Page 104 of The Soldier
“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.
