“I’m not going to sit in your kitchen sipping tea,” Emmie said, chin rising belligerently. “Not while you stumble around in those woods until you’re lost, too.”
“I know where the pond is, Emmie,” St. Just said as calmly as he could. He pulled a lantern off the wall and checked to see it had oil.
“You don’t know those woods as well as I do,” Emmie shot back. “And there’s no moon, and, Devlin, I can’t just do nothing. This is my fault…”
“It is not your fault,” St. Just replied more sharply than he’d intended. He lit a taper from the stove and used it to light the lantern. “The child has wandered before, Emmie, but as God is my witness, she will not wander again. Please go with Val.”
“I will not,” Emmie replied, crossing her arms and reminding St. Just strongly of the little girl they were so worried about.
“Very well,” he conceded, unwilling to waste more time arguing, particularly when Emmie was right. “Val, get you back to Rosecroft, on foot if you’d rather not spend time hitching up Caesar. Emmie, have you a firearm?”
“I have an old horse pistol. Why?”
“So I can signal if we find her. Val, two shots, spaced well apart. Keep somebody posted outside so they can acknowledge with the same sign. You’ll find the key to my gun cabinet in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
“Two shots,” Val said, “spaced well apart. You’ve got a good half-dozen horses that can be saddled, and men set to searching. Shall I get that under way?”
St. Just shook his head. “Not yet. With the leaf carpet still thick in the woods, tracking her will be difficult enough without a half-dozen horses tromping all sign underfoot. Let’s see what Emmie and I find first, but one shot will mean organize the search party. Acknowledge that with return fire, as well.”
“Got it,” Val said, leaning in to kiss Emmie. “We’ll find her, Em. The entire house is praying for her safety, and she does have the dog.”
“Right. Sir Scout. Thank God for that.”
“Baron Scout,” St. Just corrected her, pulling her toward the back hall with one hand, lantern in the other. “But after this, I’ll give the damned dog my bloody earldom if he can keep that child safe. Bundle up. It’s colder than hell out, and I suspect it could start snowing at any moment.”
“Not snow,” Emmie murmured, donning the second of two cloaks, gloves, and a scarf that covered her ears as well as her mouth.
“We’ll find her,” St. Just said as they struck out across the backyard, “and when we do, we’ll take turns hugging her and spanking her.”
Emmie said nothing, though they both knew if Winnie drowned, she’d require laying out, not spanking.
“We’ll find her,” St. Just said again. “You pray, we’ll keep walking, and she’ll turn up, Em.”
St. Just moved cautiously, for the ground was littered with wet rocks now sporting a coat of ice and wet leaves, ready to trip the unwary. Soon enough, they were staring at the patch of blackness that was the pond, once a place of such sunny pleasures, full of memories for both of them, now more ominous than a graveyard.
“She’s not here,” Emmie said miserably, “unless she’s in there.” She nodded toward the fathomless darkness of the water.
***
Winnie’s teeth were chattering, her fingers and toes were numb, and she’d long since eaten the stale rolls and butter she’d pilfered for her and Scout. Scout’s usual cheerfully bewildered expression had turned to Winnie gently reproachful, and Herodotus looked downright disdainful as he munched his hay in complete indifference to his guests.
“You almost gave us away,” Winnie huffed at the mule. It had been a near thing when Rosecroft had come bustling into the little stable. Winnie had barely pulled Scout out the back door before the earl had led Caesar to the spare stall. Caesar had known there was somebody behind the barn, but it was Herodotus who’d craned his runty neck over the door and practically pointed the way Winnie and Scout had gone.
“At least you kept quiet.” Winnie patted Scout, who was wonderfully warm though not the most pleasingly fragrant source of heat. “But, Scout, what are we going to do? I ran away as long as I’ve run away since forever, and Miss Emmie still left Rosecroft.”
