Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  It took longer than he’d planned to transact his business, as the solicitor was knowledgeable and answered his questions in detail before St. Just made his final decisions. The trip home was spent brooding over the wisdom of his choices, and a cold, sleety rain started when he was about an hour from Rosecroft. Caesar slogged on, and just as every part of St. Just’s body felt numb with cold, he gained his own property. Stevens took the horse, and St. Just let himself into the back of the house, the odors of cinnamon, clove, and baking apple assailing him. The back hallway was warm though dark. He could hear Val playing the piano and Emmie humming along in the kitchen as he shed his boots and sopping outer garments.

  Emmie, he thought, closing his eyes and digging down for strength. If he wasn’t careful, what he’d done would show on his face, in his eyes, and in the words he did and did not say.

  “You’re home.” Emmie stopped her puttering, a luminous, beaming smile on her face, a pan of apple tarts steaming on the counter before her.

  “I am home”—he returned her smile—“though soaked and chilled to the bone.”

  “I thought I heard the door slam.” Val appeared at Emmie’s elbow. “It looks like a half-drowned friend of Scout’s has come to call. Come along, Devlin.” Val tugged at his wet sleeve. “Emmie had the bathwater heated in anticipation of your arrival. We’ll get you thawed and changed in time for dinner, and then you can regale us with your exploits.”

  “Behold,” Val announced when they returned forty-five minutes later, “the improved version of the Earl of Rosecroft. Scrubbed, tidied, and attired for supper. He need only be fed, and we’ll find him quite civilized.” Emmie smiled at them both, and Winnie looked up from the worktable where she was making an ink drawing.

  “I made you a picture,” she said, motioning St. Just over. “This is you.”

  She’d drawn Caesar and a wet, shivering, bedraggled rider, one whose hat drooped, whose boots sagged, and whose teeth chattered.

  “We must send this to Her Grace,” St. Just said, “but you have to send along something cheerier, too, Win. Mamas tend to worry about their chicks.”

  “I thought she wasn’t your mama,” Winnie countered, frowning at her drawing.

  “She is, and she isn’t.” St. Just tousled Winnie’s blond curls—so like Emmie’s—and blew a rude noise against the child’s neck. “But mostly she is.”

  “When will you go see her again?”

  “I just did see her in September. It’s hardly December.”

  “She’s your mother,” Winnie said, taking the drawing back. “Every now and then, even big children should be with their mothers.”

  In the pantry, something loud hit the tile floor and shattered. Val and his brother exchanged a look, but Emmie’s voice assured them it had just been the lid to the pan of apple tarts, and no real harm had been done.

  “That’s fortunate,” St. Just said, going to the pantry and taking the pan from Emmie’s hands. “Watch your step, though, as there’s crockery everywhere.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emmie stood in the middle of the broken crockery, her cheeks flushed, looking anywhere but at him. “It was my own pan, though, so you won’t need to replace anything of Rosecroft’s.”

  “Em.” He sighed and set the tarts aside. “I don’t give a tin whistle for the damned lid.” He lifted her by the elbows and hauled her against his chest to swing her out of the pantry. “We’ve a scullery maid, don’t we?”

  “Joan.”

  “Well, fetch her in there. I am ravenous, and I will not be deprived of your company while I sup tonight.”

  “You didn’t stay in York,” Emmie said, searching his eyes.

  “There is very little do in York on a miserable afternoon that could compare with the pleasure of my own home, your company, and a serving of hot apple tarts.” She blinked then offered him a radiant smile and sailed ahead of him to the dining parlor.

  “Winnie,” St. Just barked, “wash your paws, and don’t just get them wet. Val, it’s your turn to say grace, and somebody get that damned dog out of here.”

  Scout slunk out, Winnie washed her paws, Val went on at hilarious length about being appreciative of a brother who wasn’t so old he forgot his apple tart recipe nor how to stay clean nor find his way home.

  Except at the last part, about St. Just finding his way home, Val speared his brother with a meaningful look even while St. Just was regarding Emmie with the same degree of intensity.

