Page 77 of The Soldier
The off-balance mood of the household continued for the rest of the day, with Winnie pitching a tantrum at the dinner table when Emmie asked St. Just about the governess candidates. Val watched the unfolding scene and suggested St. Just write to Her Grace about little girls who pitch public fits.
“You have a point.” St. Just eyed his brother across the table. “It can’t hurt.” He shoved to his feet. “I’ll just dash off a couple more notes then seek my bed. You will excuse me, Val, if I eschew the decanter?”
“Get your rest”—Val waved him off—“while I flirt with Emmie and winkle recipes from her.” St. Just bowed to Emmie and departed, hoping Val would mind his manners while he was flirting and winkling.
St. Just came out of the library some time later and headed for the stairs. His first thought was to make directly for bed, but a light shone from Winnie’s bedroom, and the child’s outburst still troubled him. He tapped lightly then let himself in, finding Winnie sitting on the bed, a single candle burning while she labored at her lap desk.
“You’ll lose your eyesight by the time you’re old enough to dance, child.” He ambled into the room and considered lighting more candles. “Did you light that one yourself, or did Mary Ellen leave it for you?”
“I asked her to leave it.”
“But you told her it was because you were afraid of the dark”—St. Just lowered himself to the foot of her bed—“not because you wanted to stay up, writing royal warrants of execution for every adult in the house.”
“What’s a warrant of execution?”
“Win.” He leaned his head back against the bedpost. “You’d better come clean soon, or you’ll miss more than dessert the next time you’re rude to Miss Emmie.”
“I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said. “I don’t need a governess. I can already do sums and read, and double and divide a recipe. I can write letters, and I know my prayers. I don’t need a governess.”
“Weisst du, das Ich liebe dich?” he asked, “Ou je t’aime? O, yo te amo?”
“What?”
“I just told you I love you in three different languages, Winnie Farnum, but because you’re not done with your education, you could not comprehend my words. Emmie might be able to teach you a smattering of one of them.”
“You can teach me the other two,” Winnie shot back, “and I can understand English fine.”
“My point is that Emmie loves you, and I love you, but there is more you need if you’re to do well in this life. A governess is not being hired to punish you, but to help you.”
“I don’t want help,” Winnie said through clenched teeth. St. Just was too tired to argue, too tired to chastise the child for her tone of voice, her disrespect, or her stubbornness.
“So what do you want?” St. Just asked quietly. Winnie looked away, reminding him poignantly of Emmie in the midst of difficult discussions. “What do you want, princess?” he asked again.
“I want…” Winnie’s little shoulders heaved, and still St. Just waited. “I want Emmie to s-s-stay.” She hurled herself across the mattress, sending her writing implements flying in her haste to throw herself into St. Just’s arms. “Don’t let her go away,please,” Winnie wailed. “I’ll be good, just… Make her stay. You have to make her stay.”
He wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried, producing a handkerchief when the storm seemed to be subsiding. All the while he held her, he thought of Her Grace raising ten children, ten little hearts that potentially broke over every lost stuffed bear, dead pony, and broken toy. Ten stubborn little chins, ten complicated little minds, each as dear and deserving as the last, and all with intense little worlds of their own.
Ye Gods.And what to say? Never lie to your men, St. Just admonished himself…
“I don’t want her to go, either,” St. Just murmured when Winnie’s tears had quieted to sniffles. “But Emmie has her business to run, Win. She won’t go far, though, just back to the cottage, and we can visit her there a lot.”Like hell.
“She isn’t going to the cottage,” Winnie replied with desperate conviction. “She’s going to marry Vicar and his brother will die and she’ll be rich, but far, far away. Cumbria is like another country, farther away than Scotland or France oranywhere.”
“Hush,” St. Just soothed, fearing he was about to witness the youngest female crying jag of his experience. “Emmie hasn’t said anything to me, Winnie, and I think she’d let me know if she were going somewhere.”
She had, however, told him to find another governess by Christmas at the latest.
“She’s going,” Winnie said, heartsick misery in her tone. “I know it, but she’ll listen to you if you tell her to stay.”
“I can’t tell her, Win.” St. Just rose to turn back the bedcovers. “I can only ask.”
“Then ask her,” Winnie pleaded as she scooted between the sheets. “Please, youhaveto.”
“I will ask her what her plans are, but that doesn’t affect your needing and deserving a governess. Understand?” When Winnie’s chin jutted, he dropped onto the bed and met her eyes. “We haven’t hired anybody yet, we haven’t even interviewed anybody yet, and we won’t expect you to tolerate anybody who isn’t acceptable to both Emmie and me, all right?”
“I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said, but her tone was whimpery, miserable, and hopeless.
“I understand that, and I only want you to have a governess you’re going to like, Winnie. All I’m asking is that you give somebody a chance to help you learn, whether Emmie’s here, back at the cottage, or married to the Vicar.”
