The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  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?”

  “To Miss Emmie’s. And Scout came with me, and he’s back, too. He’s a duke now.”

  “Your Grace.” Stevens bowed, clearly pleased to see the prodigals returned. “It just wasn’t the same without himself there stirring around in the carriage house all night.”

  “I’m sure Scout missed you, too,” St. Just said, deadpan. “If you’ll see to Caesar, I’d appreciate it, and if you could find some time this afternoon to fetch the gig home from Miss Farnum’s, as well as some correspondence I left there, that would be appreciated, too.”

  “Aye.” Stevens tousled Winnie’s hair, and led Caesar away.

  “He didn’t tell me it’s the Sabbath,” St. Just murmured, wondering if he was in need of more than a shave. “Come along, Winnie, and we’ll probably find a second breakfast, if you’re more interested in your victuals now.”

  Winnie grabbed his hand. “Only a little.”

  “We must encourage you to drink chocolate in the morning, I suppose.” St. Just gave up trying to match his steps to hers and swung her up to his hip. “You certainly don’t weigh very much, Bronwyn Farnum.”

  “But I’m good at climbing trees,” Winnie said on a forlorn smile as they approached the back terraces.

  “That you are, but I am able to divine your thoughts,” he went on as he stomped his boots at the back door. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?” Winnie closed her eyes and squinched up her face.

  “That we’re going inside this house, but Emmie isn’t here, and that makes you feel sad.”

  Winnie nodded, and in an instant, all her courage seemed to desert her. She turned her cold face against St. Just’s neck and kept it there while he walked into the back hallway.

  “What ho!” Val emerged from the kitchen. “It’s the snow monster from Rosecroft village, with two heads and bright red ears on both of them.” He stepped closer and put down his mug of tea. “What’s wrong, princess? Not feeling so cheerful?”

  Winnie shook her head without looking at him, keeping her nose against St. Just’s neck.

  “We’re sad,” St. Just said, “because Emmie isn’t here.”

  “Ah.” Val nodded, his eyes conveying a world of understanding. “Win, you have to let Uncle Val teach you some of his sad-day songs.” He stepped closer, maybe intending to take the child from his brother’s arms, but as he reached out to encircle Winnie, his arms, whether by design or inadvertence, embraced his brother, as well.

  “We’re all sad,” Val murmured, hugging them both, “but we’re happy, too.”

  “Why are we happy?” Winnie was sufficiently affronted at that pronouncement that she glared at him.

  “Because.” He did lift Winnie away from St. Just and maneuvered her onto his own back, “my Princess Winnie is home safe and sound and she brought my big brother home, as well, and—best of all—she brought Scout back, too. I was really worried about Scout,” Val went on as he flounced her into the kitchen, “but I knew he had you to protect him.”

  “I’m smart and very strong for my size, and Scout is warm.”

  “Warmth can be an endearing quality in a fellow otherwise lacking in impressive attributes,” Val allowed. He sat Winnie on the table and began to take off her outer garments.

  “What are attributes?”

  “Paws.”

  “But he does have impressive paws,” Winnie argued, holding out a foot for Val to take off her boots.

  “My brother is misleading you,” St. Just said as he ambled into the kitchen. “He does this frequently with young ladies. Attributes are qualities, Win, strong or weak points, like smelling good or being smart.”

  “Scout smells good to other dogs, and he’s smart for a dog, too.”

  “Brilliant,” Val agreed, removing the second boot. “Now go upstairs and get your slippers, then take yourself off to the music room. I’ve kept a fire going in there, and the piano is waiting for you to make up all the time you missed practicing yesterday.”

  “I’m going.” Winnie hopped down off the table, hugged Val impulsively around the waist, and tore off.

  “Thank you,” St. Just said. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “Not feeling so good, princess?” Val asked again, grinning sympathetically. He slung an arm around St. Just’s shoulders and squeezed hard. “Are you ready to swear off women? Move back to Surrey? Take holy orders?”

  “Please do not mention the church,” St. Just said, sidling out of his brother’s grip. “Nor the exponents thereof.”

  “So what was Winnie’s reason for running off?” Val asked, pouring a mug of tea, adding cream and sugar, and putting it in his brother’s hand.

  “She wanted to make Emmie feel as scared and anxious and upset as Winnie will feel when Emmie runs off to Cumbria without her.”

  Val gave a low whistle. “There’s a genius to her logic, and diabolical determination.”

