Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “He is snoring peacefully,” she replied, rising, “but Percy told me you’d been laboring under some misconceptions, and this is the last we will see of you for some time.”

  “Shall we sit?” St. Just offered his arm and escorted her out to a stone bench flanked by flower beds. He loved this woman, but he’d be damned if he’d ever gotten the knack of deciphering her silences.

  “St. Just, I am a mother,” the duchess began, “and you will recall this when I tell you your mother loved you. My heart broke for her the day she left you here, and it broke for you, as well.”

  It’s still breaking for you. She didn’t say the words. They were evident to him in the earnestness of her expression.

  “My little heart was none too pleased with the situation either,” he murmured. “I just wish…”

  “Yes?”

  “I wish I’d known she still… maintained an interest,” he said. “I feel petulant and stupid for it, but why wouldn’t a mother want a child to know she loved him?”

  “Hard to understand, isn’t it? Imagine what it would have taken were Douglas to walk away from Rose.”

  “I don’t understand.” St. Just frowned. “He would never abandon that child. He committed hanging felonies to protect her, come to think of it.”

  “Consider your mother carried you under her heart for nine months,” the duchess replied. “She delivered you into this world at risk to her own life, prostituted herself to keep a roof over your head, and raised you every day for five years. How on earth could she have survived giving you up?”

  St. Just shrugged. “I figured I wasn’t much fun to have underfoot. Small boys can be a big nuisance when a woman depends on her social life for her livelihood.”

  “For God’s sake, Devlin.” The duchess stood and glared at him. “Would you have tossed one of your younger sisters to the press gang because she wasn’t much fun to have underfoot?”

  “Of course not.” He got to his feet, using the advantage of his height to glare back at her. “My sisters are my family.”

  “No woman tosses her own child aside for mere convenience,” Her Grace said, abruptly every inch the duchess despite being in nightclothes and wooden clogs. “You would not treat a horse that way; what makes you think Kathleen St. Just would treat her child thus?”

  “It made sense.” St. Just stalked off a few paces, and for the first time in his life, raised his voice—not to a shout, but to an emphasis—at the duchess. “I was five years old. I thought my mother left me because she didn’t want me. I never saw her again, never got a letter, a Christmas present, or a glimpse of the damned woman. How was I supposed to know that added up to a heroic sacrifice? She left me, and in the care of a man who never spoke when he could yell, and never showed affection. She left me in the care of a woman I was told to address as Her Grace. I never knew your name until I was off at school, for God’s sake. How is that love to a little boy?”

  He stood there, glaring down at a woman who had shown him nothing but kindness, who was still trying to show him nothing but kindness.

  “You wait right here,” Esther said to him sternly, as if he were quite small, “and do not depart until I have returned. We’ve done you a disservice, St. Just, by assuming the past should stay buried, but you do us a disservice, as well, by thinking we’d toss you to the rag and bone man were you anything less than a perfect little soldier. Your brother was rash and vainglorious and suited to the soldier’s life, but I should never have let your father buy you a commission. I have regretted it every day for more than ten years, young man, and I will not stand by, heaping up more regrets, while you torment yourself with a fiction that your mother willingly orphaned you.”

  She stomped off, putting St. Just in mind of the Greek goddesses of old. Her green eyes had spit fire, her words had cut like a lash, and she’d been magnificent.

  “What on earth was that about?” Val asked, strolling down the path from the manor. “Her Grace just whipped by me as if His Grace was in very serious trouble.”

  “Not His Grace.” St. Just shook his head. “Me. Am I a perfect little soldier, Val?”

  Val looked him up and down. “A perfect, somewhat largish soldier.”

  St. Just winced. “Perfect?”

  “You were never injured, and yet you fought in every major battle on the Peninsula, as well as at Waterloo,” Val said. “You were mentioned regularly in the dispatches, decorated like a German Christmas tree, and any horse you touch now sells for a small fortune based in part on your reputation among your fellow officers. You were perfect enough we can now hang an earldom around your neck—and those aren’t dispensed like candy. I gather, though, you’ve acquired a little bit of tarnish around the edges?”

