Nine

“I am glad to see you putting her through her paces.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled at Emmie from Caesar’s back. “A week is long enough for a placid animal to settle in.”

“Petunia is not placid; she is dignified, and I could hardly join you without a proper habit, could I?”

“S’pose not. So have we heard from Rosecroft?”

“Not yet.” Emmie patted the mare’s neck. “But it has only been a week or so. Winnie has written to him twice and to her friend Rose, as well.”

“When do you think he’ll take Winnie to meet his family?” Bothwell held his mount back so they could ride side by side. “Or hasn’t he told them of Helmsley’s indiscretion?”

“I’m sure he has,” Emmie replied as mildly as she could. Helmsley’s indiscretion, indeed. “He was considering taking her with him on this trip but wanted to be able to travel quickly.”

“One can see where a child would thwart that aim.” Bothwell glanced over as if he’d belatedly sensed his poor choice of words. “I think Miss Winnie must be running you ragged, as well, Emmaline Farnum. You look like you’ve come off a hard winter, my girl.”

“I am just a little fatigued,” Emmie said, feeling her irritation spike, though she considered Hadrian a friend. When he’d first come by her bakery, he’d always chatted for a few moments and appeared to take an interest in her welfare—a little more than the interest of a vicar or a neighbor. Then he’d run into her a few times in town, making purchases, and insisted on walking with her and carrying her packages. Emmie had considered it his public declaration of tolerance for one in her position; but then had come his proposal. It had been almost two years ago, and she was still a little perplexed by it.

Flattered, but perplexed.

“Emmie.” Hadrian steered his horse toward a small clearing that sported a gazebo and some vestiges of flower beds overgrown with asters. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to speak with you about, but the moment hasn’t presented itself. If you have a few minutes, I’d like you to hear me out.”

His blue eyes were looking dreadfully solemn, and his handsome features were serious. Emmie let him assist her to dismount but felt the first twinge of anxiety when he held her by the waist for a moment, searching her eyes before stepping back.

Had that been an embrace?

“Come.” He took her gloved hand in his and led her to the gazebo, leaving the horses to crop grass. When she sat on the bench inside the little wooden structure, he surprised her further by sitting beside her and taking off his gloves, then hers.

“Hadrian?” She looked up at him expectantly. “You’re not going to propose again, are you?”

“I am,” he said. “Before you reject me out of hand—again—I want you to know a few things.” He laced his fingers through hers, his hand cool and dry against her palm.

“Go on,” she urged, curious but unable to escape a sense of dread, as well.

“I’ve received word from my brother that his prognosis is not… cheering,” the vicar began. “We’ve known for some time his health was fading, but it isn’t something that was acknowledged, until now.”

“Hadrian, I’m sorry,” Emmie said, meaning it. The man had lost his wife just a few years previously, and as far as she knew, his brother was his only surviving family.

“I am sorry, as well. Harold is a good man and a better viscount than I will ever be, but as the saying goes, these things are in God’s hands.”

“Not much comfort now, is it?” Emmie offered him a wan smile.

“Not much, though as a consequence of Harold’s situation, I will be resigning from the living at St. Michael’s by spring at the latest, if not by Christmas. I’ve always put Hal off when he wanted to get into details of the estate management and the investments. But he’s told me I’m not to stall anymore, and he means it.”

“So you will be leaving us,” Emmie concluded, feeling a definite pang. Hadrian had been kind to her.

“I will be leaving. I want you to come with me.”

She shook her head and tried gently to untangle their fingers. “I cannot. You do me great honor, but you must understand—”

“Understand what, Emmie?” he shot back in low, intense tones. “Rosecroft will see to the child. I’ll make him dower her and establish a trust if you like before we go. He’ll do it, too, if he hasn’t already. You’d be shut of these rural busybodies, and you would be my viscountess.”

He was so earnest, so convinced of the rightness of his plan, Emmie felt her resolve crumbling. It was best to be firm—she knew that—but were it not for Winnie…

“Don’t answer me now.” He laid a finger to her lips. “I can see you are torn, but, Emmie, my brother has been a good manager, and my family prospers, at least financially. You would never have to haul your own coal again, never have to lime the privy yourself, never have to set foot in a kitchen if you didn’t want to.”