  And in the midst of an otherwise boisterous and congenial meal, Winnie surreptitiously buttered rolls and tucked them into the pocket of her pinafore, ready to tell anybody who asked that they were for the banished dog, upon whom she’d recently conferred an honorary barony. If asked, she’d say the buttered rolls were a gesture to soothe his hurt baronial feelings.

  Fifteen

  “She has yet to accept my suit, you know,” Hadrian Bothwell informed his caller. He’d been surprised beyond telling to find Lord Rosecroft on the doorstep of the vicarage at the challenging hour of eight in the morning.

  The earl nodded tersely. “I am aware of that, but with this document executed, I have no doubt you will be successful in your efforts to win the lady’s hand.”

  Bothwell frowned and considered the earl, who was still standing in the entrance hall of the house. Something was not adding up, and it was too deucedly early for arriving at sums anyway.

  “Come in.” Bothwell gestured toward his study. “I’ll fetch us some tea, and you can explain yourself while my brain wakes up. I got in quite late last night, and the weather turned foul well before I saw home.”

  St. Just hesitated; but with a sigh that sounded resigned, he followed Bothwell into a tidy, comfortable room boasting a cheery blaze in the hearth, two overstuffed wing chairs pulled up to the fire, and a desk angled to take advantage of the light from a bay window.

  “I do some of my best thinking here with my feet up on the hearth and my chin on my chest.”

  “And your eyes closed to allow better concentration, no doubt,” St. Just added. “How hard is it, really, to be a vicar?”

  “Depends on the parish, I suppose, and the vicar. For me, it’s getting harder and harder.” He tugged a bell pull twice. “The memories here are not… easy, and I know my brother needs me. Then, too, when I arrived four years ago, I flattered myself my more worldly outlook might assist my flock in broadening their views, but in that regard, I am a miserable failure.”

  A rotund older woman came to deposit a plain tea service before the vicar. Once she departed, Bothwell lifted the lid of the white porcelain teapot to peer at the contents. “I like it quite strong. You?”

  “At this hour, strong will do nicely. Was your replacement identified at this meeting in Ripon?”

  “My replacement?” Bothwell gave a short, unhappy bark of laughter. “Trying to get rid of me, Rosecroft?” He kept his tone teasing, but the question was genuine, too.

  “I am not.” St. Just sighed and sat back. “This brings us back to the reason I have intruded on your privacy at such an ungodly hour.”

  “Your order of court.” Bothwell passed his guest a strong cup of tea and poured a second cup for himself.

  “The order of court, yes. If Miss Emmie has custody of Winnie, then I believe your chances of making her your viscountess will be improved.” They discussed the matter for a few more moments, or traded elliptical comments in the manner of men treading lightly over unsafe ground.

  “So you’re moving Miss Emmie back to the cottage today?” Bothwell inquired as St. Just rose to leave. “Do you need any assistance?”

  “We do not, thank you. We’ve been moving pots and pans and racks and crockery bowls and all manner of kitchen equipment for most of the week. Emmie did not bring all of her personal effects to Rosecroft, so moving the lady herself will be fairly simple.”

  “Perhaps I’ll call on her after services.” Bothwell nodded and grinned, mind made up and in happy contemplation of his meeting with Emmie. “Have
to whip up a sermon on the evils of disappointing one’s vicar, don’t you think?”

  “It would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why is that?”

  “Emmie has never been persuaded by her vicar to attend services,” St. Just said as he headed for the door. “Your wisdom would be wasted on the pious believers.”

  Bothwell frowned, not sure if he’d been teased, insulted, or reprimanded, but he remained silent until he heard the front door closing softly. The two cups of tea had helped, but yesterday had been a monumentally stupid day to travel. Still, one more day among his sanctimonious, overwhelmingly married brethren, and he would have started muttering every profanity he recalled from university and public school put together.

