“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 to 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,
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.”
“Well, that suffices.” He offered her a wan smile. “But, Emmie? What will you do now?”
***
For that smile, for not dropping her hand and making a hasty, awkward departure, Emmie found she did love Hadrian Bothwell just a little. He was doing her an honor, both by proposing again and by remaining seated at her side when she’d rejected him.
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and sat back, their hands still joined. “I don’t know what to do, Hadrian. I have perpetrated falsehoods and betrayed trust and been stupid.”
“As bad as all that? Haven’t you also loved and loved and loved?”
“No.” Emmie shook her head. “Love trusts.”
“Winnie trusts you,” Hadrian insisted, but Emmie did not meet his gaze, and the man was perceptive enough to hear what wasn’t being said.
“Ah.” He did drop her hand then, patting it a little to soften the gesture. “Well, then, Emmie, if love trusts, then you must show some trust now and give St. Just a chance to repair this damage you feel you’ve done. He is a good man.”
“I know,” Emmie said, rising and gathering up the tea things. Bothwell did not rise, which was fortunate, as Emmie needed to be up and moving, and she needed to move away from him and away from her recent admissions. “He is a very good man, but he will not forgive this.”
“He does not strike me as the judgmental, righteous sort, Emmie.”
“You are being blessedly honest, Hadrian.”
“Blessedly, indeed.” His tone was dry as dust, suggesting there was a man inside the collar he wore, not just a church functionary.
“I owe him an accounting, but I also believe Winnie is attached to him, too, and no matter what option I choose, Winnie will now suffer.”
“You don’t know what your options are,” Bothwell said gently. “I will not renew my proposal, as even lowly vicars are permitted some pride, but if you need help, Emmie, I am more than willing to provide it.”
“Thank you,” she said, resuming her seat beside him but determined to starve in the gutters of York in wintertime rather than ask for help.
“Let me put it a different way,” Bothwell said, taking her hand again. “If you do not allow me to assist you and Miss Winnie should the need arise, I will be hurt, angry, and disappointed—more disappointed, even, than in your refusal to marry me.”
“I understand. I will accept help from you for Winnie’s sake, but St. Just says Win has a trust of some sort, and I am the trustee.”
“You are also the child’s guardian,” Bothwell said, letting her hand go. “You need to talk to St. Just, Emmie. He notices things and is probably more tolerant than you think.”
“Does he know he has such an ally in you?” Emmie asked while she walked him to the front door.
The vicar smiled sardonically. “I rather think he does, but he plays fair, Emmie, and he will with you, too.”
She helped him into his heavy coat and brushed her hands down over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric as she would Winnie’s cloak. He whipped his scarf around his neck and accepted his hat and gloves from her, but put them down on the sideboard and frowned down at her.
“I will not expect you at services,” he said, “but then, I look forward to the day when I don’t expect me at services either.”
“You’ve done well here, though. People trust you.”
“They trust me, but they don’t know me. I like to curse, Emmie, and ride too fast and play cards. I like chocolate and cats and naughty women, though not the trade they ply, and I loathe getting up early on Sundays to spout kindly platitudes all morning, and I would dearly love—”
“What would you love?” Emmie asked, curious. Naughty women?
“I would dearly love a good tavern brawl,” he said. “There. You see, you are not the only one perpetrating falsehoods, but at least you have not talked yourself into being somebody you don’t even recognize, much less want to spend time with.”
“Do viscounts engage in tavern brawls?”
“It is one of the stated privileges of the rank.”
“Then you will be happy with that title,” Emmie concluded, glad to be able to genuinely smile about something.
“Eventually.” He looked perplexed. “I hope.”
“I hope so, too,” Emmie said, leaning up to brush a kiss to his lips. When she would have stepped back, his hands settled on her hips, and for just the barest procession of heartbeats, he deepened the kiss, turning it into a tasting of her, a farewell to intimacies that might have been.
Just when Emmie would have protested, he stepped back, and now his smile was a thing of beauty and mischief.
“Don’t begrudge me that, not when the walk home was going to be cold enough without your rejection.” He kissed her cheek with vicarly perfunctoriness. “And don’t stew too long, Emmie. St. Just needs to know what you’ll do about the child.”
Emmie nodded, too stunned by his kiss to find words. He let himself out and went swinging through the yard with every semblance of a happy man—a barbarian vicar. Who would have thought of such a thing?
***
It took a week for Emmie to get over her cold, get up her nerve, and figure out what to bake. In the end, it was simple: Apple tarts, of course. Devlin’s recipe with a few of her enhancements. She waited most of the day, hoping the hand of God would descend from the pressing overcast and pluck her troubles from her s
houlders, but that Hand was as contrarily invisible as ever, so she donned two cloaks, put on her sturdiest walking boots, and headed off through the woods, apple tarts still warm in their basket.
The closer she got to Rosecroft, the more the sky seemed to press down on the wintery landscape. There were still patches of snow clinging to the hedgerows and fence lines from the last little storm, and there was a pervasive grayness that suited her mood. Her discussion with St. Just would be difficult, but what she wanted—to be with Winnie—was no more than what he’d urged on her from the outset. And as for being with him, well, nothing much had changed. She was still a baseborn baker from nowhere, he was still the firstborn of a duke, titled in his own right, a decorated war hero, and far above her touch.
Then, too, she had lied to him. There was that detail.
She gained the back door, stomped her boots, and scraped the mud off them as best she could, then raised her fist to knock. She lowered it slowly, her heart having begun to pound.
“Emmie Farnum,” she spoke to herself sternly, “you are being ridiculous. St. Just is not a barbarian.”
Except, in a way, he still was. She watched a half-dozen lazy snow flurries drift down from the pewter sky and was still trying to locate her resolve, when the door opened, and the barbarian himself stood there, frowning.
“Are you coming in?” he asked, stepping back. “Or is it sufficient to chat with yourself on my back steps in the bitter air?”
The sight of him, just the tall, frowning, slightly untidy sight of him standing there, cuffs turned back, no neckcloth, an ink stain on the heel of one hand… When Emmie only stared, he plucked the basket from her hand and took her by the wrist into the warmth of the house.
“I’ll put these in the kitchen.” He lifted the basket slightly, sniffing.
“I can’t stay long,” Emmie said to his retreating back, but he moved on as if she hadn’t spoken. Like an imbecile, she stood there for another moment then realized she had two cloaks to unfasten. He was filling a teapot when Emmie stood in the kitchen doorway, feeling uncertain but determined.
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