“I am aware of the burdens you would ease for me, Hadrian,” she said quietly, rising and turning to look out over the fields of Rosecroft. He stepped up behind her, and she felt him rest his hands on her shoulders.

“And I can understand, Hadrian, why marriage to you might appeal to me, or to any young lady who knows you. But what does marriage to me have to recommend it? I am not young; you will need at least an heir. I am not received, and for all you know, I would not be the most accommodating partner regarding my marital duties. There is absolutely nothing about this bargain that makes sense to me from your perspective.” She stood with her back to him, feeling his hands resting on her shoulders.

His hands dropped, and he shifted to sit on the railing facing her, his expression thoughtful.

“If there is anything that moves me to anger,” he said, holding her gaze, “it’s the way polite society can wound without a word. A cut direct is just that, a cut to the bone of a person’s dignity and self-confidence, and you’ve let them cut you, Emmie.”

“So you pity me?” she asked, lifting her gaze to the manor house in the distance.

“I have compassion for you, and I admire you, as well. I do not seek another wife like the first, Emmie. Rue was dear, but she was a child, expecting me to do everything but slice her meat for her. She suffered my attentions twice a month in the dark under the covers and then only because she knew we’d a duty to the title.”

“You should not be telling me this.” Emmie felt heat creep up her neck. “I don’t want to know it, and your wife would not appreciate your sharing marital confidences.”

“My late wife,” he said in uncharacteristically clipped tones, “complained of me to her sisters, so do not bark at me regarding marital confidences, Emmie Farnum. Rue and I did fairly well, considering our circumstances, but never more than that.”

“Hadrian, I am sorry,” Emmie repeated, not knowing what else to say. “What makes you think we would ever do more than fairly well should we marry?”

“Ah, Emmie.” He sighed. “Do you think I’m not a man because of a silly little collar? Do you think I can’t see the fire and life in you? You are one of God’s finest creations, and I want you for my own.”

Her alarms went off in shrieking peals of dismay as she realized the man was going to kiss her. He was fair about it, too, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking her square in the eye before bending his head to hers.

Emmie found him far more proficient at the whole business than any rural vicar had a right to be. He was tall, nearly as tall as St. Just, though not quite as muscular or broad, and he brought Emmie against his chest with a surprising strength.

“Let me kiss you, Emmie,” he murmured, his thumb feathering over her cheekbone as he angled her head to meet his lips. He moved his mouth over hers softly, slowly coaxing and inviting, not demanding. His tongue, when he deftly brought it to her lips, tasted of lemon and sweetness, and Emmie thought she should have found the contact enticing, except that it wasn’t—quite.

“Open for me,” he coaxed, but Emmie wasn’t willing to mislead him that far. The truth was, his kiss—skilled, tender, caring, and in every way well presented—left her indifferent. She stepped back but allowed him to keep her in a loose embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his cheek to her hair. “But I’m not sorry, either. I desire you, Emmie, on many levels, and I could make marriage at least pleasant for you. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I will think about it,” she said. “Were I to answer you today, Hadrian, I’d respectfully decline.” He nodded but smiled, and Emmie realized all he’d heard was that she hadn’t said no.

“I’ll accept that for now.” He planted a swift, smacking kiss on her lips then dropped his arms.

“Hadrian?” With a hand on his arm, Emmie stopped him from bounding down the steps. “I will not have you displaying your intentions again. While your attentions were in no way unpleasant, neither your reputation nor mine could withstand the gossip.”

He nodded once then gave her a perfectly proper leg up and a perfectly proper escort back to the stables. When he turned to assist her off her horse, however, Emmie rode up to the ladies’ mounting block and got herself down.

She passed her reins to Stevens, who gave her an odd look, but then made her excuses and took herself directly up to the house. She spent a long time in her room, ostensibly changing out of her riding habit but mostly trying to locate her scattered wits. When she concluded the exercise was futile, she forced herself to head back down to the kitchen.

“I got a letter, Miss Emmie!” Winnie came scampering up to her, Scout’s toenails clicking at her heels along the floor. “Two letters, one from Rose and one from Rosecroft. May I open them?”

“Of course you may.” Emmie bent to take the letters from Winnie. “Let’s attend your correspondence in the library.”

