“You’ve such lovely views here. There’s a great deal of chatter at the pub regarding the possibility you could revive the old earl’s flowers.”
“You mean trade in flowers commercially?” The earl waited for his guest to take a wing chair. “That had not crossed my mind. I’m more inclined toward the breeding and training of riding stock.”
“So my brother informed me,” Bothwell said, taking a seat. “The old earl was much loved, and his gardens were a source of local pride.”
“Your brother.” The earl frowned in concentration, trying to think of what title went with the Bothwell family name. “Viscount Landover?”
“The very one. I comfort myself that while I’m in Yorkshire, he’s doomed to Cumbria.”
“Pretty over there, though. At least in summer.”
“Which, if you’re lucky, lasts six entire weeks. I see you have made the acquaintance of the misses Farnum.” Out across the gardens, Emmie was leading Winnie along by the hand, a bucket of gardening tools in her other hand.
“As Miss Bronwyn dwells here, I could not avoid Miss Farnum’s company.”
“Bronwyn is an exceptionally bright little girl,” the vicar said. “And considering Miss Farnum’s circumstances, she has done what she could for Bronwyn.”
“Her circumstances?” The earl felt his temper stirring to life but kept his expression bland.
“Miss Farnum did not dwell at Rosecroft,” the vicar pointed out, “but Miss Bronwyn did. No young lady with any care for her own safety would frequent the late Lord Helmsley’s household, so Miss Farnum’s access to the child was limited. Then, too, Miss Farnum has her own concerns.”
The earl counted slowly to twenty while the refreshments were brought, then speared the vicar with a glower.
“Are you trying to politely remind me Miss Farnum’s origins are humble?” the earl inquired, handing his guest a cold glass of lemonade.
The vicar met his gaze, stalled by sipping his drink, then studied it.
“Emmaline Farnum’s position in this community is precarious. I do not like it, but the damage was done before I arrived. It is a sad fact that association with her will not inure to Miss Bronwyn’s benefit, though your own influence will weigh considerably despite that.”
“Miss Farnum is judged for her lack of standing?”
The vicar nodded as he set his drink down. “For her lack of standing, as you put it, and for her financial independence, for her good looks, and her smile, and her unwillingness to bow her head in shame. For her excellent baking, her education, her having traveled beyond this benighted valley. If it’s a good quality, a strength, then someone will condemn her for it.”
“You sound sympathetic to the lady.”
“I offered for her,” the vicar said, a soft note of chagrin in his voice. “She turned me down so gently, I almost didn’t know I was being rejected.”
“Let me guess.” The earl’s lips pursed. “She pointed out a vicar’s wife must be above reproach, pretensions to gentry, at least, but in truth, Miss Farnum wasn’t going to make any move that took her farther from Miss Winnie’s ambit or limited her own independence.”
Bothwell’s eyebrows shot up, and then he nodded. “I hadn’t put my finger on it, but she was certainly not listing the reasons that really motivated her. Unfortunately, my respect for the woman is undiminished.”
“You think being a vicar’s wife such an improvement over her current circumstances?”
“I think being this vicar’s wife could be,” Bothwell retorted. The earl was forced to acknowledge Bothwell was attractive, well built, and possessed of a pleasant demeanor. Like many men of the church, the man was also nobody’s fool when it came to dealing with people. “I work for the church to appease my late father’s sense a man should not simply be idle in this life, my lord, but I am at least comfortably well off and not that hard to look on.”
“Not that modest, you mean.” The earl had to smile. “If it’s any comfort to you, Miss Farnum has agreed to serve as a temporary governess to Winnie here at Rosecroft. That puts both ladies under my protection, and I will not countenance disrespect to either one of them.”
“Thought that might be your inclination.”
The earl’s smile turned sardonic. “As your brother no doubt informed you, the circumstances of my own birth left something to be desired.”
