Fourteen

The days dragged after the night St. Just had spent with Emmie. When it was fair, no matter how cold, he spent long hours with his horses and riding out on his estate. He conferred with Emmie in the late afternoons over the details of moving her baking back to the cottage, but when he asked her what would become of her business when she moved to Cumbria, she gave him a blank look.

“Anna Mae can do it, I suppose.” She blinked, looking puzzled. “I can lease her the cottage or give it to her.”

“You don’t want the cottage held in trust for Winnie?” St. Just suggested, sitting beside her on the sofa.

“Oh. I suppose I could do that, couldn’t I?”

St. Just resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms. She didn’t look as tired and pale and wan as she had—he was insisting she sleep more—but she looked even more lost. “Have you spoken with Bothwell about this?”

“He is off at Ripon. There’s some gathering of the clergy of the West Riding, and he won’t be back for at least a week.”

“I see.” For a woman on the verge of a very estimable match, Emmie did not seem to care that the vicar had left the area. “And how did you learn of his plans?”

“Anna Mae told me,” Emmie replied, missing entirely the consternation on St. Just’s face. He’d considered Bothwell was not calling at Rosecroft in a display of tact, and had not concerned himself with how the man was communicating with his intended.

Tried not to concern himself, anyway. It appeared there was no communication, at least not lately, and there were no plans to transition Emmie’s thriving business.

“Emmie, have you thought about a trousseau?” he asked gently. “Where you’d like to be married? When?”

“No.”

Just that, one word.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked, bewildered. How could a woman be so set on a plan and be doing so little to implement it?

“I don’t know yet,” she said in a small, miserable voice.

Well, that must be it. She was on tenterhooks waiting to see if their night of passion had ruined all her plans.

“You’ll know soon?” he asked, hesitantly patting her hand only to see her glance down at his fingers with dismay.

“A day or two. If I’m not, I will tell you.”

“We wait, then,” he said, rising but frowning down at her. “If there is a child, the banns should be cried immediately.”

“I doubt Bothwell will want a wife pregnant with another’s child,” Emmie said, rising, as well. “He does have a title to consider.”

“Emmaline Farnum, for God’s sake. If you carry my child, you will marry me and no other. How could you think I’d let my child be a cuckoo in Bothwell’s nest?”

“I’m sorry.” She glanced down, not meeting his gaze. “I didn’t think that… I just…”

“It’s all right,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “When we know what our situation is, we’ll go from there. Get some sleep.”

She left the room without meeting his eyes.

Could she do that, Emmie wondered as she stumbled off to her room? If she carried St. Just’s child, could she condemn him to a lifetime of marriage to a woman who would never make a creditable countess? A woman no longer pure of body or heart? She’d have to tell him the truth first, but in his mind, the only truth would be that his child not be born to bastardy.

God Almighty, she thought as she prepared for bed, how could she have been this shortsighted, this selfish, this simpleminded, to take advantage of St. Just’s generous and lusty nature without any thought to the consequences for them both?

And for Winnie.

She drifted off to sleep, wondering how much worse things could get before the weight on her heart began to lift.

In the morning, she found she was not expecting a child, and for all the contradictions and complications it implied, the weight on her heart doubled.

***

“Wee Winnie.” St. Just hoisted the child onto his lap where he sat at his desk in the library. “There was something I wanted to ask you concerning a discussion you had with Lord Val.”

Winnie’s brow knit. “If he told me a secret, I won’t tell you.” She scooted around, settling with her head pillowed on his chest.

“I won’t ask you to tell secrets. This had to do with asking if you wanted to move to Cumbria with Emmie.”

“I don’t,” Winnie said with perfect equanimity.

“Why not?” St. Just inquired in the same pleasant tones.

“It’s complicated,” Winnie said warningly, “but it goes like this: If I am here, then Emmie might come home if she’s unhappy in Cumbria. If I am there, then Emmie will stay in Cumbria and try to make me happy there. Besides, Emmie went away before.”

“What do you mean?” St. Just asked, smoothing a hand over Winnie’s blond curls. When had the child’s hair gotten so long? It was almost to her shoulders, almost long enough to pull into two pigtails if not quite braids.

“My mama told me Emmie lived with us when I was very little, but then Emmie went away to Scotland. When she came back again to care for the old earl, she lived in her own house. Emmie went away to school before I was born, too.”

“You didn’t expect her to stay here, then?”

“I hoped she would. But you won’t go away.”

“I already have,” he countered. “I went away to Morelands.”

“That was just a visit, to see your mama and papa and to meet Rose. That wasn’t going away away. You live here now, and you’ll stay.”

“Why will I stay when Emmie, who was raised here, will not?”

“She’s a girl,” Winnie said patiently. “She will marry Vicar and go away. You are not a girl, and besides, you were in the army for a long time.”