Winnie had taken to sitting in the earl’s chairs, both in the library and at the dinner table. She was particularly careful to watch Stevens and the vicar every time they schooled a horse in the ring, and just last night, Emmie had gone upstairs to check on the child before retiring and known a moment’s panic. Winnie was not in her bed, and in the past that might have signaled the beginning of hours of peregrinations about the estate.

Emmie had found her curled up under a spare blanket at the foot of the earl’s bed.

“Let’s repair to the sofa, shall we?” Emmie sat in the middle and patted the spot beside her. Winnie budged up and peered at the letters.

Rose’s epistle was a potpourri of little-girl gossip, but she did point out that when Winnie’s Aunt Anna had a child with St. Just’s brother Gayle Windham, then both little girls would be cousins to the baby. From Rose’s perspective, this must surely require a visit on Winnie’s part to her southern relations.

“A visit?” Winnie said, resting her head against Emmie’s arm. “I should dearly love to visit, but spring is far away. Scout won’t want to wait so long.”

“He’ll understand if you explain it to him.” And in all honesty, the dog had learned a number of commands easily—almost as easily as he inhaled great quantities of kitchen scraps. “Shall we see what your other letter says?”

“Please.” Winnie scooted around, her enthusiasm eclipsing her ability to sit still.

My dear Misses Farnum,

Our trip down here was uneventful. I can honestly report your friend Douglas was a good boy, though he would be less saddle sore if he got off and jogged beside his mount more often. I trust by now you have trained Scout to devour intruders, or at the very least, subdue the occasional slipper. His pedigree is dubious, but I was assured by his breeder he is the equivalent of many an old-time duke, his antecedents being champions on all sides.

My family is in good health, and Anna James Windham in particular sends along her greetings to you both. She is in expectation of a blessed event and has managed to distract my dear brother from his infernal correspondence long enough that he joins us here at Morelands for the next week or so.

My brother Valentine has warned me a gift is being forwarded from him to Rosecroft, a sort of housewarming present. When I consider the way my youngest brother was the butt of jokes and pranks growing up, I am loathe to open any gift from him. If it snarls or emits noxious odors, you must promise to return it unopened.

I commend Winnie on her prompt issuance of correspondence, but fear I cannot agree Scout should be learning how to pass a teacup. A beer mug, perhaps, but nothing delicate. In the alternative, Winnie, you might teach him to roll over, fetch, or bark on command. The Viscountess Amery has apparently taught these same skills to all the males in her domain, with the command to lie down being obeyed with particular alacrity. Anna seems to be making similar inroads with the future duke—oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I miss you both and trust this finds you in good health and good spirits. The enclosed provides a few glimpses of my visit thus far with the last little sketch being of Winnie’s new friend, Rose.

Devlin St. Just

Rosecroft

“What does he mean about the mighty falling?”

“I suppose he means his brother was a very serious man,” Emmie suggested, “until your Aunt Anna married him and made him more lighthearted.”

“Rosecroft is not lighthearted. He should get married, too. I’m going to go teach Scout to lie down.”

In Winnie’s absence, Emmie lifted St. Just’s letter to her nose and found to her profound pleasure the stationery bore a faint whiff of his fragrance.

She was reminded by contrast of the vicar’s attentions.

Hadrian Bothwell smelled good, too, she admitted.

With the sense of a person staring over a sheer precipice, Emmie feared she might marry the man after all. She could learn to tolerate him in bed; on the strength of one kiss, she was sure he’d acquit himself competently in that regard. She could learn to socialize with his neighbors and keep herself occupied while her husband took his seat or went off shooting in Scotland or did whatever it was cordial husbands did when their wives had provided them sons.

Children, she thought with a pang. That was the real draw. Children to love and call her own and raise each and every day under her loving eye.

Except—she stood up and began to pace—if they were boys, they might go off to public school as early as age six. That decision would be her husband’s, just as every decision regarding the rearing of their children would be.

And what if she couldn’t tolerate Hadrian’s attentions? A short, fully clothed kiss was one thing, but what about the more intimate dealings? Somehow, she could not imagine ever begging the man to kiss her, not the way she’d begged St. Just. She could not imagine crying in Hadrian’s arms nor handing him her hairbrush nor asking him for an opinion on a recipe.

