The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “So come visit Yorkshire. I warn you an associate of Rose’s lives with me, Helmsley’s by-blow. She is a handful and good for me.”

  “Her Grace mentioned this.” Val gave him a puzzled look. “Since when did you acquire the knack of raising children?”

  “She has pretty much raised herself, and my arse is going to sleep on these stones.” He rose, rubbed his posterior, then gave his brother a hand up.

  “You have calluses.” Val frowned at his brother’s hand.

  “I am a stonemason, of sorts, but we can ensconce your behind on a piano bench, never fear. No calluses for my baby brother.”

  “I have calluses on my lordly backside from sitting on piano benches, but as I just sent you a grand piano, I suppose it makes sense I’d go see it properly tuned and set up.”

  “You’ll come with me?” St. Just asked, feeling a warmth settle in his chest at the words. He’d invited his first houseguest, and it was somebody he’d loved since birth.

  “I will. It will get me the hell away from His Eternally Matchmaking Grace and our infernal sisters and their infernal marriage-mad friends.”

  “We need to douse you with eau de bastard,” St. Just said. “It cools the heels of all but the most determined.”

  “Oh?” Val arched an eyebrow as they started up the steps. “But doesn’t a quick dip in eau de earl bring them all out of the woodwork again?”

  “In Yorkshire?” St. Just scoffed. “You can handle that crowd as long you don’t let them hear what you can do with a keyboard.”

  ***

  “Scout says he misses Rosecroft,” Winnie informed Emmie over dinner.

  “So why doesn’t Scout write to his long lost earl?” Emmie asked, barely able to keep her eyes open.

  “He did. In my last letter I drew a picture of Scout. Are you sad?”

  It’s just my menses, Emmie thought. It’s just three weeks of being run ragged, of dodging difficult conversations with Hadrian Bothwell, and baking more bread and goodies than all of Yorkshire should have been able to consume.

  “I am not sad, exactly,” Emmie said, knowing it was a lie. Her heart was breaking, and as busy as she tried to keep herself, sadness was her constant companion. The longer she stayed here, the more difficult it was going to be to leave.

  “You miss the earl,” Winnie said. “I do, too, but he promised, and it isn’t Michaelmas yet.”

  “Not for another week or so. Eat some carrots, Win.”

  “I do not understand why horses like these so much.” Winnie eyed her carrot then slipped her fork into her mouth. “But I don’t like grass either.”

  “You’ve tried eating grass?” Emmie couldn’t help but smile.

  “I was hungry.” Winnie shrugged. “And the cows and sheep and horses all grow quite stout on it. The flowers of clover aren’t bad, but I was still hungry.”

  “Winnie.” Emmie reached over and gave her a one-armed hug. “You are impossible.”

  “I am possible,” Winnie retorted. “Will Rosecroft bring me home a pony?”

  And so it went. Winnie’s favorite conversational gambits became more and more narrowly focused on questions regarding the earl, and fantastic declarations regarding Scout’s expertise, opinions, and decisions. At one point, Winnie asked if the earl might bring a pony for Scout, and Emmie simply got up and walked out of the room.

  Hadrian Bothwell had become not just a frequent visitor to the stables but an occasional guest in Emmie’s kitchen, as well. He ensconced himself on a kitchen stool and proceeded to help himself to Emmie’s freshest products while swilling milk or tea or chocolate.

  Emmie was occupying Hadrian’s vacated stool when Stevens brought in the post, among which she found another letter from the earl. As the letter was addressed to Miss Farnum, she took the liberty of opening it.

  My dear Miss Farnum,

  I hope it pleases you to be informed I will be returning no later than the 23rd of this month and I am bringing my youngest brother, Lord Valentine, for an indefinite stay. I’ve endured my visit at Morelands well enough, spent time with my siblings and Their Graces, and while Kent has its appeal, Yorkshire is more peaceful. Douglas says I ought also to tell you I am managing not to drain the cellars at each rainstorm, though sleep has proven elusive.

