Page 53 of The Soldier
Nine
“I am glad to see you putting her through her paces.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled at Emmie from Caesar’s back. “A week is long enough for a placid animal to settle in.”
“Petunia is not placid; she is dignified, and I could hardly join you without a proper habit, could I?”
“S’pose not. So have we heard from Rosecroft?”
“Not yet.” Emmie patted the mare’s neck. “But it has only been a week or so. Winnie has written to him twice and to her friend Rose, as well.”
“When do you think he’ll take Winnie to meet his family?” Bothwell held his mount back so they could ride side by side. “Or hasn’t he told them of Helmsley’s indiscretion?”
“I’m sure he has,” Emmie replied as mildly as she could. Helmsley’sindiscretion, indeed. “He was considering taking her with him on this trip but wanted to be able to travel quickly.”
“One can see where a child would thwart that aim.” Bothwell glanced over as if he’d belatedly sensed his poor choice of words. “I think Miss Winnie must be running you ragged, as well, Emmaline Farnum. You look like you’ve come off a hard winter, my girl.”
“I am just a little fatigued,” Emmie said, feeling her irritation spike, though she considered Hadrian a friend. When he’d first come by her bakery, he’d always chatted for a few moments and appeared to take an interest in her welfare—a little more than the interest of a vicar or a neighbor. Then he’d run into her a few times in town, making purchases, and insisted on walking with her and carrying her packages. Emmie had considered it his public declaration of tolerance for one in her position; but then had come his proposal. It had been almost two years ago, and she was still a little perplexed by it.
Flattered, but perplexed.
“Emmie.” Hadrian steered his horse toward a small clearing that sported a gazebo and some vestiges of flower beds overgrown with asters. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to speak with you about, but the moment hasn’t presented itself. If you have a few minutes, I’d like you to hear me out.”
His blue eyes were looking dreadfully solemn, and his handsome features were serious. Emmie let him assist her to dismount but felt the first twinge of anxiety when he held her by the waist for a moment, searching her eyes before stepping back.
Had that been an embrace?
“Come.” He took her gloved hand in his and led her to the gazebo, leaving the horses to crop grass. When she sat on the bench inside the little wooden structure, he surprised her further by sitting beside her and taking off his gloves, then hers.
“Hadrian?” She looked up at him expectantly. “You’re not going to propose again, are you?”
“I am,” he said. “Before you reject me out of hand—again—I want you to know a few things.” He laced his fingers through hers, his hand cool and dry against her palm.
“Go on,” she urged, curious but unable to escape a sense of dread, as well.
“I’ve received word from my brother that his prognosis is not… cheering,” the vicar began. “We’ve known for some time his health was fading, but it isn’t something that was acknowledged, until now.”
“Hadrian, I’m sorry,” Emmie said, meaning it. The man had lost his wife just a few years previously, and as far as she knew, his brother was his only surviving family.
“I am sorry, as well. Harold is a good man and a better viscount than I will ever be, but as the saying goes, these things are in God’s hands.”
“Not much comfort now, is it?” Emmie offered him a wan smile.
“Not much, though as a consequence of Harold’s situation, I will be resigning from the living at St. Michael’s by spring at the latest, if not by Christmas. I’ve always put Hal off when he wanted to get into details of the estate management and the investments. But he’s told me I’m not to stall anymore, and he means it.”
“So you will be leaving us,” Emmie concluded, feeling a definite pang. Hadrian had been kind to her.
“I will be leaving. I want you to come with me.”
She shook her head and tried gently to untangle their fingers. “I cannot. You do me great honor, but you must understand—”
“Understand what, Emmie?” he shot back in low, intense tones. “Rosecroft will see to the child. I’ll make him dower her and establish a trust if you like before we go. He’ll do it, too, if he hasn’t already. You’d be shut of these rural busybodies, and you would be my viscountess.”
He was so earnest, so convinced of the rightness of his plan, Emmie felt her resolve crumbling. It was best to be firm—she knew that—but were it not for Winnie…
“Don’t answer me now.” He laid a finger to her lips. “I can see you are torn, but, Emmie, my brother has been a good manager, and my family prospers, at least financially. You would never have to haul your own coal again, never have to lime the privy yourself, never have to set foot in a kitchen if you didn’t want to.”
“I am aware of the burdens you would ease for me, Hadrian,” she said quietly, rising and turning to look out over the fields of Rosecroft. He stepped up behind her, and she felt him rest his hands on her shoulders.
“And I can understand, Hadrian, why marriage to you might appeal to me, or to any young lady who knows you. But what does marriage to me have to recommend it? I am not young; you will need at least an heir. I am not received, and for all you know, I would not be the most accommodating partner regarding my marital duties. There is absolutely nothing about this bargain that makes sense to me from your perspective.” She stood with her back to him, feeling his hands resting on her shoulders.
