hadrian had seen Emmie’s face as she’d hugged St. Just good-bye. It was only that—a hug, no torrid kiss or prolonged embrace, but her face…

St. Just had spent the night, that much was obvious, but he wouldn’t be spending any more; that was the first thing Bothwell had concluded from Emmie’s expression. The next thing anybody with eyes could have seen was that Emmie loved the man, and in the protective posture of his body around hers, St. Just cared for her, as well.

This was not good news, reminding Bothwell strongly he’d prayed for guidance, and as usual, when he allowed himself specific requests of The Almighty, the answer was not necessarily what he’d expected.

So he’d retreated behind the stables, only to hear Winnie’s piping soprano coming across the yard, talking about everybody crying so hard their stomachs hurt, and St. Just’s calm answers, his matter-of-fact declarations that he loved Emmie and Winnie, just like that.

There was a soul-deep conviction in the man’s words. A solid,
knowing
quality when he spoke of loving, as if he knew his love was permanent, a part of him for all time. Bothwell was honest enough to admit he hadn’t loved his own wife that way, God help him, though he might be able to say he loved his brother in such a fashion.

And as he slipped away between the trees, he kept hearing St. Just’s self-deprecating comparison: “I cried like a motherless child.”

Well. A motherless child, indeed.

That was guidance, if ever guidance there was. If there’d been doubt in his mind before about the wisdom of keeping the Farnum ladies under the same roof, there was only certainty now.

***

St. Just vaulted onto Caesar’s furry back and extended a hand down to Winnie. She grabbed onto his wrist and was soon perched behind the horse’s withers, her gloved hands grabbing fistfuls of mane. They rode home through the sharp, sunny daybreak in silence, walking Caesar right into the stable yard before Stevens even knew they’d returned.

“Morning, your lordship.” Stevens handed Winnie down. “Morning, Miss Winnie-Where-Did-You-Go?”