  There are no stone walls here, Emmie, for me to take out my frustrations on. I ride, but Beau is such a steady fellow, I am leaving him with Westhaven to replace an old campaigner by the name of Pericles. I will be bringing more young stock north, so alert Stevens we might be on the lookout for another groom.

  There is a great deal more I would tell you, but I will be home not long after you read this. I’ve done the pretty with my solicitors and my man of business in London, and refurbished my wardrobe, as well as picked up a few things for the household. Mostly, though I look forward to being home, to waking up to the scent of fresh bread and sweet rolls, to commenting on your experiments, and seeing what can be done with the gardens before cold weather sets in.

  The trip has been useful, Emmie, but it’s homecoming I look forward to most.

  Devlin St. Just

  Rosecroft

  She was in tears when Winnie came through the door, Scout at her heels.

  “Miss Emmie? I saw Vicar leave, but why are you crying?”

  “I’m just tired, Winnie.” Emmie dredged up a watery smile and didn’t even bother reminding Winnie that the dog was not allowed in the kitchen. “As soon as I’m done with the cinnamon rolls, I think I need a nap.”

  “I think you do, too,” Winnie said, plucking one roll for herself, another for the dog. “You’re always tired.”

  “Winnie Farnum.” Emmie rose off the stool. “You did not wash your hands, you did not ask permission, nor did you help make these rolls. And yet you have given one away to that garbage scow you call a dog, who is not supposed to be in this kitchen.”

  “Scout forgot.”

  “Bronwyn.” Emmie’s tone became stern as she planted her fists on her hips. “Scout is the dog, and you are responsible for him. This is the second time he’s been in here today, young lady.”

  “C’mon Scout.” Winnie sighed hugely, snapped her fingers, and led her beast from the kitchen.

  Emmie sank back down on the stool and willed her eyes to stay open until the last batch of rolls was ready to come out of the oven. If she simply ignored the need to prepare her ingredients and kitchen for tomorrow’s baking, she could go straight up to bed and sleep for maybe ninety minutes before it was time to have dinner with Winnie. She met Cook on the stairs, explained her plan, and dragged herself up the steps.

  ***

  Rosecroft,

  I am pleased to inform you both Caesar and Wulf continue to execute consistently clean flying changes of leg, though Ethelred has developed a tendency to be late behind. Stevens has suggested work in counter canter, but I am more inclined to avoid the problem and leave it to your superior skills to address upon your return.

  I must warn you, as well, a Canine of mythical proportions has taken up residence in Miss Winnie’s heart. This beast follows her everywhere, though Miss Emmie insists the animal spend its nights in the stable, which, given his size, is only appropriate. The earth shakes when he moves, and if I could get a saddle and bridle on him, I’d suggest you add him to your training program.

  I have notified my bishop it is my intention to quit the district before the year is out. I do not exaggerate when I say that means a replacement at St. Michael’s will likely appear by May Day, or thereabouts. My brother’s health is not sound, and I am needed at his side.

  It is particularly pleasant, when family matters are not sanguine, to have the pleasure of riding your geldings. Miss Farnum accompanies me on her most excellent mare, who endeavors to set a good example for the younger fellows. Perhaps, if I am considering choosing my future viscountess, I should look to such as Petunia for my example. I have asked Miss Farnum to bear that honor, and have every hope she will agree this time.


  I am asked at least a dozen times each week what has become of you and when you will be at services again. I assure one and all (by which I mean Lady Tosten, who is well versed in churchyard dialects), you have been carried off by bandits to be sold into slavery on the Barbary Coast.

  Seriously, one hopes your journey goes well and you will soon arrive safely back to home and hearth. Miss Winnie, at the least, longs for the sight of you.

  Hadrian Bothwell, Vicar

  St. Michael’s of the Sword

  Rosecroft Village, Yorkshire

  Ten

  “So you’ll leave us on the morrow and take Mozart with you?” the duke asked as he pushed a brandy decanter toward his firstborn.

