Page 78 of The Soldier
“I love Emmie,” Winnie said, reaching for Mrs. Bear. “I love Emmie, and I don’t want her to go, and I don’t want her to marry Vicar.”
“Neither do I, princess.” St. Just blew out her candle. “Neither do I.”
He waited by her bedside until her breathing signaled sleep, and realized that as gray and threatening as it had been all day, the rain had held off. The weather was no doubt contributing to the heaviness in his chest, the roiling in his gut, the sense of being unable to string two useful thoughts together.
Somehow, Winnie had come by her conviction Bothwell was going to snatch Emmie away, and the threat was driving the child nigh crazy.
Just what we need, he thought as he headed back down to the library, another lunatic at Rosecroft.
***
Emmie wondered where St. Just had gotten off to. He wasn’t taking his customary morning shift in the library, though she herself had seen him coming up from the stables after breakfast. After a ride, he always looked windblown, happy, and relaxed, unless one of the horses had been particularly fractious, but this morning there had been something… troubled about his posture. The riding hadn’t set him to rights, and Emmie was coming to dread the next meal with Winnie.
“My apologies.” St. Just appeared in the library doorway, his hair brushed, his riding attire apparently discarded for clean clothes. “Shall we begin? Halton has interviewed no less than twelve possibilities… What?”
Emmie was frowning at him in consternation.
“No ‘Good morning, Emmie’? No ‘Wonderful crepes at breakfast today’? No ‘How did you sleep after Winnie’s little dinnertime drama, Emmie’?”
He flicked an impersonal gaze over her as he closed the door behind him.
“Good morning, Emmie. I trust you slept as well as you could, given Winnie’s unfortunate display of sentiment. Breakfast was as alwayslovely. Now shall we begin? I haven’t all day to spend on locating your replacement.”
“St. Just?” Her voice betrayed dismay and wariness. “What has gone amiss?”
“Not one thing, Miss Farnum,” he replied, pausing before his desk. “May we be seated?”
“No, damn you.” She marched over to him. “What in blazes has gotten into you?”
“I am not in the habit of explaining myself to women affianced to others, Miss Farnum. I don’t know whether to thrash you for your deceit or strangle you for the hurt you do that innocent child.”
“St. Just,” she said, her voice quavering just a little, “are you having another setback?”
“No.” He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “I amnothaving another setback—yet. But if I do, you may hold yourself quite accountable, as you are clearly accountable for the setback Bronwyn has been treating the household to for weeks.”
“Explain yourself,” Emmie said, feeling gut-punched at his words.
He speared her with a glacial look then went to stand facing the window, the gray, bleak day complementing his demeanor.
“I went upstairs last night,” he began in the same terse tone, “to check on Winnie. She was writing to Rose but put her correspondence aside to treat me to a six-year-old version of a female tantrum, Miss Farnum, because she has learned of your plans. I do not appreciate having to learn from a child that congratulations are in order, by the way. When she finally quieted, I came back down here, unable to sleep, and no, I was not going to raid the damned… I was not seeking a drink.”
He paused, and Emmie waited. Congratulations for what? People congratulated women on conceiving, but…
“I thought I might quiet my mind by reviewing correspondence, and imagine my surprise when I found a note to me from dear Vicar Bothwell, delivered up from Morelands belatedly with some scores Her Grace forwarded to Val.”
“And the significance of his note?” Emmie asked, but the dread congealing in her stomach didn’t need his answer.
“Bothwell, to his credit…” St. Just paused and reined in the tempo and volume of his speech. “The vicar wrote quite cheerfully that he had asked you to marry him and anticipated being able to leave with you for the Landover estate not later than Christmas. I know not how, but Bronwyn knows of this proposal and your acceptance of it. She knows his brother is failing and where his estate is, and in her own way, just how far Cumbria is from the little girl who loves you.”
“She knows?” Emmie said in horror. “Winnie knows?”
“Winnie knows.” St. Just kept his back to her. “And now I know, too. When is the happy occasion?”
“What happy occasion?” Emmie asked, mind reeling. How could Winnie have learned of this?
“It is customary that when a man in need of heirs seeks a bride, for the bride upon acceptance of his suit to set a wedding date.”
“I haven’t acceptedanything,” Emmie said, dropping onto the sofa. “He asked, but I didn’t give him an answer, and I told him if I did answer, it would be no…”
