Page 72 of The Soldier
“She does too. When you’re out there on your horses, she glances repeatedly out the window, then just stops and stares and sighs and shakes her head and starts glancing again. When she came into the music room looking for the child, she asked me what kind of music you like best.”
“I like anything you play,” St. Just said, running his finger around the rim of his snifter. “When I was in Spain, I used to occasionally catch someone at a piano when I took dispatches into the cities, and even more rarely, hear a snatch of something you might have worked on. It made me more homesick than any letter.”
Val stared at him. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t something to be sorry for. A soldier needs to be homesick, or he forgets why he fights. Scents were even worse, as they’ve wonderful roses in Spain. They reminded me of Morelands in the summer, and Her Grace.”
“Did you read those letters she gave you?”
“I’m working up my courage.”
“Shall I read them for you?”
“Thank you.” St. Just smiled slowly at the fierceness in Val’s offer. “But no, I’ll read them. It’s just that things here at Rosecroft have gone widdershins in my absence. My womenfolk are not at peace.”
“Your womenfolk being Emmie and Winnie?”
St. Just nodded and slouched against an arm of the chair. “There’s a burr under Winnie’s saddle. Emmie thinks my absence did not sit well with the child. I suspect it’s Emmie’s flirtation with the vicar that offends Winnie.”
“Could be both,” Val said, pursing his lips, “but I doubt the local vicar has made any significant progress in your absence. I’ve seen how Emmie regards you, and Winnie must see that, too.”
“The child sees entirely too much.” St. Just eyed his drink. “She was allowed to wander the estate, more or less, when her father was alive, and Emmie has curtailed that behavior since his death. Just yesterday, however, Winnie purposely ran off.”
“Running away is usually an effort to draw attention, at least it was when we did it. Sophie and Evie ran off when you and Bart joined up, and spent the night crying in the tree house.”
“And you run off to the piano bench. I run off to wrestle with rocks. I take your point, and Winnie has seen much upset in her short life.”
“Are you sure Helmsley is her father?”
“Her mother said so, apparently.” St. Just blew out a considering breath. “The earl acknowledged the child openly upon her mother’s death.”
“Who was her mother?”
“Emmie’s Aunt Estelle.” St. Just set his empty glass down. “She was not a particularly virtuous female, nor was Emmie’s mother, though I gather they both were loyal to individual protectors and not available on street corners.”
“Does Winnie have any siblings?” Val asked, refilling his own glass.
“None Emmie is aware of.” St. Just watched as his brother sipped at the second drink. “Being a professional, I assume the woman knew how to prevent such things.”
“And what was Winnie, then?” Val cocked his head. “Divine intervention? Or did the woman think to trap Helmsley into marriage? If she’d a brain in her head, she had to know that man was only going to marry money.”
“And stupid money at that.”
“Doesn’t make sense, Dev. This aunt had some sort of pension from the old earl, didn’t she? And a place to live. Such a woman had no motivation to set her cap for Helmsley, particularly not a woman ten years his senior, nor a woman trying to provide her niece a decent upbringing. I can’t imagine she was hungry to waste her remaining years on Helmsley’s bastard, either. You’re telling me she had to be older than you are now when the baby came along—several years older. Doesn’t add up to me.”
“It is puzzling,” St. Just said slowly, thinking through the questions Val had just raised. “And you’re right: It doesn’t add up.”
***
Emmie awoke the next morning, horrified to see the sun was already up. How on earth was she to get the cake to the church hall and still have her deliveries on the wagon by noon?
She had to admit, though, as she hastily put up her hair and donned a clean day dress, she hadslept, and some of the leaden, creaky feeling in her body had abated as a result. She’d slept more than twelve hours, in fact, and knew she could have bested even that record had the drapes not been drawn open.
She washed and dressed quickly and had the insight that lately, she was so tired it was hard to work efficiently, creating a spiral of inefficiency and fatigue she’d been too exhausted to see. She shook her head over that and repaired to her kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Emmie.” Anna Mae Summers emerged from the pantry, all smiles. “I’ve set the bread to cool, and I’m almost ready to start on the hot crosses. The dough for the cinnamons is rising on the hearth.”
Emmie smiled in return. “What on earth are you doing here, Anna Mae? I thought you were off to visit your sister while I’m here at the manor.”