  “Val seems ready for a change, and there’s plenty of peace and quiet in Yorkshire,” St. Just replied, pouring himself half a finger of brandy and watching as His Grace cut a deck of playing cards.

  “Not drinking much these days, are you?” His Grace observed. “You’re my witness; I’m trying to behave, as well.”

  “On the advice of the physicians?”

  “Who else?” The duke rolled his eyes. “And once Her Grace gets wind of something like that, I am a doomed man.”

  “I’ve never quite understood how she manages you,” St. Just said, taking a small sip of very good brandy.

  “Neither have I.” His father smiled. “That’s part of her genius. Val gets his music from her, Westhaven his brains, and you…”

  “Yes?” St. Just arched an eyebrow, for what could he possibly have inherited from a woman with whom he shared no blood?

  “Your heart, lad.” The duke tossed his brandy back in a single swallow. “Hell and the devil, that’s good stuff.”

  “My heart?”

  “You were a puny little thing when your mother left you here.” The duke eyed his strapping son. “I am ashamed to say I did not take an adequate interest in your early years, which is part of what haunted me about Rose’s situation.”

  “Would you care to explain that?”

  “Let’s walk, shall we? Elsewise I’ll be pouring myself one more tot, and one more, and so forth, and Esther will be wroth.” He hoisted himself to his feet and led the way to the back gardens, St. Just ambling at his side.

  “You were saying you were negligent,” St. Just prompted.

  “I was.” His Grace smiled thinly. “Just as Her Grace informed me we were to become parents, the title befell me, and your mother attempted to renew her acquaintance with me. I sent her packing at first, but she was savvy enough to contact Esther a few years later and threaten to put it about I’d walked away from my by-blow.”

  “So you were indeed negligent,” St. Just said, bewildered his father would so blatantly admit such a thing.

  “It wasn’t until she contacted Esther that your mother bothered to let on you existed.” The duke sighed heavily. “Just as Gwen Hollister neglected to inform Victor of his paternity.”

  “The circumstances were very different.”

  The duke waved a dismissive hand. “Keep your powder dry, for God’s sake. We can all agree those circumstances were unfortunate all around. But in your case, I assumed your mother got pregnant on purpose then bided her time until I was invested. She approached me then waited until we had both heir and spare in hand before threatening us with you.”

  “What do you mean, threatening you?” St. Just asked, his stomach beginning to rebel against even the small amount of brandy he’d imbibed.

  “She wanted a king’s ransom to keep her mouth shut. Said she’d talk to the gossip rags, write her memoirs, drag my name through the mud, and so forth. I was younger than you are now, lad, and hadn’t much bottom. It was Esther who understood Kathleen’s real agenda.”

  “Which was?”

  “Kathleen said we could either pay, or she’d leave you on the doorstep for all the world to see. Esther told her we’d take you gladly, and Kathleen handed you over. The only condition Esther put on the transaction was that the woman was to stay away from me. My duchess is no fool.” The duke smiled dryly.

  “So that’s why I never saw my mother again?”

  The duke cocked his head. “You never saw her because she didn’t want to cost you what providence had tossed in your lap. Her Grace wrote to your mother every six months until your mother died when you were twelve. She sent likenesses and a lock of your hair. She took you to the park so your mother could sit in a closed carriage and see you from time to time, and when your mother passed on, Her Grace kept in touch with your Irish cousins. Her Grace accurately divined that Kathleen’s plan had become to see you raised under your father’s roof.”

  St. Just heard his father’s voice, a tough, pragmatic bray that had been part of his life for more than a quarter century, but the words were barely registering over the pounding in his chest.

  “I don’t understand,” he ground out. “Why wouldn’t my mother want me to know she was seeing me? I was five when she left me. I knew very well whose child I was.”

  “Your mother,” the duke said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “wanted you to prosper, St. Just. She wasn’t a bad woman; she was a good woman, in fact, but she made hard choices, and in the end, did what was best for you. She wanted you to believe you were a son of this house and felt you’d not make that transition were she tugging your heartstrings in a different direction.”

