Page 105 of The Soldier
Seven years ago, when Devlin was five, I chose to accept your gracious offer to take him into the ducal household. I told myself this was best for him, and see now, as I am prepared to give up this life, how prescient that decision was. Devlin has the benefit of knowing his paternal siblings and of knowing you and His Grace, as well. The boy is acquiring the beginnings of a gentleman’s education, a gentleman’s speech, a gentleman’s manner and deportment. He will go on well in this life, by the lights that most people would measure.
But I am not most people. I am his mother, the only family he had for the first years of his life, and I have watched carefully from my closed carriage on those instances you have brought him to the park for me to see. He is growing quite tall and obviously fit and sound of limb, but even from a distance, I see in his eyes the reflection of my worst, most painful error.
Devlin is not so much sibling to his younger brothers as he is their bodyguard. He does not laugh with the spontaneity of an adolescent boy; he watches carefully to see what is expected of him and how he might leap to do it before he is bid. He does not speak with the carefree self-expression he had as a young child; he stammers and struggles and more often than not, simply remains silent lest his efforts embarrass him, or worse, his ducal family.
In his young eyes, I see the self-doubt I put there the day I took myself from his life. I see the distrust of all that appears good and worthy and permanent. I see the hurt and confusion of a small child who will blame himself for the loss of a loving mother, no matter how outwardly competent and successful he appears to become as a man.
I was mortally, terribly wrong to allow him to be parted from me as I did. Though I thank God nightly for your generosity and kindness, I also pray nightly that somehow my son will know my living and dying regret was that I made the wrong choice for him those years ago. I had options, Your Grace; I could have taken the allowance you offered; I could have asked for a few more years with my son; I could have allowed you to find me a decent fellow who would accept a settlement, a tarnished if repentant wife, and a dear stepson. You urged those options on me and showed your greater understanding as a mother in the process.
But I thought I knew best, and may God help my little boy, for I was wrong. At the time, I thought the sincerity of my love for Devlin would justify the consequences were my choice in error. To a small child, however, love is not love that steals away into the night, never to be seen again. I know this now, when it is too late, so I ask only that someday when the time is right, you convey these sentiments to him, as well as my unending love and pride in him and all he does.
With gratitude,
Kathleen St. Just
Bothwell sat for long minutes, staring sightlessly at the document on the table before him. Emmie silently passed him the remaining papers, and he read on. One letter was an effusive thanks from Kathleen for the privilege of seeing her five-year-old son play in the park, and a minute description of a small boy’s every adorable antic.
“She writes well,” Bothwell remarked, “but even in her happier lines, there is heartache.” Emmie merely nodded and passed him the third epistle, probably the first one the woman had written to St. Just’s stepmother. Kathleen detailed the child’s preferences, fears, pastimes, accomplishments, favorite articles of clothing, sleeping habits, dietary habits, and disclosed that he still sucked his thumb when he was very tired or upset.
“She knew her son,” Bothwell said, putting the letter aside.
“But she did not know best for him,” Emmie replied, staring at her cold tea. “Just being his mother did not make her infallible.”
Bothwell patted her hand. “I have the privilege of working for the only infallible parent known to man.”
Emmie didn’t even smile at that.
Bothwell withdrew his hand. “Emmie, you know I would accept Winnie into our household. Her steppapa would not be a duke but a lowly, rusticating viscount’s heir, though I would do my best by the child and by you. I have to agree with this lady.” He gestured to the letters. “Where there is no compelling reason to the contrary, little children should be with their mothers, particularly if she’s the only parent to hand.”
Emmie nodded but said nothing, letting the silence stretch.
“Emmie.” Bothwell moved around the table, sat beside her, and took her hand in his—her very cold hand. “I need to hear you tell me, my dear. You can turn a fellow down, but you have to actually go about it with some words. You know the speech; you delivered it nicely last time: Hadrian, you do me great honor… You recall the one?”
“All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. To Hadrian, it felt as if she’d been so intensely preoccupied with her internal landscape that the process of speech had to be actively recalled before she could rely on it. “No, Hadrian, or no thank you. I can’t seem to muster my former eloquence, but I am grateful. You mean well, and you do me honor, but I cannot be your viscountess.”
“Well, that suffices.” He offered her a wan smile. “But, Emmie? What will you do now?”
***
For that smile, for not dropping her hand and making a hasty, awkward departure, Emmie found she did love Hadrian Bothwell just a little. Hewasdoing her an honor, both by proposing again and by remaining seated at her side when she’d rejected him.
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and sat back, their hands still joined. “I don’t know what to do, Hadrian. I have perpetrated falsehoods and betrayed trust and been stupid.”
“As bad as all that? Haven’t you also loved and loved and loved?”
“No.” Emmie shook her head. “Love trusts.”
“Winnie trusts you,” Hadrian insisted, but Emmie did not meet his gaze, and the man was perceptive enough to hear what wasn’t being said.
“Ah.” He did drop her hand then, patting it a little to soften the gesture. “Well, then, Emmie, if love trusts, then you must show some trust now and give St. Just a chance to repair this damage you feel you’ve done. He is a good man.”
“I know,” Emmie said, rising and gathering up the tea things. Bothwell did not rise, which was fortunate, as Emmie needed to be up and moving, and she needed to move away from him and away from her recent admissions. “He is a very good man, but he will not forgive this.”
“He does not strike me as the judgmental, righteous sort, Emmie.”
“You are being blessedly honest, Hadrian.”
“Blessedly, indeed.” His tone was dry as dust, suggesting there was a man inside the collar he wore, not just a church functionary.
