Page 92 of The Soldier
Those were good words to part on, or as good as any. He grabbed his cloak from a peg and prepared to go out the back door to hitch up his gig—and get on with his stupid, miserable life—when a loud banging came from the front hallway.
“Are you expecting callers?” he asked. Darkness had fallen in the short time they’d tarried, making it unlikely anybody was out socializing.
“Of course not,” Emmie said, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her to the front door. Val stood on her porch, bundled up against the cold but breathing heavily.
“Valentine?” St. Just raised a puzzled eyebrow.
“Come in.” Emmie drew him into the house by his wrist, but it was still several moments before Val could catch his breath.
“Can’t find Winnie,” he said between panting breaths. “I thought she was up in her room, avoiding you.” He nodded at Emmie. “Once you’d left, I went to look for her. Didn’t want her to… be alone.”
“Take your time,” St. Just said, mentally cursing the child for her dramatics. “She’s probably visiting Scout in the stables, or in Emmie’s room, where nobody will think to look for her.”
“No!” Val said, frustration ricocheting in that one syllable. “I had Steen organize the staff; we searched the entire house, Dev, even the attics. We searched the carriage house, the stables, the cellars, everywhere. There’s no sign of Winnie or Scout.”
“Oh, God.” Emmie’s arms wrapped around her middle, and she abruptly looked small, lost, and on the verge of collapse.
“Come into the kitchen,” St. Just told his brother. He slipped an arm around Emmie’s waist and kept her anchored against his side. “We’ll sort this out, Emmie. She can’t have gone far on foot, and she had sense enough to take the dog. He’ll at least leave a trail and make plenty of noise.”
“But it’s so cold,” Emmie whispered. “Cold and miserable, and she’s so stubborn. She won’t realize how dangerous it is to take a chill. My auntdiedafter taking a chill.”
“Hush,” St. Just said, putting both arms around her waist. He stood with his chin on her crown, letting her absorb what warmth and strength and calm he had to offer, even as he continued to learn what he could from Val.
“When was Winnie last seen?”
“At about nine of the clock. You had just gotten back from your ride, and she went into the music room to practice, according to Steen.”
“That was this morning,” Emmie said, tone aghast. “And all this time, I was trying to pretend she was just being difficult.”
“She’s being difficult, all right,” St. Just muttered.
“There’s more,” Val said, glancing meaningfully at Emmie, who was still bundled against St. Just’s chest.
“Spit it out,” St. Just said. “We’ve no time to waste.”
“Stevens says there’s a set of tracks heading down that path you broke along the stone wall behind the stables. Not Winnie’s, but Scout’s. In the lee of the wall, there’s still some snow, and that’s how he first noticed the pattern. Scout went that way recently. The mud is soft after yesterday’s weather, and Stevens knows the dog’s sign.”
“So Winnie has headed into the woods,” St. Just concluded. “She’ll be out of any wind, but the temperature will drop sharply now that it’s dark.”
“Oh, dear God…” Emmie’s face, pale to begin with, became ashen. “She ran away to the pond once before, and it’s beginning to freeze. I saw it just two days ago on one of my trips over here from Rosecroft. If she thought it was solid enough to play on, she could have fallen in.”
St. Just stepped out of Emmie’s embrace to retrieve his cloak. “Val, you go back to Rosecroft, because Winnie might have found her way home. Take the gig, and take Emmie with you. If Winnie does turn up, it’s Emmie she’ll want to see.”
“I’m not going to sit in your kitchen sipping tea,” Emmie said, chin rising belligerently. “Not while you stumble around in those woods until you’re lost, too.”
“I know where the pond is, Emmie,” St. Just said as calmly as he could. He pulled a lantern off the wall and checked to see it had oil.
“You don’t know those woods as well as I do,” Emmie shot back. “And there’s no moon, and, Devlin, I can’t just do nothing. This is my fault…”
“It is not your fault,” St. Just replied more sharply than he’d intended. He lit a taper from the stove and used it to light the lantern. “The child has wandered before, Emmie, but as God is my witness, she will not wander again. Please go with Val.”
“I will not,” Emmie replied, crossing her arms and reminding St. Just strongly of the little girl they were so worried about.
“Very well,” he conceded, unwilling to waste more time arguing, particularly when Emmie was right. “Val, get you back to Rosecroft, on foot if you’d rather not spend time hitching up Caesar. Emmie, have you a firearm?”
“I have an old horse pistol. Why?”
“So I can signal if we find her. Val, two shots, spaced well apart. Keep somebody posted outside so they can acknowledge with the same sign. You’ll find the key to my gun cabinet in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