  “The patina of age,” St. Just murmured. “Are you ready to depart?”

  “I am. You’re not?”

  “I am under orders to wait for Her Grace’s return. I find myself reluctant to disobey.”

  “One can understand this, as the woman reduces Percival Windham to blancmange. And here she comes, albeit looking a little more the thing.”

  “Valentine.” Her Grace nodded at her youngest son. “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “I did. St. Just is my witness.”

  “St. Just.” Her Grace shoved a packet of letters at his chest. “These should have been given to you a lifetime ago, but the moment was never right. Read them.”

  He took the letters from her but did not even glance down at the papers in his hand. “They’re from my mother?”

  She nodded, holding his gaze. “The last one was written about a week before her death, when she knew she would not recover. I still cannot read it without losing my composure. Now the both of you get on your horses and go before I start to cry.”

  “Good-bye, Mother.” Val wrapped his arms around her and suffered kisses to both of his cheeks. “I will practice every day, mostly, and I will use my tooth powder, and I will keep St. Just out of trouble, mostly, and I will write, sometimes. I love you. Don’t tell my sisters where I’ve gone.”

  “You naughty, honest boy,” his mother said. “Safe journey, and I love you.”

  St. Just watched this scene, one like many stored in his memory of his half brothers casually teasing their mother, assuming she’d be there to tease when next they got around to paying a call. It made him a little crazy to see the same thing yet again today, so he turned to go.

  “Devlin St. Just!” The duchess’s voice had the whiplash quality to it again, and Val grimaced at him in sympathy. Devlin turned and prepared for the usual lecture on his duty to look after his little brothers, but the duchess simply opened her arms to him. He went to her and cautiously leaned in for a hug.

  “You are not a perfect soldier,” she whispered, “but you are a perfect son, and I love you.” Her embrace was fierce, and in his arms, she did not feel like an older woman. She felt like a mother trying to get through to her pigheaded offspring.

  “Good-bye,” he said, “I love you, too.”

  She stepped back, her smile radiant. “Look after each other.” She shook her finger at them both. “I have my hands full with your father and your featherbrained sisters. I can’t be fretting about grown men.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” they said in unison, exchanging a smile. She let them go. She was still beaming from the front steps when they trotted down the drive.

  ***

  “Can I play it?” Winnie asked, running her hands over the closed lid of the gleaming grand piano. It had been delivered that morning by four large men and four monstrous draft horses.

  “Best not,” one of the men said. “If, God forbid, something busted on the way, Lord Val will want it righted first.”

  Winnie looked disappointed but nodded.

  “And I’d be keeping yon beast a safe distance, too.” The driver nodded at Scout. “Some of them like to nibble the linseed oil in the finishes, and half-gobbled piano legs will not set well with his lordship either.”

  �
�He sounds like a man of particulars,” Emmie said.

  The driver shrugged. “Easy fella to like, for Quality. Don’t be disrespecting his pianos.”

  “Well, thank you for your efforts,” Emmie said as Winnie huffed out of the room with Scout at her heels. “Perhaps you’d like to come around to the kitchen before you head back to York?”

  The man smiled. “That’d go aright, and where do the horses go?”

  “The horses?” Emmie blinked. “You mean for some hay and water?”

  The man shook his head. “Nah. The horses is from the other brother.”

  “Lord Westhaven?” Emmie wracked her brain, but she was sure the stud farm was in St. Just’s possession. “Why would he send along such a team of… Sturdy fellows.”

  “The two of ’em’s mares raised to the plough. All four is steady as ’ell and like as strong. Man’s got land, he needs a team.”

  “I see.” The team would hardly fit in the stables, so thank God it was only coming autumn.

  The rest of the day was taken up with provisioning the deliverymen for their journey south, having Stevens take the men into the village, and rearranging the stables so the larger horses could use the foaling stalls and the others the loose boxes.

  And in the general disruption, Emmie realized she hadn’t seen Winnie since before luncheon.

