Page 89 of The Soldier
Oh, hell, she hated himand loved himand hated Elizabeth Tosten and hated herself most of all. That she loved St. Just came as something of a relief. It exonerated her for sharing intimacies with him on some level and made her a bona fide, unredeemable fool on another. He was a good man, no doubt about that, and worthy of loving, but thank God she hadn’t made any declarations, as his sentiments were apparently more superficial than hers.
She would not tell him. They were in enough confusion and distress without any more great dramas—and feelings were tricky. She’d thought she was in love once before, long ago. Then, too, the situation had been difficult, and then, too, Emmie had found herself dreaming dreams much loftier than her lover’s had been.
So she went to bed that night, sternly admonishing herself to put her dealings with St. Just in a neat little memory box, where, in a very short time, they could stay for the rest of her days.
***
St. Just turned his horse toward the muddy track leading from York, relishing the time alone. He needed to think, and think clearly, because he had a strong premonition Emmie was making the mistake of three lifetimes—his, hers, and most significantly, Winnie’s.
It took longer than he’d planned to transact his business, as the solicitor was knowledgeable and answered his questions in detail before St. Just made his final decisions. The trip home was spent brooding over the wisdom of his choices, and a cold, sleety rain started when he was about an hour from Rosecroft. Caesar slogged on, and just as every part of St. Just’s body felt numb with cold, he gained his own property. Stevens took the horse, and St. Just let himself into the back of the house, the odors of cinnamon, clove, and baking apple assailing him. The back hallway was warm though dark. He could hear Val playing the piano and Emmie humming along in the kitchen as he shed his boots and sopping outer garments.
Emmie, he thought, closing his eyes and digging down for strength. If he wasn’t careful, what he’d done would show on his face, in his eyes, and in the words he did and did not say.
“You’re home.” Emmie stopped her puttering, a luminous, beaming smile on her face, a pan of apple tarts steaming on the counter before her.
“I am home”—he returned her smile—“though soaked and chilled to the bone.”
“I thought I heard the door slam.” Val appeared at Emmie’s elbow. “It looks like a half-drowned friend of Scout’s has come to call. Come along, Devlin.” Val tugged at his wet sleeve. “Emmie had the bathwater heated in anticipation of your arrival. We’ll get you thawed and changed in time for dinner, and then you can regale us with your exploits.”
“Behold,” Val announced when they returned forty-five minutes later, “the improved version of the Earl of Rosecroft. Scrubbed, tidied, and attired for supper. He need only be fed, and we’ll find him quite civilized.” Emmie smiled at them both, and Winnie looked up from the worktable where she was making an ink drawing.
“I made you a picture,” she said, motioning St. Just over. “This is you.”
She’d drawn Caesar and a wet, shivering, bedraggled rider, one whose hat drooped, whose boots sagged, and whose teeth chattered.
“We must send this to Her Grace,” St. Just said, “but you have to send along something cheerier, too, Win. Mamas tend to worry about their chicks.”
“I thought she wasn’t your mama,” Winnie countered, frowning at her drawing.
“She is, and she isn’t.” St. Just tousled Winnie’s blond curls—so like Emmie’s—and blew a rude noise against the child’s neck. “But mostly she is.”
“When will you go see her again?”
“I just did see her in September. It’s hardly December.”
“She’s your mother,” Winnie said, taking the drawing back. “Every now and then, even big children should be with their mothers.”
In the pantry, something loud hit the tile floor and shattered. Val and his brother exchanged a look, but Emmie’s voice assured them it had just been the lid to the pan of apple tarts, and no real harm had been done.
“That’s fortunate,” St. Just said, going to the pantry and taking the pan from Emmie’s hands. “Watch your step, though, as there’s crockery everywhere.”
“I’m sorry.” Emmie stood in the middle of the broken crockery, her cheeks flushed, looking anywhere but at him. “It was my own pan, though, so you won’t need to replace anything of Rosecroft’s.”
“Em.” He sighed and set the tarts aside. “I don’t give a tin whistle for the damned lid.” He lifted her by the elbows and hauled her against his chest to swing her out of the pantry. “We’ve a scullery maid, don’t we?”
“Joan.”
“Well, fetch her in there. I am ravenous, and I will not be deprived of your company while I sup tonight.”
“You didn’t stay in York,” Emmie said, searching his eyes.
“There is very little do in York on a miserable afternoon that could compare with the pleasure of my own home, your company, and a serving of hot apple tarts.” She blinked then offered him a radiant smile and sailed ahead of him to the dining parlor.
“Winnie,” St. Just barked, “wash your paws, and don’t just get them wet. Val, it’s your turn to say grace, and somebody get that damned dog out of here.”
Scout slunk out, Winnie washed her paws, Val went on at hilarious length about being appreciative of a brother who wasn’t so old he forgot his apple tart recipe nor how to stay clean nor find his way home.
Except at the last part, about St. Just finding his way home, Val speared his brother with a meaningful look even while St. Just was regarding Emmie with the same degree of intensity.