“My brother, the esteemed viscount, was a six months’ wonder.” The vicar grinned as he picked up his drink again. “And that type of miracle occurs with alarming frequency among the good flock at St. Michael’s.”
“You don’t preach temperance? Self-restraint, abstinence?”
“I preach tolerance,” the vicar shot back, “and looking to one’s own house before judging another, and loving one’s neighbor as one’s self.”
“And as long as you’re unmarried you can preach any blessed thing you want, and at least the females in the district will be raptly attentive.”
The vicar’s smile dimmed. “Now that is an unarguable fact. I did not appreciate until my wife died just how vulnerable a vicar is to the schemes of a potential mother-in-law.”
“My condolences, Bothwell.” The earl watched as Bothwell took a hefty swallow of his drink. The man looked entirely too young to have buried a wife.
“It has been a few years.” Bothwell shrugged. “The first year is the hardest, and the congregation has been considerate. I’d forgotten you lost a brother in the war.”
The earl smiled at him in understanding. “Would that I could forget.”
“Well.” Bothwell glanced away, out the window. “Now that you’ve heard my confession, I’ll move along, and maybe some great inspiration for the week’s sermon will come to me while I’m walking home.”
“You don’t ride?” A younger son of a viscount had no excuse for not riding.
“When I came to Rosecroft village four years ago,” Bothwell said, getting to his feet, “the fellow who held the living previously had died. The congregation had fitted him out with a nice sturdy driving horse, as the old boy was too stiff to sit a horse. It would insult my parishioners were I to trot around on some piece of bloodstock, but it offends my sensibilities to stare at that… plough horse’s fundament whenever I want to make a call.”
The earl rose, as well. “I am burdened with more horses than I have time to exercise, so perhaps you’d join me on the occasional hack?”
“I would love to.” The vicar closed his eyes as he spoke, as if uttering a prayer, and the earl perceived the situation was dire.
“Come along,” he said, leading Bothwell toward the door. “My breeches will be loose on you, but my boots will likely fit.”
***
“Hello, ladies.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled as Emmie and Winnie approached the stable and Stevens led the horses away. “Is that libation you bear?”
“It’s lemonade,” Winnie said, “and we brought some cheese breads, too.”
“Cheese breads?” The vicar struck his chest with a dramatic fist. “Oh, let me die in this state of bliss, to know cheese breads are in my immediate future.” Emmie set her tray down on a shaded bench and smiled at the vicar.
“Hello, Miss Emmie.” Bothwell smiled back at her, and to the earl’s watchful eye, there was just a bit too much longing and wistfulness in that smile. When the vicar brushed a kiss on the lady’s cheek, St. Just would have rolled his eyes, except Winnie was watching him too closely. Winnie rolled her eyes though, and that restored his humor.
“Hullo, Miss Winnie.” The earl swung her up onto his shoulders. “You are the lookout, so spy me some of these cheese breads.”
“Over there.” Winnie pointed. “On the bench near the lemonade.”
The earl ambled over and bent at the knees to retrieve one.
“Hold my gloves.” He held both hands up for Winnie to whisk off his gloves. “On second thought, you need to eat, too. I can barely tell you’re up there. Toss the gloves to the bench.”
She com
plied and accepted a small, golden brown roll. As she munched, crumbs fell to the earl’s hair.
“These are good,” the earl pronounced, taking a bite of his own cheese bread. “Aren’t you going to have one, Miss Farnum?”
“I believe I will,” Emmie replied, avoiding his eyes. “Vicar?”
“But of course.”
“Lock your elbows, Winnie.” St. Just hefted her up and over his head, then set her on the ground.
“You have crumbs in your hair,” Winnie said around a mouthful of bread.
“I am starting the latest rage in bird feeders. May I have some lemonade, Miss Farnum?”
“You may, but bend down.”
He complied, bending his head so she could swat at his hair. Except she didn’t swat; she winnowed her fingers through his hair and sifted slowly, repeating the maneuver several times. The earl was left staring at her décolletage and inhaling the fresh, flowery scent wafting from her cleavage.