The good baron reserved comment, but his ears pricked up, alerting Winnie to voices coming across the backyard. She put a cautionary hand over Scout’s nose—his cold, slimy, wet nose—and strained her ears to hear.
“We’ll find her,” St. Just growled, but the rest of his words were swallowed by the cold, dark night as they headed into the woods.
“Well, good,” Winnie whispered to her dog. “They should be looking for me. Maybe we’ll move to Surrey and live with Rose and Lord Amery. He would talk some sense into Miss Emmie, and maybe even Rosecroft.”
But for now, it was too cold to think of launching that great adventure. Winnie was hungry, cold, thirsty, and she had to pee something fierce but was loathe to expose enough of herself to the cold air to get that job done.
“Come on, Scout.” She crept out of the stables. “They won’t think to look right where they’ve just left, and by morning, the whole parish will know what a nodcock Miss Emmie is. Vicar won’t marry her if she insists on staying with us, and that’s exactly what she should do if she doesn’t want to spend more nights stomping around with Rosecroft in the woods.”
Brave words, but they did not seem to impress the fragrant baron. Winnie let them into the house through the back door, stealing into the warm kitchen with a real sense of relief. It had been getting too cold out—much too cold.
“Come on, Scout.” Winnie motioned to the dog. “There’s a fire in the parlor, too.” She rummaged in the kitchen, which had been well provisioned in anticipation of Emmie’s return, and buttered more rolls, fresh ones this time. Scout chomped his out of existence in two bites, but Winnie had to wash hers down with cold milk.
Within minutes, Winnie was fast asleep, her faithful hound steaming contentedly before the hearth, her dreams sweet.
***
“She was here.” St. Just knelt in the leaves and bracken and mud, and held the lantern close to the ground. He carefully, step-by-step, examined the entire perimeter of the pond then rose. “She might have fallen in from that rock.” He pointed at the place Emmie had knelt to wash her hair months ago. “But other than that, there’s no place on the bank that looks like she might have slipped in. The tracks head off in that direction.” He gestured toward Emmie’s yard. “But I lose the trail in the leaves.”
“So what next?” Emmie stared at the water as if she expected answers from it.
“We fire one shot off that horse pistol,” St. Just said, taking her hand and tugging her in the direction of the cottage. “If you have some food, I could use something in the way of tucker, but it looks like it will be a long, cold night.”
When they reached the cozy warmth of the kitchen, Emmie tried to unfasten the ties of her cloaks, but when he saw her hands were too clumsy with cold, St. Just pushed her fingers aside and did it himself, leaving the cloaks draped around her shoulders. He then pulled off her gloves and chafed her hands between his.
“How can you possibly be so warm?” Emmie asked, submitting to his tending without protest.
“Sheer size is part of it. I’m like those draft horses, with enough meat and muscle the cold doesn’t slow me down as badly, at least for a time. Tell me where that pistol of yours is, and I’ll get Val busy with the search team.”
“In the parlor,” Emmie said, withdrawing her hands. “In the shelves beside the fireplace.”
“Have you the equipment to clean it?”
“It should be in the same case.”
“I’ll fetch it. How about finding us something to eat—anything simple will do.”
He took the lantern from where he’d left it lit by the back door and made his way to the parlor. He ex
amined the shelves from the highest, which was at about his eye level, to the middle, where he found the pistol in its wooden case. He hadn’t been in Emmie’s house enough to know if something was out of place, but in the dimness of the firelit parlor, something didn’t smell right. Emmie’s environs had always smelled clean and usually better than clean.
But tonight, in the parlor, there was a hint of something musty and unpleasant. He turned slowly, and the lantern light caught the reflection of a pair of shining green eyes several inches above the floor in front of the sofa. His first thought was that some rabid animal had found its way into the warmth, or perhaps he was about the meet the famous Gany, but then the beast attached to the eyes lumbered to its feet and came over to lick his hand.
Relief surged through St. Just as he held the lantern higher and spied the sleeping child on the sofa.
