Page 47 of The Soldier
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Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just getonwith it?Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it…?
The words circled in his head, present and past blending in one pounding drumbeat of fear, anxiety, and impending death.Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?Up and down the lines, the men had wondered the same thing. The cannons had gone silent, and the waiting had stretched for hours.
Smells came back to him, of mud, summer mud thick from the previous night’s heavy rain then baked in the June heat. Damp woolen uniforms and the sweat of scared men, men who knew they’d already survived more battles than fate allowed.
Sounds beat against his sanity, the sound of restless horses, feet tramping in the mud, bridles and harness jingling with incongruous cheer across the still morning. The sound of men praying, muttering, swearing…Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?
“Shall I saddle up Wulf, my lord?”
His mind snagged on the thought that Wulf hadn’t been at Waterloo. St. Just followed the voice with his gaze and found Stevens looking at him expectantly. Stevens, his groom… at Rosecroft… in Yorkshire.
“You all right, then?” Stevens asked, clearly uncomfortable.
St. Just shook his head and walked away, around to the back of the stables and then along the stone wall running down the hill from it. He took off his shirt, and with his bare hands, began to wrestle with the solid Yorkshire rocks, restoring them to order one backbreaking, sweating minute, by backbreaking, sweating minute.
From her bedroom, Emmie watched out the windows, seeing the earl wrestling with his stone wall. He’d be sunburned again, and he wasn’t wearing gloves either. She could send Lord Amery down with a pair, but something in the earl’s desperate focus suggested even that intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. On and on he toiled, bringing a neat, solid form to what had been cascading into chaos. Emmie must have stood there for an hour, and still she was left wondering: If she’d allowed him to stay in her bed last night, if she’d trusted him with her deepest failings and fears, would he be out in the broiling sun, blistering his hands and straining his back trying to rebuild a stupid stone wall?
Eight
Almost a week after walking out of the attic and St. Just was still jumping at loud noises, tossing half the night, and eyeing the brandy decanter like a long-lost friend.
Which it was not, he reminded himself sternly. Banishing the thought of a drink at midmorning, he took himself off to the kitchens, there to accost Emmie Farnum and have the discussion they needed to have before his departure with Douglas.
He found his quarry rolling out sticky buns, the kitchen redolent with the smells of cinnamon, yeast, honey, and vanilla. He leaned in the doorway and treated himself to the sight of her elbow-deep in flour, her hair in its tidy bun, a plain blue day dress under her floury apron. He wrestled with the impulse to sneak up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist, and kiss the nape of her neck.
At his sigh of self-denial, Emmie’s brows flew up.
“My lands! I didn’t see you lurking there. If you’ve come to snitch, there’s a tray cooling on the counter beside the sink.” He sidled over to the sink, snagged a bun, and then went to the pantry to pour himself a glass of cold milk.
“What else are you making?” he asked between bites. She had flour on her cheek again, and it fascinated him. “These are good, by the way.”
“I will finish up this batch,” Emmie said, rolling up the dough and reaching for a sharp knife, “and then I have some pies to make. I’ll do more cheese bread, and if there’s time…” He’d come to stand beside her, right beside her, close enough to catch the subtle floral scent of her beneath the kitchen fragrances.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, arranging the cut buns in a greased pan.
He let off a bark of mirthless laughter but took another bite of sticky bun and watched as she moved away from him to put the pan in the oven.
“It is my imagination, Emmie, or has your business picked up?” he asked, eyeing the remaining sticky buns.
“No more,” she scolded. “They’ll ruin your luncheon. And yes, I am doing a greater volume of business. But you didn’t come here to grill me on how my baking is going.”
“I did not,” he agreed, sitting down on the worktable with his milk. “I came here to discuss this trip with you.”
“I am all ears.” Emmie started measuring out butter, sugar, flour, and eggs for her next recipe.
“Emmie.” He reached over and put a hand on her arm. “I know you are busy, but might you spare me a few minutes of your time? I don’t want to talk to your sticky buns; I want to talk to you.”
“Very well.” Emmie untied her apron then grabbed a mug of cider. “Let’s go out on the terrace. I’ve been inside all morning, and some sunshine would be appreciated.”
He let her precede him to the adjoining terrace, thinking the smell of horse was probably more bearable if they were out of doors. He also, God help him, watched the twitch and sway of Emmie’s skirts and found himself again thinking of kissing her nape.
Emmie picked out a shady bench and settled herself. “What was it you wanted to say?”
St. Just frowned and, uninvited, assumed a place directly beside her. He was thinking of stealing kisses while she was… convening the town meeting.
“It occurred to me,” he began, “Winnie is settling in here nicely, and at one time, I planned to find her a permanent governess.”