Maybe—she sat back down—the situation required a good deal more thought.

***

St. Just came in from his morning ride to find Douglas in the Morelands stable yard, checking to make sure the traveling coach was properly packed.

“I am pleased.” Douglas said, his gaze traveling over the horse’s lathered coat. “You are off your backside, no longer content to twiddle your thumbs while your sisters throw their friends at you.”

“I am off my backside.” St. Just swung down. “Beau was sufficiently rested that he was good for a gallop today. We went by some of my childhood haunts and found them blessedly still the same for the most part. But, ye gods, childhood was a lifetime ago.”

“Can you see someday touring Spain and France and thinking the same thing?” Douglas asked as a groom took Beau.

“Yes,” the earl said, surprised at his own answer as Douglas fell in step beside him on the path to the manor. “I can, actually. Not for years, but someday.”

“Then ride every day. It was part of what you enjoyed about being at Rosecroft.”

“I’m bringing a few more of my youngsters north with me when I go back,” St. Just said, finding a tea cart on the back terrace laden with ice water, lemonade, and bread and butter. “Shall we sit?”

Douglas nodded and settled into a chair.

“I’m also nipping into London tomorrow and jaunting down to my own stud farm for a day or two. I’ve sent along a note to Greymoor, requesting word of any worthy prospects, though he charges a pretty penny for anything leaving his farm.”

“Have you written to Emmie?”

“I write to them both,” St. Just replied, chugging some cold lemonade. “Emmie chided me to observe the proprieties, so I have not written to her, precisely.”

“If you did write, just to her, what would you write?”

St. Just sat back, more relaxed than he’d been in days for having had a good gallop. “I would tell her I miss her, that I am scared of being around people all the time, but only marginally less scared when alone. I’m afraid of the next rainy night, still, and I miss Winnie more than I thought I would. Winnie is just… good. Innocent, you know? I would tell her I am not sleeping as well as I did in Yorkshire, but I am managing not to drink much, so far. I would tell her—”

“Yes?” Douglas cocked his head, no doubt surprised at the raw honesty of these sentiments.

“I would tell her I was better when I could smell fresh bread in every corner of my house and know she was busy in my kitchen. I would tell her there are no stone walls here for me to beat my head against, and I miss her.”

“Emmie is a stone wall?” Douglas eyed his water, his expression perplexed.

“In a sense.” St. Just grinned ruefully. “A good sense.”

Douglas rose to his feet. “If I were you, I would start writing.”

“I’m not passing along such drivel to such a sensible woman.” St. Just rose, as well, and eyed Douglas a little uncertainly. “She’d think my wits had gone begging.”

“It isn’t your wits,” Douglas said sternly. He pulled St. Just into his arms, not for a quick, self-conscious, furtive male hug, but for an embrace, full of affection and protectiveness. “It’s your heart, you ass. Now listen to me.” He put a hand on the back of St. Just’s head, effectively preventing St. Just from doing aught but remaining pliant in his arms. “I love you, and I am proud of you. I am grateful for the years you spent defending me and mine, and I will keep you in my prayers each and every night. Write to me, or I will tattle to Her Grace, Rose, and Winnie.”

“A veritable firing squad of guilt,” the earl said, stepping back. He turned his back on Douglas and reached for a linen napkin on the tea cart. “Damn you, Amery.”

Douglas stepped up behind him and offered him one last pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right, Devlin. Just keep turning toward the light, no matter how weak, shifting, or uncertain. Write to me, and know you are always welcome in my house, under any circumstances, no matter what.”

St. Just nodded but didn’t turn as he heard Douglas’s steps fade away.

***

“Esther.” The Duke of Moreland smiled as he found his wife in their private sitting room, already dressed for the day. “I thought you were going to sleep in?”

“I thought I was, too, but Rose leaves us today, and this makes me restless.”

“Ah, but, my love.” The duke tugged his wife of three decades down to sit beside him on the settee. “Rose had a smashing good time, didn’t she?”

“She did.” The duchess smiled at him. “She got you out and about but kept you at a reasonable pace. Every fellow recovering from a heart seizure should be assigned a little granddaughter to keep him in line.”