“Now you are disheveled but no longer attractive to wildlife.”
“Pity,” he murmured as he accepted a glass. “Vicar, are you drinking?”
“I am, and eating. Shall we sit?” He gestured to the little grouping under the shade a few yards from the barn and seated himself with enough room on either side of his bench for a young lady to join him.
Clever bastard.
“You haven’t made cheese breads for a long time, Emmie,” Bothwell said. “I was missing them.”
“I’m glad you like them. May I send some along home with you?”
“I would be eternally indebted and the envy of all who call on me for the next two days.” The small talk went on for a few more minutes as the cheese breads and lemonade disappeared, but then Bothwell rose on a contented sigh. “Rosecroft, thanks for a great gallop.”
“Are you busy tomorrow afternoon? I’m working them almost every day, but when they’re not in company, they spend half the ride dodging rabbits and outrunning their own shadows.”
“Ah, youth. I will present myself in riding attire tomorrow at two of the clock, weather permitting. Ladies, good day, and Emmie, you know I would love to see you any Sunday you take a notion to join us.”
“Thank you, Hadrian.” Her smile was gracious, but the earl, watching her closely, saw a hint of something—regret, sorrow, sadness?—in her eyes. “Bronwyn, shall we take the tray and mugs back to the kitchen?”
“Leave it,” the earl ordered, watching the vicar disappear into the woods. “I take it the vicarage is somewhere in the vicinity of your cottage?”
“Just the other side of the hill. Two vicars ago, we had a fellow here with ten children, and the little place by the church was just too modest. The old earl had the present manse built, and the house by the church is now the parish hall.”
“And Bothwell is your nearest neighbor.” Lovely.
“You are my nearest neighbor, my lord. Winnie, would you mind taking these gloves into the tack room, and I thought you were going to offer the carrots to the horses?”
“If Stevens says the horses are cool enough,” the earl added then turned his gaze back to Emmie. “Shall we get it over with?”
“I beg your pardon?” She kept her eyes on Winnie’s retreating form.
“Isn’t this where you apologize for your lamentable lapse of composure last night and I assure you it is already forgotten?”
“Is it?” She sounded hopeful. “Forgotten, I mean?”
“It is not.” He grinned unrepentantly. “The feel of a lovely woman in my arms has become too rare a treat to banish from memory. Even your hair smells luscious.”
Emmie frowned. “Why?”
“Because you use scented soap, I suppose.” His tone was admirably solemn.
“No.” Emmie shook her head and raised a serious gaze to his. “Why has the company of a pretty woman become rare? You’re handsome, wealthy, titled, well connected, and without significant faults. You even have a recipe for apple tarts and are patient with children. Why aren’t you surrounded with pretty women?”
“It’s complicated, Emmie.” He realized too late he’d used her given name but wasn’t about to apologize for it. “When you are the son of duke, you are a target for any ambitious woman. My brother’s last mistress went so far as to conceive a child with somebody who resembled him in hopes she would find herself with a ring on her finger.” And he ought to be apologizing for such a disclosure to a lady of Emmie’s gentility, except she looked intrigued more than shocked.
“My lands! Whatever became of such a creature?”
“With my brother’s prompting, the child’s father married her, and they are in anticipation of a happy event on the lovely little estate Westhaven deeded them as a wedding present. My point is that the women trying to spend time with me wanted something I was not prepared to give.”
“And what of other women?” Emmie asked, a blush suffusing her face. “The women like my aunt and my mother?”
“Coin I have to give, but the interest in such an arrangement was lacking on my part.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say what popped into his mind: I’ve seen too much of rape.
But Emmie’s gaze was downcast, and he couldn’t say those words to her. She was too good, too honest, and too innocent for him to burden her with such violent confidences, though he stored the thought away for his own consideration later.