“Good boy.” He patted the dog soundly but spoke quietly. “Very, very good boy.” Scout, status confirmed, ambled back to the spot he’d already warmed by the sofa and resumed his nap.
St. Just turned on silent feet and took the pistol toward the kitchen.
“Emmie.” He took from her hand a knife she was using to cut bread into slices, put the knife down on the counter, and led her to the darkened parlor. “Winnie’s home safe.”
Emmie’s hand went to her mouth, and only St. Just’s fingers around her wrist stopped her from flying to the couch and hugging the breath out of the prodigal child. Instead, she let St. Just take her back to the kitchen, where she fetched up against his chest.
“Thank God,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God, thank God.”
“Shall I be about cleaning that pistol?”
“Yes.” She stepped back and waved a hand. “Go ahead, and just… go ahead.”
While he tended to the gun, Emmie stood in the doorway of the parlor, gazing at Winnie where she snored gently on the couch. Dimly, Emmie heard one shot fired, a pause, and a second shot, then a faint echo of the pattern. St. Just must have walked off a ways with the gun, she reasoned, as his shots were not as loud as they might have been closer to the house.
Such a considerate man, she thought, realizing she hadn’t found a reason to label him barbarian in many weeks. What on earth had she been thinking? He was a good man, not always an easy man, but good.
She would miss him—for the rest of her life.
Emmie tore her eyes from the sight of Winnie curled on the couch and returned to the kitchen.
“If you’re still hungry,” she said, “I can feed you dinner.”
“No need for that,” St. Just said, making no move to take off his damp clothing or boots.
“Shall I waken Winnie?” Emmie asked, trying to mask her disappointment.
“Waken her why?” St. Just seemed genuinely bewildered.
“So she can go home with you to Rosecroft,” Emmie said as levelly as she could. Why was he making this harder?
“Emmie…” His confusion turned to incredulity. “You cannot ignore that Winnie was willing to risk her life to keep you from going. She needs to be with you.”
He’d kept his voice down, and Emmie knew what an effort that was because she herself wanted to shout.
“Surely you realize,” Emmie countered, “that child cannot be made to suffer even one more change, St. Just. Rosecroft is her home, you are her guardian, and you have already assured me you will put every resource available to you at Winnie’s disposal.”
He ran a hand through his hair then pressed the heels of both hands to his eye sockets. “I suppose you’d better put on the teakettle.”
“And you’d best take off your wet things,” Emmie said, still keeping her voice quiet. “We can hang them to dry while you have your tea.” St. Just let Emmie help him out of his overcoat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, as well, and handed both to her. Emmie moved silently to the parlor and spread the overcoat over the back of a wing chair, and the waistcoat over the arms. Paper crackled in some inner, known-only-to-gentlemen pocket of the waistcoat, so Emmie fished through the material, then drew the documents out and put them on the opposite chair, lest the general damp destroy the writing.
When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find St. Just laying out a pan of cheese toast, completing the task Emmie had started when Winnie had been discovered. They brought the tea tray and cheese toast to the table and took chairs facing each other.
“What is it you would tell me?” Emmie said, wanting to get it over with but not wanting him to ever go.
Nor Winnie. Of course she didn’t want Winnie to go.
“You cannot leave that child with me, Emmaline Farnum,” he said in a low voice.
“Nonsense.” Emmie took a fortifying sip of tea. “Winnie has a better chance of growing up on the straight and narrow and being accepted by decent society in your care than in anybody else’s. We’ve been over this, Devlin.”
“You don’t know what sort of man you would inflict on that child,” he said, holding his cup between his two hands. “You think you know, Emmie, but you don’t.”
“Tell me. If you think you’ve some terribly objectionable quality, St. Just, and that you must unburden yourself of it to me, then I will listen. I doubt I will change my mind though.”
“You asked me once to tell you about Waterloo,” he said, swallowing and closing his eyes as he got the name of the town past his lips.