“I am recovering,” the duke said, eyeing his wife. “Not a hundred percent yet, but I’m coming along. Morelands is good for me.”

“Morelands is lovely.”

“I don’t think Morelands is agreeing with St. Just.”

“What makes you say that?” The duchess kept her tone noncommittal, though His Grace thought she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

“I was on my way out to the rose garden to see how the white roses are coming along, and I happened to be on the other side of the privet hedge when St. Just was bidding Amery good-bye.”

“I think they’ve gotten on well.”

“St. Just was crying in the man’s arms, Esther.” The duke shook his head. “Nothing havey-cavey about it, he’s just… He’s still upset, and Amery doesn’t pull any punches, God knows.”

“Devlin cannot tolerate boredom,” the duchess said. “His demons plague him when he’s idle, and I fear we excel at idleness here at Morelands.”

“Mayhap.” The duke patted her hand, as pretty and slim as any girl’s. “I have never known what to do with that one, Esther. He’s just… he insists on holding himself aloof, and all he’s ever asked me is to buy him his colors and one decent horse. Ten years later, England is victorious, two sons are dead, and another probably wishes he were.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“Maybe not now.” The duke stroked her hand, searching her eyes. “Val and Westhaven report his drinking has moderated, and he’s been in regular correspondence with them, his steward in Surrey, and his man of business. Maybe he and Amery just went a bit nancy on us—happens in the army, I’m told. And the women in Yorkshire all look like sheep after a certain age, anyway.”

“Percival Windham”—the duchess retrieved her hand—“you repeat that nonsense in polite company, and I will hide every tin of chocolates from which you are cadging your treats.”

“Just a thought,” the duke groused. “Something’s still amiss with the lad, and I’ll be damned if I can fathom it. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“I’m not his mother,” the duchess, said, but she couldn’t hide the pain flashing in her eyes as she repeated a refrain His Grace had heard from her often through the years. She’d loved the boy from the day he’d arrived at the age of five, bewildered, heartbroken to be cast from his mother’s side, and determined not to be intimidated by ducal grandeur; but Esther would not interfere between Percy and his firstborn.

“You are the only damned thing he’s ever had that resembles a mother,” the duke shot back, pleased to see he had her attention. “And maybe Amery has the right of it: The boy wants mothering or some damned thing like it. Now, how can we finagle another visit from our little Rose before Christmas?”

The duchess listened to him spin and discard a half-dozen schemes and bribes before he arrived to the least interesting but most effective option of all.

“Do you suppose, Esther”—he tucked her hand back into his—“we should just ask?”

***

“I’ve decided Rose must stay with me,” St. Just informed her stepfather, who waited at the bottom of the front steps for his horse to be brought around. “You have John; you don’t need Rose, too.” He scooped his niece up into a tight hug then set her down near the traveling coach.

“You’ll not kidnap my daughter,” Guinevere Allen, Viscountess Amery said, coming out of the house with John in her arms. “His Grace tried that, St. Just. I frown upon it, and Douglas gets positively irrational.”

St. Just grinned. “I should like to witness that, but perhaps not inspire it.”

Gwen leaned up and kissed his cheek. “St. Just, thank you for keeping Douglas out of trouble these weeks. It’s a thankless task, I know, as he’s so naturally prone to mischief. Husband, mount up. Their Graces said their farewells indoors, and the aunts will not be out of bed for hours yet.”

Douglas assisted his wife and children into the coach and gave the driver leave to walk on, then waited for Sir Regis’s girth to be tightened.

“You might consider marriage, you know,” Douglas said as the horse was led over. “It solved a world of difficulties for me, and I do not refer to the financial.”

“Perhaps you just want to assign responsibility for worrying about me to someone else.”

“I will worry about you for as long as I damned well please,” Douglas muttered. “Behave yourself, and—”

“I know.” St. Just wrapped him a hug. “You love me, you are proud of me, and you will keep me in your prayers.”

“Right.” Douglas nodded, holding on for a moment before stepping back. “Glad to see you were paying attention.”

“Be off with you.” St. Just patted Sir Regis’s neck. “And my thanks for everything.” Douglas saluted with his crop, swung aboard, and trotted off, soon disappearing into the plume of dust raised by the coach.