“What has that to do with anything?” St. Just asked, prepared for any answer. There was no telling where a child’s mind turned and doubled back. He’d learned that much already.

“You don’t run away,” Winnie said, meeting his eyes. “Soldiers are brave, and they stand and fight. You fought and fought and fought, longer than I have been alive, Lord Val says, because you didn’t stop fighting until old Boney was done for, did you?”

“I did not stop until we won.” St. Just smiled. He’d still fought after Waterloo, until he had to be dragged off to the stables like an old warhorse—lame, scarred, and dazed, unable to comprehend the cessation of violence.

“So I will stay with you,” Winnie said, the logic settled in her little-girl mind, “and I hope Emmie is miserable with her silly old vicar and that she wants to come home lots.”

“We might need another plan, Win. Like Miss Emmie is happy as a hog in slop with her vicar, and you can go visit her for weeks and weeks every summer. It’s very fashionable to see the Lake District in the warmer months.”

“I am not the one running away just so I can have a title and wear jewels,” Winnie said with chilling evenness. “Let her come visit me, and if Scout and I feel like it, we’ll invite her to tea.”

“I’m not too happy about her leaving, either,” he admitted, “but when I joined the army, Her Grace cried and cried and cried, and still I went. People don’t always do what you want them to.”

Winnie rolled her eyes then closed them and snuggled into his chest. She’d dropped off to sleep a few minutes later when Emmie tapped on the door and joined him in the library.

“Have you said anything to her yet?” Emmie asked, glancing anxiously at Winnie.

“Nothing specific,” he said, keeping his seat in deference to his burden. “She knows you plan to leave the area.”

Emmie just nodded, but she was glancing around the room anxiously, not meeting his eyes.

“Em?” He did get to his feet then and deposited Winnie on the sofa, draping an afghan over her sleeping form. Emmie met his gaze and began to blink, then threw herself at him.

“There’s no baby,” she murmured in a miserable whisper. His arms closed around her, not sure if she was relieved, unhappy, or just upset on general principles.

“Thank you for telling me.” He stroked her back, then her nape, while she cried in silence. “This will make your situation easier, though, I hope?”

She nodded but soaked his cravat with a fresh flood of tears. He pushed his handkerchief into her hand and waited her out, the sleeping child momentarily forgotten.

“Emmie?” He had hoped… He had so desperately, selfishly hoped… And now he was tempted, tempted to join her in her bed again, for he’d every confidence, as flustered and unsure as she’d been of late, he could seduce her into accepting further intimacies from him.

She gave a genteel sniffle then tried to step back, but he permitted her to retreat only far enough that he could see her eyes.

“You will be all right?” he asked, keeping his voice very quiet.

“I will. I just need to put this move behind me. You’re sure the governess will be here next Monday?”

“I’ve already sent her the first month’s salary. You don’t want to meet the woman?”

“We’ll meet,” Emmie said, leaning in for one more moment in his arms. “I’m sure we’ll meet at some point.”

“And Bothwell will be back next week, as well,” he said, knowing he should set her from him.

“I suppose,” Emmie muttered, burying her face against him. He gave up and cuddled her close until he felt Emmie’s lips against his skin.

“Emmie,” he chided, “you need to behave…” But she cut him off by settling her lips over his, and for just an instant, a blessed, fleeting instant, he tasted her in return.

“We agreed,” he reminded her, cradling her head against his chest. “You have to help me on this, Em. I’m not made of steel.”

“Parts of you might be,” Emmie muttered, nudging him with her hips.

“Damn it, Em.” He retreated one step, his hands on her upper arms. “No fair. Against the rules of engagement, and shame on you.” But he dropped his forehead to hers and amended his judgment. “Shame on us both.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I’m just upset.”

He said nothing, silently acknowledging the truth of her statements… nothing more. He was more than upset himself, thank you very much, and a particular steely part of him was ready to commit high treason in his breeches.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets to mask the effect of her proximity. When she was safely gone, he peeked out into the corridor, and without grabbing a coat, went directly down to the stables. It was cold as hell, thank God, and certain treasonous body parts lost their steely quality in the face of the elements.

Neither St. Just nor Emmie bothered to look back as they’d left the library, or they might have seen innocent, puzzled blue eyes turn calculating and determined as they peered over the back of the sofa.

***

“It needed only this,” St. Just growled. Emmie was leaving in two days time, the house felt like somebody was laid out in the parlor awaiting burial, the roads were a mixture of slush and mud, and now company was coming to call.

“Never fear.” Val clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You have reinforcements, St. Just.” The grin on his face received no answering smile from his brother, who was truly incapable of seeing humor in anything.

Val deloped for his piano precisely at the half hour, allowing St. Just to start verbally herding his guests toward the door, though Elizabeth flung up a last-minute resistance as he did.

