Page 58 of The Soldier
“And I wasn’t even there to comment.”
“You were drunk, I was coming apart with grief, and that left, as always, Gayle to impersonate the adult in this family.”
“And he seems to be enjoying the role more and more.”
“Adulthood has its privileges,” Val said, lifting his head. “But are you enjoying them?”
“I’m doing better, little brother. My bad days are not quite as bad, and my good days are coming closer together. What of you?”
“Westhaven’s nuptials have put rather a crimp in my designs,” Val said, scowling. “I liked having the two of you where I could keep an eye on you, but I’m not about to share a home with a pair of newlyweds on the nest.”
“So come visit Yorkshire. I warn you an associate of Rose’s lives with me, Helmsley’s by-blow. She is a handful and good for me.”
“Her Grace mentioned this.” Val gave him a puzzled look. “Since when did you acquire the knack of raising children?”
“She has pretty much raised herself, and my arse is going to sleep on these stones.” He rose, rubbed his posterior, then gave his brother a hand up.
“You have calluses.” Val frowned at his brother’s hand.
“I am a stonemason, of sorts, but we can ensconce your behind on a piano bench, never fear. No calluses for my baby brother.”
“I have calluses on my lordly backside from sitting on piano benches, but as I just sent you a grand piano, I suppose it makes sense I’d go see it properly tuned and set up.”
“You’ll come with me?” St. Just asked, feeling a warmth settle in his chest at the words. He’d invited his first houseguest, and it was somebody he’d loved since birth.
“I will. It will get me the hell away from His Eternally Matchmaking Grace and our infernal sisters and their infernal marriage-mad friends.”
“We need to douse you with eau de bastard,” St. Just said. “It cools the heels of all but the most determined.”
“Oh?” Val arched an eyebrow as they started up the steps. “But doesn’t a quick dip in eau de earl bring them all out of the woodwork again?”
“In Yorkshire?” St. Just scoffed. “You can handle that crowd as long you don’t let them hear what you can do with a keyboard.”
***
“Scout says he misses Rosecroft,” Winnie informed Emmie over dinner.
“So why doesn’t Scout write to his long lost earl?” Emmie asked, barely able to keep her eyes open.
“He did. In my last letter I drew a picture of Scout. Are you sad?”
It’s just my menses, Emmie thought. It’s just three weeks of being run ragged, of dodging difficult conversations with Hadrian Bothwell, and baking more bread and goodies than all of Yorkshire should have been able to consume.
“I am not sad, exactly,” Emmie said, knowing it was a lie. Her heart was breaking, and as busy as she tried to keep herself, sadness was her constant companion. The longer she stayed here, the more difficult it was going to be to leave.
“You miss the earl,” Winnie said. “I do, too, but he promised, and it isn’t Michaelmas yet.”
“Not for another week or so. Eat some carrots, Win.”
“I do not understand why horses like these so much.” Winnie eyed her carrot then slipped her fork into her mouth. “But I don’t like grass either.”
“You’ve tried eating grass?” Emmie couldn’t help but smile.
“I was hungry.” Winnie shrugged. “And the cows and sheep and horses all grow quite stout on it. The flowers of clover aren’t bad, but I was still hungry.”
“Winnie.” Emmie reached over and gave her a one-armed hug. “You are impossible.”
“I am possible,” Winnie retorted. “Will Rosecroft bring me home a pony?”
