Page 100 of The Soldier
“You cried, too?” Winnie said, her misery plain on her face.
“Like my heart would never mend,” St. Just assured her. He let her stew with that thought, took a sip of the tea, and passed it back to her. “We thought you were dead, Win,” he went on. “Cold and wet and frozen at the bottom of that pond. I will never see it as such a pretty place again. I will see the water, black and icy, and our dear Emmie, trying not to cry while she near freezes to death herself. Not well done of you, my girl.”
Emmie stood at the sink, her back to them and suspiciously rigid.
“I wanted to run away,” Winnie finally said, “so Emmie will know how I’ll feel when she runs away to Cumbria.” She wiggled down the bench and pelted off into the parlor, the door swinging several times back and forth in the ensuing silence.
“Oh, Devlin.” Emmie turned, her arms wrapped around her middle, but St. Just did not cross the kitchen to comfort her. He instead met her gaze for a long moment.
“And you know what, Em?” he said, turning his tea mug by the handle. “Winnie and I are going to feel like that—bewildered and hurting and scared—for much more than a few hours or a few days. She’ll carry some of that feeling with her for the rest of her life. She’ll do the same stupid things you did because your papa ran off, and the same stupid things I did because my mother passed me off to Their Graces. Think about that while I fill up your wood boxes.”
His tone had been perfectly, utterly civil, musing even, but Emmie felt like Winnie had slapped her soundly and St. Just had followed up with a swift kick to the ribs.
Like my heart would never mend, St. Just had said. Emmie watched through her back window, listening to the steady, solidwump!of the splitting ax cleaving seasoned logs, underscored by Winnie’s soft weeping from the parlor. She went to the child and put her arms around her.
“I’m sorry, Win,” Emmie said, meaning it like she’d never meant it before. “I’m sorry I’m running away.” Winnie nodded, wrapped her arms around Emmie’s neck, and cried harder.
***
Hadrian Bothwell loved a pretty snowfall. Here there was real beauty, and lots of it. He’d cadged a useful idea for the sermon from one of his confreres the previous week; in fact, he’d come home with a whole recipe box of homilies and traded off some his more popular efforts in exchange.
Which meant yesterday had been available for much-needed rest and even more-needed thought. He was to resolve his situation with Emmie Farnum today, and Rosecroft’s visit yesterday morning had plagued him unmercifully. He’d gone to bed falling back on that old chestnut of faith, that the way would be made clear if he just showed patience and attentiveness.
Here it was, though, Sunday morning, bright and early, and the way was no more clear than it had been a day ago.
So he took his rested self out on a morning constitutional, his most trusted means of organizing a sermon for presentation and one of his favorite pastimes. He got an early start because he had been such a sloth the day before, but also because he loved a fresh snowfall, and this one was perfect. There was probably six inches of soft, powdery snow blanketing the entire landscape. The sky was a brilliant blue, the rising sun casting everything in sharp, bright relief, and no one was about yet. It was a perfect morning for a walk in the woods. God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world.
***
“Eat something, Winnie,” Emmie pleaded. “You hardly had anything yesterday, and you’ll need energy if you’re to be out in this cold.”
“Scout kept me warm yesterday. I’m just not very hungry.”
Emmie’s gaze met St. Just’s, but he gave a slight shake of his head and reached for Winnie’s plate of eggs. The child wasn’t being manipulative, she was simply honestly upset.
“I’ll eat these, then,” St. Just said, “as they are very good, and even the Duke of Scout does not deserve something quite this tasty.”
Winnie frowned. “The Duke of Scout?”
“Every hour you were gone,” St. Just said between bites, “every hour he stayed with you and protected you and kept you warm, his title was elevated. He ought to be some kind of deity, but one doesn’t want to disrespect our regent.”
Winnie smiled faintly at this nonsense. “I could call him Your Grace, just like Rose’s grandpapa.”
“Like Rose’s grandpapa, indeed.” St. Just arched an eyebrow. “But if you’re not going to eat breakfast, Win, you need to finish getting dressed and bundle up. It looks warmer outside than it is, with all that bright sunshine.”
Emmie came over and cleared Winnie’s tea mug.
“You have some old clothes up in your bedroom, Winnie. Wear at least two sets of leggings and a sweater, if you can find one.” Winnie disappeared up the steps, Scout trotting along at her heels, oblivious to his newly acquired consequence.
“I’d better bundle up, as well.” St. Just rose and brought his empty plates to the sink. “Are my clothes still in the parlor?”
“I’ll get them,” Emmie said. “Have another cup of tea.”
He did, for no reason other than to comply with her order. She brought his waistcoat and cloak to him, both warm and stiff from being near the fire for so long.
“I also found these in your pocket,” Emmie said, passing him some folded papers. “I took them out so the damp wouldn’t get to them. They seem all right.” St. Just paused as he was buttoning up his waistcoat and recognized three of his mother’s letters.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the letters. “Those are of sentimental importance to me, and I would have missed them.” He should make copies of the entire lot for safekeeping—something to occupy him while he was missing Emmie.