St. Just sat on the steps, watching the dust drift away on the morning breeze. If nothing else, the past six weeks had brought a friend into his life. A truly dear, worthy friend, a man he would have served with gladly. It wasn’t like having a brother back, not Bart nor Victor, but it was a profound consolation nonetheless.

Valentine Windham appeared at the top of the steps, his sable hair tousled, his green eyes speculative. He sidled down the steps, hands in his pockets, his lean form moving with sleepy grace. He lowered himself to sit beside his brother and frowned.

“Damned quiet without the brat,” Val said.

“Rose stole your heart, too, did she?”

“She’s a lot like Victor. I don’t know how that should be, but she’s droll and quick and passionate, and he’s gone, but then there’s Rose. And sometimes, in a certain light, she has a look of him around her eyes.”

“And in the chin, too, I think. You miss him.”

“I miss him.” Val glanced up at the blue summer sky. “He rallied in the summers, at least when it was dry. I think the coal dust aggravated him, and the damp.”

“And the dying,” St. Just said. “The going by degrees and days and minutes.”

“Many times he said he envied Bart, a nice, quick, clean bullet. Alive and cussing one minute, gone to his reward the next. No quacks, no nurses, no long faces around the bed.”

“I miss Bart, too,” St. Just mused. “No chance to say good-bye, no time to say what needed to be said, no period of grace to bargain with God and find some balance with the whole thing.”

“Damned lousy,” Val said, sounding more desolate than peevish. He laid his head on his brother’s shoulder. “Promise me you won’t pull a stunt like either of them.”

“I promise. You?”

“Swear to God. Word of a Windham.”

They were silent a long moment, the late summer morning barely stirring around them.

“That’s why you beat the stuffings out of me, isn’t it?” St. Just glanced over at his baby brother. “You might kill me with your bare hands, but you weren’t going to let another brother be taken from you.”

“That, and I was only then beginning to realize Victor wasn’t ill, he was dying, and he was fighting it hard not because he enjoyed being trapped in a miserable body, but because we trapped him with our grief. I told him to let go, but he wasn’t about to listen to me.”

“And I wasn’t even there to comment.”

“You were drunk, I was coming apart with grief, and that left, as always, Gayle to impersonate the adult in this family.”

“And he seems to be enjoying the role more and more.”

“Adulthood has its privileges,” Val said, lifting his head. “But are you enjoying them?”

“I’m doing better, little brother. My bad days are not quite as bad, and my good days are coming closer together. What of you?”

“Westhaven’s nuptials have put rather a crimp in my designs,” Val said, scowling. “I liked having the two of you where I could keep an eye on you, but I’m not about to share a home with a pair of newlyweds on the nest.”

“So come visit Yorkshire. I warn you an associate of Rose’s lives with me, Helmsley’s by-blow. She is a handful and good for me.”

“Her Grace mentioned this.” Val gave him a puzzled look. “Since when did you acquire the knack of raising children?”

“She has pretty much raised herself, and my arse is going to sleep on these stones.” He rose, rubbed his posterior, then gave his brother a hand up.

“You have calluses.” Val frowned at his brother’s hand.

“I am a stonemason, of sorts, but we can ensconce your behind on a piano bench, never fear. No calluses for my baby brother.”

“I have calluses on my lordly backside from sitting on piano benches, but as I just sent you a grand piano, I suppose it makes sense I’d go see it properly tuned and set up.”

“You’ll come with me?” St. Just asked, feeling a warmth settle in his chest at the words. He’d invited his first houseguest, and it was somebody he’d loved since birth.

“I will. It will get me the hell away from His Eternally Matchmaking Grace and our infernal sisters and their infernal marriage-mad friends.”

“We need to douse you with eau de bastard,” St. Just said. “It cools the heels of all but the most determined.”

“Oh?” Val arched an eyebrow as they started up the steps. “But doesn’t a quick dip in eau de earl bring them all out of the woodwork again?”

“In Yorkshire?” St. Just scoffed. “You can handle that crowd as long you don’t let them hear what you can do with a keyboard.”

***

“Scout says he misses Rosecroft,” Winnie informed Emmie over dinner.

“So why doesn’t Scout write to his long lost earl?” Emmie asked, barely able to keep her eyes open.