  Hadrian Bothwell lowered his tired frame into his favorite of the two wing chairs, poured himself a third cup of tea, and propped his feet on the hearth. He downed the tea in a few swallows and set his mind to thinking about the three little lambs of his flock—a lamb, a ewe, and a ram, technically—who resided at Rosecroft. He considered his obligations to each of them, as pastor (though that was stretching it a bit), friend (stretching it more than a bit), suitor, and potential stepfather. The duties and considerations tangled up, crossed, and tangled up some more, until Bothwell’s chin came to rest on his chest, and slumber claimed him.

  ***

  St. Just glanced up at the clock in his library and scowled. He’d spent the last hour reading his mother’s letters, something that had become like a regular devotion. He frequently tucked one or two of them in a pocket and took them out at odd times of the day, reading over and over what he’d already memorized. On this day, it was particularly comforting and yet also poignant to have his mother’s words in hand. He folded up the last three letters, tucked them into an inside pocket, and mentally tried to prepare himself for what he faced.

  His next task was to take Emmie back to the cottage and see her settled there. He’d return to Rosecroft for dinner and face a very unhappy Winnie, and possibly a less than sympathetic Val. By this time tomorrow, he would likely have heard Emmie had accepted Bothwell’s suit, and there was not one damned thing he could do about any of it. Better she marry the vicar than disappear to parts entirely unknown in her quest to see Winnie well settled at Rosecroft.

  “Have you said good-bye to Winnie?” St. Just asked when Emmie came bustling into the front hallway.

  “Winnie is not very pleased with me,” Emmie said. “I think she’s purposely hiding, and if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon have the leave-taking over with.”

  “You checked in her room?” It wasn’t like Winnie to avoid a confrontation, but he wasn’t keen to search the entire house only to spend another hour drying tears and losing arguments.

  “I did,” Emmie said, her expression miserable, “and the stables. I assume she’s hiding in the music room with Val, who will no doubt be better company than I.”

  “As you wish.” St. Just picked up the one ancient used-to-be-black valise that held the last of Emmie’s personal effects, and offered her his arm, then handed her up into the gig. It had held off raining, snowing, sleeting, or whatever ugliness the sky portended, but the clouds were lowering threateningly.

  “Appropriate weather for the occasion, don’t you think?” St. Just remarked as he secured the valise behind the seat.

  Emmie glanced at the sky and grimaced. “I suppose.” She kept her eyes forward as St. Just climbed up beside her and took the reins.

  “You can still change your mind, you know,” St. Just said softly. Emmie glanced at him, as if to decipher whether the offer was about going back to the cottage, marrying Bothwell, or rejecting St. Just, but she just shook her head.

  He clucked to the horse, and they made the short, unhappy journey in silence. Emmie waited until he came around to hand her down, and if she hesitated a moment before putting her hands on his shoulders, then hesitated even longer before stepping away from him, St. Just declined to comment.

  “So you’re here,” he said, when he’d set Emmie’s valise down in her front hallway. “Let me get your fires going, at least.”

  “I was…” Emmie looked around as if she hadn’t seen the house before and rubbed her arms. “I was going to get the teapot on. Will you have a cup?”

  “Emmie…” He regarded her with a frown, not sure what the kind thing to do was. At his hesitation, she looked ready to beg, so he capitulated. “One cup, but if we’re going to that bother, let me put Caesar in a stall and see Roddy is settled in while I’m at it.”

  “One cup.” Over which, she looked inordinately relieved.

  While she bustled in the big kitchen, St. Just put the horse into a stall with hay and water, scratched the mule’s furry forehead, and lit fires in the downstairs parlor and up in Emmie’s bedroom. He’d never seen the room before and found it pretty, feminine, and welcoming. Emmie’s bed was huge and so adorned with pillows and shams and skirts and lace it looked like a giant bonbon.

  Closing the door behind him and wishing he’d not seen that bed after all, St. Just came down the back steps to the kitchen.

  “You’ve been home only a few minutes, and something already smells good.”

  “I tossed a little cinnamon in the steamer. Your tea?” She handed him a mug, not a teacup, and gestured to the bench near the hearth. “The kitchen fire was lit this morning, so this room is probably the only one truly warm.”