“I did,” Emmie replied, the first frisson of unease creeping up her spine. He’d seen and done terrible things; that much she knew. Things soldiers were expected to manage in times of war, but something about the dread in his eyes told her this was worse—at least to him.
“You know I’ve killed many men,” he said. “I’ve killed men so young as to be more properly called boys; but because they wore enemy uniforms, that is excused.”
“I don’t just excuse it”—Emmie set her tea aside, wanting to take his hands—“I applaud you for it. I am grateful to you for what you did, though I regret the toll it has taken on you.”
“I’ve killed two women, as well,” he said, watching her eyes. “Executed them as spies for the French. They were not in uniform, Emmie, and I actually pulled the…”
He stopped and dropped his gaze while Emmie reached across the table and put her hand on his wrist.
“They were the enemy,” she said gently. “All the more heinous because they were women, and much more difficult for you to execute. It was war, Devlin, and they knew the costs.”
He nodded again but carefully withdrew his hand from her grip.
“I will tell you about Waterloo,” he said in a soft, resigned voice. “You have a right—a need—to know what Winnie will face if you leave her with me.”
Emmie waited, listening to the fire blaze in the hearth.
“Bonaparte’s army wasn’t the most disciplined; they hadn’t the best equipment nor the best horses. They were not the most professional, but by God, they were brave. When Bonaparte escaped from Elba, he moved them the length of France and on toward Brussels, when all had hoped he would stop at the border. Wellington had time to range his lines along a ridge outside Waterloo, and there he waited for the emperor to advance farther across the border.”
His voice had become distant, his gaze focused inward, but in his eyes, Emmie saw looming horror.
“You’ve noticed I am… unnerved by thunder.” His gaze flickered up to hers.
“I have, though it seems to be getting better.”
“It isn’t just thunder, Emmie. It’s rain, thunder, the buzzing of flies, the smell of mud, the sound of a Spanish guitar, the sound of horses galloping en masse… For the first few months after Val dragged me home, I wanted only silence or the sound of his playing. He sensed I needed almost every other sound drowned out… But I digress.”
He took a slow, deep breath and let it out before continuing.
“It rain
ed the night before battle. Not just a little summer shower, but ugly, cold torrents that made deploying along that ridge a nightmare. I will never forget the smells if I live to be one hundred. The mud, the wet uniforms and soggy tack, the fear… The next morning, the heat came on and made the day even more unbearable, and the artillery, of course, went to work. But then, just when we thought we’d go mad from the damned cannon, the guns fell silent, and that was much worse. We waited, expecting the French to charge any moment, because our reinforcements drew closer as the day wore on.”
Emmie watched as his memories fought to overwhelm him and recalled the scene with Winnie’s soldiers: Why don’t the bloody French just get on with it? Oh, God…
“Eventually, they came on, and the ground was still a boggy, horse-laming mess, but the French had to charge up that hill, over and over again, and each time they tried, there were more bodies, more maimed and dying horses running loose, struggling to get up, more comrades fallen who could not move to safety.”
He fell silent for a long moment, though Emmie feared all that narrative was just setting the stage. She gripped his hand again, and this time he allowed it.
“When the fighting was over, there were fifty thousand dead and wounded soldiers, and almost half that again in dead or mortally wounded horses. I led a detail of men onto the battlefield to recover what gear and tack we could. The scavengers were already at work, rifling the pockets of men not even dead. The medics went through ahead of us, but my unit was to collect what arms and tack and ammunition was… salvage… salvageable.”
“Some of my party were wounded, but they knew to admit to serious injuries was to be cashiered out, so we slipped and struggled and cursed our way from one fallen horse to another, but Emmie…” He gazed past her with eyes that saw into hell. “They weren’t all dead. Some of them had been wounded two days prior, some just a few hours before, and they weren’t…”
Emmie squeezed his hand and held on tight, and though she wished he wouldn’t, she willed him the strength to resume his story.
The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3) Page 64