“Come.” He rose and angled his arm out. “Let’s retrieve the prodigy and repair to the manor. If we put her in a tub full of lavender bubbles now, she might be clean enough to join us by supper time.”
“I’m not as fragile as you think,” Emmie said as they strolled along. He gazed over at her curiously, but kept walking. “I’m not as fragile, or as virtuous, or as… You could have told me, whatever you just didn’t say. You could have told me.”
He stopped but kept his eyes on the wood some distance from them. It was almost as if she considered his reticence not a courtesy but a rejection, and that he could not abide.
“Women can be victimized in ways men cannot be, as you are no doubt aware. When the victimizing is blatantly violent, it can raise the question why any woman would ever have anything to do with any man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, Emmie…” He dropped her arm and paced off a few feet. “After a siege, the generals would let the troops storm a city. Those fellows whom you’ve seen parade about so smartly in their regimentals become animals, murdering, looting, and worse, until strong measures are taken to curb their behaviors. It’s tactical, as each city so abused is an inspiration for the next one to capitulate without resistance.”
“So even a man’s base urges become a weapon for the Crown. His own commanders set him up to lose his dignity, his humanity.”
“War sets him up.”
“Were you one of those so used?”
“I was not.” He shook his head and risked a glance at her over his shoulder. “I was one of the stern measures applied to bring back order when the looting, pillaging, and rapine were done, but that could be as much as several days after breaching the walls.”
Emmie’s fingers threaded through his, and he felt her head on his shoulder. “So after turning a place into hell on earth, the generals expected you to restore it to civilization.”
St. Just merely nodded, his throat constricting as memories threatened to rise up.
“But nobody has been sent along to retrieve you from hell yet, have they?” Emmie asked, and she sounded angry, indignant on his behalf. She slipped her hand over his arm, and in silence, accompanied him back to the manor house. Their proximity was completely proper, their appearance that of a couple at peace with each other, but neither could speak a single, civil word.
Five
“I have no excuse for my earlier comments,” the earl said when he met Emmie in the front parlor before dinner several hours later. “Please accept my thanks for your understanding, so I can try to gather my dignity before Amery comes down and starts sniffing about. Wou
ld you like some sherry? You may consider it medicinal.”
“Sherry appeals.” Emmie nodded, but she noticed, as well, the strain around the earl’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I am not,” he said, frowning. “Or not as all right as I’d wish to be, as you’ve just seen. I march around here, giving orders and accomplishing my list of tasks, but it’s as if I’m standing on a trapdoor, and without warning, I land in a heap at my own feet.” He looked nonplussed at his own honesty. “You did ask, and I’ve the sense you wanted to know.”
“I did and I did. I wish I could catch you.”
The words were out, and she regretted them until she saw the earl looking at her over his drink with such an expression of… disbelief, or relief. Appreciation, even.
“You are wonderfully kind, Emmie Farnum.” His eyes smiled at her while his mouth remained solemn. “And it is good… no, it is essential to know there are such people in the world. In my world. Your sherry.”
When he handed her the drink, his fingers lingered over hers, and Emmie let herself enjoy it. She was relieved, of course, to think she wasn’t the only person who occasionally got upset or overwhelmed or flustered. But she was also still angry at the violence done to a good man in the name of King and Country. He looked so strong and fit and competent, but he’d been, again, deceptive. He was a wounded barbarian. A kind, shrewd, handsome, wounded barbarian.
The conversation at dinner moved along as Emmie mostly watched, with the earl and his guest discussing the estate business, mutual acquaintances, and even horses they both knew.
Emmie let them prattle on, the long day and the excellent meal catching up with her. Getting up very early to bake and pack her goods for delivery, then spending the days trying to keep up with Winnie, and her nights not exactly sleeping soundly, was taking a toll.
“She’s asleep on her feet,” Emmie heard, only to turn her head to find the earl smiling at her.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen.” She offered a tired smile. “I was woolgathering.”
The Soldier Page 9