  Not this again. Winnie’s ramblings hadn’t exactly stopped since Rosecroft had taken over, but Winnie had willingly adopted the habit of announcing her intended destination, and then—bless the child—sticking to her itinerary. But the sun was setting, the evening air was not quite warm, and nobody had seen Winnie for hours.

  Emmie wracked her brain for clues, but all she could come up with was Winnie’s comment over breakfast that the woods were prettiest in the fall.

  The woods… noxious plants, snakes, rocks that twisted ankles, the pond, rabid animals Winnie would think needed help…

  “Stevens,” Emmie said, voice shaking, “can we saddle up the mare? I want to make a pass through the woods before it’s full dark.”

  “I’ll saddle up Caesar, too,” Stevens said. Emmie glanced at him, but her imagination had already started filling in the unspoken words… in case somebody needs to go for help, in case we need the vicar, in case there’s a body that has to be brought back to the manor.

  “Are there Gypsies in the area, Stevens?” Emmie asked as she hefted a saddle onto Petunia.

  “Not this late in the year. They head south, down to Devon and Cornwall when fall comes. We’ll find her, Miss Emmie. If need be, we can have Mr. Wentworth’s hounds come looking in the morning, but the child knows how to bide through the night on the property.”

  “She does, but she’s only six years old, and anything from wild dogs to a bad fall can interfere with her best efforts to stay safe.”

  “Let’s go, Miss Emmie.” Stevens led both horses out then handed her the reins while he doubled back into the barn for a lantern. “If we don’t find her, I’ll alert Vicar, and he can gather a searching party.”

  “We have to find her.” The thought of having to tell Hadrian she’d lost Winnie—again—was no comfort at all. She hardly wanted to face the man, much less have to provide him with an example of his ability to solve her problems or succeed where she failed.

  Shut up and ride. As Petunia dutifully picked up the trot, Emmie had the sense the admonition had come not from herself but somehow, from St. Just. His life had likely depended on his ability to do the next sensible thing, and now Winnie’s life might depend on Emmie’s ability to manage similarly. She did as ordered, keeping her mouth shut and eyes on the ground for any sign of Winnie or her dog, glad as the evening light began to fade that Stevens was with her.

  And then she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, so she started hollering for the child. It was all but dark, and the moon not due to rise for at least two hours, when Emmie heard a faint bark in response to her ceaseless bellowing.

  “That way.” She nodded in the direction of one of the tracks through the woods. “Toward the pond.”

  “Careful!” Stevens admonished when she would have kicked the horse to a faster gait. “The leaves on wet ground make the going tricky. If she’s there, we’ll find her.”

  So Emmie kept to a shuffling trot, nearly fainting with relief when Scout barked happily to greet them as they broke into the clearing. Winnie was sitting on a rock, pitching pebbles into the water.

  “Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie looked up, perfectly at ease. “Hullo, Stevens.”

  “Bronwyn Farnum.” Emmie got off her horse and stomped over to the child. “What on earth are you doing out here in the woods after dark?”

  “I used to come here a lot,” Winnie said diffidently, “and I wasn’t hungry at tea time. Did you know Scout can swim?”

  Stevens cleared his throat and glanced at the darkening sky.

  “Winnie,” Emmie said, gathering her patience, “you are not to wander off, and you know this. We’ll discuss the situation further when we have you safely at home.”

  “C’mon, Miss Winnie.” Stevens held out a hand. He stood the child on a boulder, mounted, then hefted her up before him.

  “Where’s Scout?” Winnie looked around anxiously. Stevens let out a piercing whistle, and the dog bounded out of the undergrowth to dance at the horses’ feet.

  “Home, Stevens.” Emmie nodded at the trail. “Please.”

  When they reached the manor, Steven dismounted, lifted Winnie to the ground, then gathered up the reins and snapped his fingers at the dog.

  “But Scout hasn’t had his supper yet,” Winnie said, her tone indignant. “He needs to come get his scraps.”

  “Winnie,” Emmie said through clenched teeth, “there are no dinner scraps tonight because Cook did not make us dinner. You were wandering, and I was searching for you. Scout has not had his dinner; neither have I nor Stevens nor these horses.”