  “Diabolical determination,” St. Just said, but there was a hint of pride in just those two words. “Just like any soldier when dedicated t
o a worthy cause.”

  “Music is a worthy cause,” Val pronounced, turning on his heel and leaving.

  “So,” St. Just muttered to the empty kitchen, “is true love.”

  ***

  Through her parlor window, Emmie watched Caesar plodding up the lane. Winnie and St. Just were obviously enjoying a ride in the fresh morning air as the horse took them home. When the horse’s broad rump had disappeared past the hedgerow, Emmie realized she was still staring at the horse’s tracks in the snow.

  She wondered, as she poured herself a cup of tea, if this was how a soldier’s wife felt when she saw him off to war. Except she wasn’t anybody’s wife…

  Her gaze fell on the letters St. Just had left behind, the ones he’d asked her to read, the ones he’d said were of sentimental importance to him. Carefully, she put the teacup down and reached for them, wanting any connection to him she could derive from any source, no matter how inanimate or obscure.

  Seventeen

  For Hadrian Bothwell, the morning was interminable. The congregation was very pleased to see him, of course, as he’d played truant the previous Sunday by nipping off to Ripon. Intuitively, he sensed word of his impending departure was out, having been passed along on the rural church grapevine with a speed that put the Royal Mail to shame.

  And he was doomed to smile and make small talk for at least another thirty minutes, when all he wanted to do was grab some luncheon and then complete his interview with Emmie Farnum. The task had taken on an urgency since he’d returned from Ripon, and she would no doubt appreciate having matters resolved, as well.

  While standing up in his kitchen, he ate a cold sandwich, it being the Sabbath and his housekeeper off the premises. Usually, he treasured the solitude of his Sunday afternoons, but today the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was aggravating.

  A function, he concluded, of the upsets suffered on his morning constitutional.

  He had to get himself to Cumbria… the sooner the better. He hiked along the snowy lane leading to Emmie’s house, and his mood lightened. Three of her chimneys attested to fires within, and in the bright sunshine and new snow, her property looked clean, tidy, and welcoming.

  Would that Emmie was welcoming, too, he thought as he rapped on the door. He had to rap again some minutes later before his quarry presented herself, and though she offered him a smile and waved him into the house, he sensed immediately she was preoccupied.

  “Good day, Emmie.” He smiled as she took his hat, gloves, and scarf. “I missed you at services, of course.”

  “While I did not miss trying to convince myself that bustling around in this cold was anything but arduous. Would you object to tea in the kitchen? It’s warmer than the parlor and closer to the teakettle.”

  “I would not object.” They both knew he shouldn’t be there alone with her, but when a man and woman discussed marriage, even the most proper society allowed them privacy to do so.

  She led him to the kitchen and took the kettle off the hob to pour a fresh pot.

  “I understand you had some excitement with Miss Bronwyn yesterday,” Bothwell said, leaning against the wooden mantle over the kitchen hearth.

  “How did word get out so fast?” Emmie asked, not turning but assembling a tea tray.

  “Stevens had a celebratory pint when Lord Val announced she’d been found,” Bothwell replied, thinking even in the kitchen—maybe especially in her kitchen—Emmie Farnum was graceful and attractive. She would be a comforting wife—quiet, competent, affectionate…

  “You’ll be baking here again tomorrow?” he asked, waiting for Emmie to seat herself first.

  “I will.” She moved a sheaf of papers aside and sat. “Do sit down, Hadrian. You needn’t stand on ceremony with me.”

  “I like that about you,” he said, sliding onto the opposite bench. “I like a lot of things about you, in fact.”

  “And I like you, as well,” Emmie said, but her tone and her smile were both sad, not gleeful nor gloating as they might have been if she were in contemplation of marrying a man she adored. His spirits sank again as he accepted his tea from his hostess. When their fingers brushed, she gave no hint she’d even felt the contact.

  “Your hands are cold, Emmie, but your kitchen is cozy.”

  “My feet are cold, too,” Emmie said, her smile becoming apologetic as well as sad. “Read this.” She shuffled through the papers and handed him what appeared to be a missive written in a lady’s hand.

  To Her Grace, Esther, Duchess of Moreland,

  The physician has taken on the forced cheer of one who fears my ordeal will soon be over, but I do not share his doubts or his anxieties. I know I will soon be gone from this world and facing my Maker. I know, as well, He will be compassionate with me, for I have seen in you, dear lady, the kindness and generosity of spirit available this more flawed side of heaven, so I cannot fear what lies in my future.