“I understand Miss Farnum will be removing to her cottage soon, my lord. You must be relieved to have Rosecroft resuming normal operations.” Elizabeth gave him a perfectly guileless, perfectly nasty smile over a teacup that had to be empty for as often as she’d brought it to her lips.

“In fact”—he smiled right back—“I will miss her sorely, as well as the wonderful goods she makes and the wonderful scents filling my house as a result of her industry. I admire a woman who can put in a hard day’s work and have something delicious on the table to show for it.”

“One does admire honest labor in the working class,” Lady Tosten put in.

“It isn’t just her industry,” St. Just went on, feeling mean and knowing he should just shut up. “Emmie has been the soul of kindness to Miss Bronwyn during the worst of her bereavement, and even helped me locate a suitable governess for the child, as well as suitable candidates for the other staff positions we’ve had to fill here. Winnie and I will both be frequent guests at the cottage, I am sure, and not just on baking days.”

Emmie, forgive me. It wasn’t well done of him to use Emmie for a decoy, but the Tostens were hardly being subtle in their campaign, and time spent with them was purely time wasted.

“Your gratitude to the woman does you credit,” Lady Tosten allowed, finally coming to her feet as Steen appeared with their cloaks. “Come along, Elizabeth, we must still pay a call on that nice Mr. Neely and his girls, as their cousin Jeffrey has come to visit them. St. Just, a pleasure.”

“Ladies.” He bowed, closing the door behind them, leaving Steen to see them out. When he heard the front door slam, he stuck his head in the music room, where Val was hammering away at finger exercises. “They’re gone, you can come out now.”

Val burst into a thundering version of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” winking at his brother from behind the keyboard.

St. Just slumped against the wall of the music room. “If I haven’t told you lately, little brother, I do adore your playing.”

“And my dear self, too, of course,” Val said, bringing the volume of his playing down and beginning to improvise on Handel’s theme. “So why do you put up with them? Why not just growl and throw your food bowl and appear with tea stains on your half-unbuttoned shirt?”

“Is that how it’s done?” St. Just opened his eyes to smile at Val. “I’m not sure how that will fit in with the plan to marry me to the girl. Might put her off a bit, don’t you think?”

“Her?” Val shook his head. “Not possible, not with that reptile of a mother. Elizabeth, I’m sure, would marry you if you were drooling and cross-eyed, just to get free of her dear mama.”

“Give me a week,” St. Just muttered, “and I’ll have the cross-eyed and drooling part down.”

“Time for a trip to York?” Val hazarded as he crossed the left hand over the right.

“You interested?” St. Just cocked his head.

“I am not,” Val said, bringing his little concert to a close. “I have spent many, many happy hours cozying up to a certain Broadwood in a brothel, but the few times I was persuaded to go upstairs, it didn’t feel right. You will just have to go into York on reconnaissance and let me know what you find.”

St. Just turned toward his brother then, closing the door before he saw that Emmie stood just beyond, her expression dumbstruck. She made her way back to the kitchen before St. Just came upon her.

“Be grateful, Emmie,” he said ten minutes later while pouring himself a proper cup of tea and fixing it precisely to his liking. “Be glad, even, that you are not accepted by likes of those Tosten women.”

“Winnie doesn’t seem to care for them,” Emmie said, her voice remarkably steady for a woman who has just heard her lover—her former lover—casually announce both a possible betrothal and an intention to visit the brothels.

“Winnie’s instincts are sound,” St. Just said, sipping his tea, “but she needs to refine their expression. I’m going to meet with my solicitor tomorrow. Is there anything you need in York?”

“I thought Mr. Halton normally came here.”

“I can use the exercise and so can Caesar.”

“I’ll think about it,” Emmie said, keeping her attention on the piecrust she was rolling out.

“Are you making apple tarts?” St. Just came over to pinch off a bite of dough. “You are. You dear lady.” He put an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Bothwell is not good enough for you nor for my apple tart recipe.” He dropped his arm and stepped back. “Best make extras, though, as Val and I might both want seconds.”

He sauntered out. A little snitch of dough, a casual squeeze and a kiss, and off he goes, Emmie thought, her mind in turmoil. Rationally, she knew he had every right and even an obligation to marry, just as Hadrian Bothwell did. Rationally, she knew he was a passionate man and one she must not dally with further. Rationally, she understood the young men of the aristocracy were tomcats—with mistresses, sweethearts, and wives rotating through their beds depending on the time of day. Rationally, she should…

Oh, hell, she hated him and loved him and 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.

And in the midst of an otherwise boisterous and congenial meal, Winnie surreptitiously buttered rolls and tucked them into the pocket of her pinafore, ready to tell anybody who asked that they were for the banished dog, upon whom she’d recently conferred an honorary barony. If asked, she’d say the buttered rolls were a gesture to soothe his hurt baronial feelings.