  “You know I always come home,” Winnie shot back. “You should have told Cook that Scout would be hungry when we came back.”

  “To the house.” Emmie pointed, her tone nearly vicious. “You have been rude, inconsiderate, and mean, Winnie Farnum. I am disappointed in you, exhausted, and not in the mood for your disrespect. If you want your dog to be fed tonight, then march.”

  Winnie shot her a murderous glare then stalked off to the house, indignation in every line and sinew of her form.

  “She’s so little.” Emmie shook her head as she watched Winnie go. “Even the church would say she hasn’t reached the age of reason.”

  “She’s reached an age when she can fall in the pond,” Stevens replied laconically as he began to loosen girths. “Not a parent in the world wouldn’t be upset with her.”

  With that sentiment ringing in her ears, Emmie made her own way back up to the house. Her steps were heavy and slow, anxiety no longer fueling her movements, her mood despairing, and her stamina—physical and emotional—gone. She went in the back door and found Winnie sitting at the counter, a plate of buttered bread before her.

  Bread Emmie had wrapped up for delivery to a customer tomorrow.

  “Winnie?” Winnie looked up at her indifferently and kept chewing like a squirrel. “Did you even wash your hands?”

  “I was playing at the pond all afternoon, and my hands were wet a lot.”

  “Your hands”—Emmie grabbed her by one paw—“are muddy, and you’ve also been playing with Scout, Winnie. What is the rule?”

  “Wash your hands after you play with the dog,” Winnie replied, talking with her mouth full. “But Scout was in the pond, so he wasn’t dirty.” The dog had been a rank, sloppy mess. Emmie sat and propped her chin on her fist.

  “Win? What has gotten into you? You aren’t a nasty little girl, and yet for the past few days, more than that really, you’ve been a complete, croaking toad.”

  A flicker of humor crossed Winnie’s face at that epithet, but it soon vanished.

  “You’ve been a toad,” Winnie said. “You’re al
ways tired and always baking and always making me do lessons. I like Scout better than you.”

  “Scout is a good fellow, but I’ve always had to bake, and you’ve had lessons since you were little. What’s the real problem, Win?” But Winnie had said all she intended to say, taking a long sip of her milk and setting the mug down on the table.

  “May I be excused?”

  “You may not. You will wash your hands and your plate and cup, wrap up a loaf from the bread box, not the customer shelves, then make up some stale bread, milk, and cheese rinds for Scout’s dinner. While you do that, I will have a bath sent up to your room, and I will most assuredly not be reading to you tonight.”

  Winnie scowled. “Why not? I’m cleaning up my mess and feeding my dog.”

  “And you’ve kept your cousin up late when you just told me you know I’m tired.”

  Rather than get into an argument, Emmie went upstairs and got out Winnie’s nightclothes and bath accessories. She changed out of her own clothes and made a quick use of the bathwater while it was piping hot, then got out in time to dry off before Winnie reappeared.

  You are tired, she told herself as she dressed, and out of sorts, and your day was thoroughly disrupted. She found her room, took down her hair, gave it a few swats with the brush before fumbling it into a braid, then climbed onto her bed. The sheets felt cool and clean against her skin, and as she closed her eyes, she sent up one prayer for Winnie’s safety and happiness, and one that the earl arrived safely and soon. She couldn’t help but sense that somehow, Winnie’s bad behavior was tied to the earl’s continuing absence.

  Her sleep should have been dreamless, so utterly tired had she allowed herself to become. But Emmie rose to awareness near midnight, not fully awake but no longer dreaming, unless the sense of the mattress dipping under a heavy weight was imagined.

  The single thought he’s home floated sweetly through her mind, then she was wrapped in warmth and allowed to drift back to sleep. When she came awake a few hours later, he’s home echoed in her mind again, and she realized she hadn’t been dreaming. St. Just was in her bed and had been for hours. In the way of minds not yet fully alert, she felt the sentiment two ways: He is safely arrived to his home, and more convincingly, he is my home.