  St. Just sat there in the growing darkness, hearing crickets chirp and cicadas sing. A soft breeze was wafting over the flowers, and his whole life was being turned inside out.

  “She didn’t just walk away,” he concluded.

  “She retreated to a careful distance,” the duke said. “I have every confidence had she survived, she would have reestablished contact with you when your discretion could be trusted. In this regard, she was much more praiseworthy than Maggie’s mother.”

  “How do you reconcile yourself to this?”

  The duke shrugged. “I was young and never expecting to inherit. There was not a more useless creature on God’s earth than myself as a young man. I behaved badly and have tried to right the wrongs I’ve done. Her Grace has had her hands full with me.”

  “We all have,” St. Just muttered. “You know there were times when Bart and I were up to our knees in mud, living off cattail roots and whatever we could hunt, and he would turn to me and say, ‘At least His Grace can’t lecture us about duty now.’”

  The duke looked chagrined but nodded. “I made the same mistakes with Bart my grandfather made with his sons, and my father made with me. Pathetic, but there it is. So promise me, St. Just, you and your brothers will do better, hmm? I will be watching from the right hand of the Father, drinking all the brandy I please, ranting at your brothers, and waiting for Her Grace. You may depend upon it. And see that you join me there in due course, or Her Grace will be unhappy. Wonder how God will deal with that?”

  “You’d best not take up that position quite yet,” St. Just warned. “Rose told me before she left she wants more than this one summer with you. You are a bruising rider, and you know the best stories. As grandpapas go, you are in every way a capital fellow.”

  “And you allowed her this fiction.” The duke smiled his most charming smile. “Your sons will do the same for you one day, St. Just.”

  “Assuming I have sons.”

  “Her Grace has remarked that your years of command will give you an edge when you take up parenting,” the duke said.

  “Because I’m used to giving orders?”

  “Because you’re used to having your orders ignored. But as to that, Rosecroft, I wanted you to know I’ve had a word with those fellows at the College of Arms.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Your earldom, my lad.” The duke glanced over at him. “And yes, I am meddling, but I don’t think you’ll mind if the language of your patent simply allows for your oldest child of any description to inherit.”

  “Are you announcing a penchant for the St. Just line to produce bastards?” St. Just aske
d. “Shouldn’t it be my firstborn, natural, legitimate son surviving at the time of my death?”

  “Should.” The duke’s tone became a bit frosty. “Should is not always a useful word. Your brother Bart should have lived, so should my older brother and your brother Victor. I flattered myself you would see any of your progeny inherit rather than have the Crown get its hands on what you will no doubt make a profitable little estate.”

  “You’re sure I’ll make the earldom prosper?” St. Just asked, knowing the damage was done in terms of legal language.

  “No doubt in my mind.” The duke grinned. “You and your brothers have the knack, unlike my humble self. I wield a wealth of influence, but had Westhaven not taken up the financial reins, that’s all I’d be wielding.”

  “And you’ve told him this?”

  “I have. Boy about embarrassed himself. Asked if I was enjoying good health or if I’d done something to aggravate his mother. I could answer yes to both honestly.”

  “As you are always doing something to aggravate Her Grace,” St. Just concluded with reluctant affection.

  “Just so, lad. Just so. For example, I am now going to wheedle my eldest into sharing just one more half a tot with his dear old papa, hmm?”

  ***

  To St. Just’s great surprise, the duchess was up and waiting for him when he rose to depart before dawn the next morning. Breakfast had been a hurried business, with Val bleary-eyed across the teapot, muttering distractedly about scores and manuscripts. St. Just took himself down to the stables, where three more geldings were being readied for the trip north. Val would ride one, St. Just the other, and the third would carry a pack.

  And there, on a dusty old tack trunk, sat Esther, Her Grace, Duchess of Moreland, in a night rail and wrapper, sturdy sabots on her dainty feet.