  I do, however, suffer greatly over what lies in my past. I have sinned, of course, and for that I can and have sought forgiveness. I have also, though, made grave mistakes, and knowing I have little time to make reparation for those errors, I humbly implore you to do me yet one more kindness—me and the young fellow whom you have taken in and loved as you do your own sons.

  Seven years ago, when Devlin was five, I chose to accept your gracious offer to take him into the ducal household. I told myself this was best for him, and see now, as I am prepared to give up this life, how prescient that decision was. Devlin has the benefit of knowing his paternal siblings and of knowing you and His Grace, as well. The boy is acquiring the beginnings of a gentleman’s education, a gentleman’s speech, a gentleman’s manner and deportment. He will go on well in this life, by the lights that most people would measure.

  But I am not most people. I am his mother, the only family he had for the first years of his life, and I have watched carefully from my closed carriage on those instances you have brought him to the park for me to see. He is growing quite tall and obviously fit and sound of limb, but even from a distance, I see in his eyes the reflection of my worst, most painful error.

  Devlin is not so much sibling to his younger brothers as he is their bodyguard. He does not laugh with the spontaneity of an adolescent boy; he watches carefully to see what is expected of him and how he might leap to do it before he is bid. He does not speak with the carefree self-expression he had as a young child; he stammers and struggles and more often than not, simply remains silent lest his efforts embarrass him, or worse, his ducal family.

  In his young eyes, I see the self-doubt I put there the day I took myself from his life. I see the distrust of all that appears good and worthy and permanent. I see the hurt and confusion of a small child who will blame himself for the loss of a loving mother, no matter how outwardly competent and successful he appears to become as a man.

  I was mortally, terribly wrong to allow him to be parted from me as I did. Though I thank God nightly for your generosity and kindness, I also pray nightly that somehow my son will know my living and dying regret was that I made the wrong choice for him those years ago. I had options, Your Grace; I could have taken the allowance you offered; I could have asked for a few more years with my son; I could have allowed you to find me a decent fellow who would accept a settlement, a tarnished if repentant wife, and a dear stepson. You urged those options on me and showed your greater understanding as a mother in the process.

  But I thought I knew best, and may God help my little boy, for I was wrong. At the time, I thought the sincerity of my love for Devlin would justify the consequences were my choice in error. To a small child, however, love is not love that steals away into the night, never to be seen again. I know this now, when it is too late, so I ask only that someday when the time is right, you convey these sentiments to him, as well as my unending love and pride in him and all he does.

  With gratitude,
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  Kathleen St. Just

  Bothwell sat for long minutes, staring sightlessly at the document on the table before him. Emmie silently passed him the remaining papers, and he read on. One letter was an effusive thanks from Kathleen for the privilege of seeing her five-year-old son play in the park, and a minute description of a small boy’s every adorable antic.

  “She writes well,” Bothwell remarked, “but even in her happier lines, there is heartache.” Emmie merely nodded and passed him the third epistle, probably the first one the woman had written to St. Just’s stepmother. Kathleen detailed the child’s preferences, fears, pastimes, accomplishments, favorite articles of clothing, sleeping habits, dietary habits, and disclosed that he still sucked his thumb when he was very tired or upset.

  “She knew her son,” Bothwell said, putting the letter aside.

  “But she did not know best for him,” Emmie replied, staring at her cold tea. “Just being his mother did not make her infallible.”

  Bothwell patted her hand. “I have the privilege of working for the only infallible parent known to man.”

  Emmie didn’t even smile at that.

  Bothwell withdrew his hand. “Emmie, you know I would accept Winnie into our household. Her steppapa would not be a duke but a lowly, rusticating viscount’s heir, though I would do my best by the child and by you. I have to agree with this lady.” He gestured to the letters. “Where there is no compelling reason to the contrary, little children should be with their mothers, particularly if she’s the only parent to hand.”

  Emmie nodded but said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

  “Emmie.” Bothwell moved around the table, sat beside her, and took her hand in his—her very cold hand. “I need to hear you tell me, my dear. You can turn a fellow down, but you have to actually go about it with some words. You know the speech; you delivered it nicely last time: Hadrian, you do me great honor… You recall the one?”

  “All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. To Hadrian, it felt as if she’d been so intensely preoccupied with her internal landscape that the process of speech had to be actively recalled before she could rely on it. “No, Hadrian, or no thank you. I can’t seem to muster my former eloquence, but I am grateful. You mean well, and you do me honor, but I cannot be your viscountess.”