  She sat on the bench, leaning back against the wall, and he settled silently beside her. They sipped tea—the universal antidote—and listened to the fire, to the clock ticking, to the end of what might have been.

  “You’ll be all right?” St. Just asked, setting his empty mug aside.

  “I will.” She spoke around the fingernail she was nibbling. He rose, thinking to get the hell out of the kitchen so the poor woman could cry in peace and perhaps leave him to do the same.

  “St. Just.” Emmie lurched to her feet and wrapped her arms around his waist. Much more slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms came around her. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but his throat was constricted with misery; so he just held her, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness and fragrance of her for the last time.

  “Hold me,” Emmie whispered desperately. “I shouldn’t ask it, and you’ve every right…”

  “Hush,” he murmured, his hand circling on her back. “I’ll hold you. It’s all right.”

  She cried silently, much worse than any of her previous, noisier outbursts, and all he could do was hold her. There was no comfort to offer, not to her, not to him. No soothing white lies, no polite fictions to murmur. There was simply sorrow to be borne. When she was quiet in his arms, St. Just walked with her back to the bench and again sat beside her.

  “I can’t help but think, Emmie”—he held her hand between both of his—“if a path is this difficult, perhaps it’s the wrong course.”

  “Nonsense.” Emmie wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief. “This can’t be any more difficult than much of what you and every other soldier has faced. It’s just…”

  He waited, wondering if now, now that her decision was becoming a reality, she would finally talk to him.

  “I’ll miss her.”

  Three true words, but they bespoke a lifetime of sacrifice and heartache.

  “She’ll miss you,” St. Just replied, “as will I. I’ll send Stevens over tomorrow to see if there’s anything you’ve forgotten, anything you need.”

  Emmie nodded but closed her eyes for an instant, and he knew she was absorbing his warning: He would not be coming around like an orphaned puppy, making excuses to take tea in her kitchen and further torment them both. He owed her more than that, and he quite frankly could not have borne the knowledge he was lusting after her even after she’d committed herself to Bothwell.

  “Farewell, then, Emmie Farnum.” He raised his hand and cradled her cheek. “Be happy.”

  “You,” she said, turning her face into his palm, “you be happy, too, S
t. Just. You deserve to be happy, and… thank you. For everything.”

  Those were good words to part on, or as good as any. He grabbed his cloak from a peg and prepared to go out the back door to hitch up his gig—and get on with his stupid, miserable life—when a loud banging came from the front hallway.

  “Are you expecting callers?” he asked. Darkness had fallen in the short time they’d tarried, making it unlikely anybody was out socializing.

  “Of course not,” Emmie said, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her to the front door. Val stood on her porch, bundled up against the cold but breathing heavily.

  “Valentine?” St. Just raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “Come in.” Emmie drew him into the house by his wrist, but it was still several moments before Val could catch his breath.

  “Can’t find Winnie,” he said between panting breaths. “I thought she was up in her room, avoiding you.” He nodded at Emmie. “Once you’d left, I went to look for her. Didn’t want her to… be alone.”

  “Take your time,” St. Just said, mentally cursing the child for her dramatics. “She’s probably visiting Scout in the stables, or in Emmie’s room, where nobody will think to look for her.”

  “No!” Val said, frustration ricocheting in that one syllable. “I had Steen organize the staff; we searched the entire house, Dev, even the attics. We searched the carriage house, the stables, the cellars, everywhere. There’s no sign of Winnie or Scout.”

  “Oh, God.” Emmie’s arms wrapped around her middle, and she abruptly looked small, lost, and on the verge of collapse.

  “Come into the kitchen,” St. Just told his brother. He slipped an arm around Emmie’s waist and kept her anchored against his side. “We’ll sort this out, Emmie. She can’t have gone far on foot, and she had sense enough to take the dog. He’ll at least leave a trail and make plenty of noise.”

  “But it’s so cold,” Emmie whispered. “Cold and miserable, and she’s so stubborn. She won’t realize how dangerous it is to take a chill. My aunt died after taking a chill.”