“He did. In my last letter I drew a picture of Scout. Are you sad?”

It’s just my menses, Emmie thought. It’s just three weeks of being run ragged, of dodging difficult conversations with Hadrian Bothwell, and baking more bread and goodies than all of Yorkshire should have been able to consume.

“I am not sad, exactly,” Emmie said, knowing it was a lie. Her heart was breaking, and as busy as she tried to keep herself, sadness was her constant companion. The longer she stayed here, the more difficult it was going to be to leave.

“You miss the earl,” Winnie said. “I do, too, but he promised, and it isn’t Michaelmas yet.”

“Not for another week or so. Eat some carrots, Win.”

“I do not understand why horses like these so much.” Winnie eyed her carrot then slipped her fork into her mouth. “But I don’t like grass either.”

“You’ve tried eating grass?” Emmie couldn’t help but smile.

“I was hungry.” Winnie shrugged. “And the cows and sheep and horses all grow quite stout on it. The flowers of clover aren’t bad, but I was still hungry.”

“Winnie.” Emmie reached over and gave her a one-armed hug. “You are impossible.”

“I am possible,” Winnie retorted. “Will Rosecroft bring me home a pony?”

And so it went. Winnie’s favorite conversational gambits became more and more narrowly focused on questions regarding the earl, and fantastic declarations regarding Scout’s expertise, opinions, and decisions. At one point, Winnie asked if the earl might bring a pony for Scout, and Emmie simply got up and walked out of the room.

Hadrian Bothwell had become not just a frequent visitor to the stables but an occasional guest in Emmie’s kitchen, as well. He ensconced himself on a kitchen stool and proceeded to help himself to Emmie’s freshest products while swilling milk or tea or chocolate.

Emmie was occupying Hadrian’s vacated stool when Stevens brought in the post, among which she found another letter from the earl. As the letter was addressed to Miss Farnum, she took the liberty of opening it.

My dear Miss Farnum,

I hope it pleases you to be informed I will be returning no later than the 23rd of this month and I am bringing my youngest brother, Lord Valentine, for an indefinite stay. I’ve endured my visit at Morelands well enough, spent time with my siblings and Their Graces, and while Kent has its appeal, Yorkshire is more peaceful. Douglas says I ought also to tell you I am managing not to drain the cellars at each rainstorm, though sleep has proven elusive.

There are no stone walls here, Emmie, for me to take out my frustrations on. I ride, but Beau is such a steady fellow, I am leaving him with Westhaven to replace an old campaigner by the name of Pericles. I will be bringing more young stock north, so alert Stevens we might be on the lookout for another groom.

There is a great deal more I would tell you, but I will be home not long after you read this. I’ve done the pretty with my solicitors and my man of business in London, and refurbished my wardrobe, as well as picked up a few things for the household. Mostly, though I look forward to being home, to waking up to the scent of fresh bread and sweet rolls, to commenting on your experiments, and seeing what can be done with the gardens before cold weather sets in.

The trip has been useful, Emmie, but it’s homecoming I look forward to most.

Devlin St. Just

Rosecroft

She was in tears when Winnie came through the door, Scout at her heels.

“Miss Emmie? I saw Vicar leave, but why are you crying?”

“I’m just tired, Winnie.” Emmie dredged up a watery smile and didn’t even bother reminding Winnie that the dog was not allowed in the kitchen. “As soon as I’m done with the cinnamon rolls, I think I need a nap.”

“I think you do, too,” Winnie said, plucking one roll for herself, another for the dog. “You’re always tired.”

“Winnie Farnum.” Emmie rose off the stool. “You did not wash your hands, you did not ask permission, nor did you help make these rolls. And yet you have given one away to that garbage scow you call a dog, who is not supposed to be in this kitchen.”

“Scout forgot.”

“Bronwyn.” Emmie’s tone became stern as she planted her fists on her hips. “Scout is the dog, and you are responsible for him. This is the second time he’s been in here today, young lady.”

“C’mon Scout.” Winnie sighed hugely, snapped her fingers, and led her beast from the kitchen.

Emmie sank back down on the stool and willed her eyes to stay open until the last batch of rolls was ready to come out of the oven. If she simply ignored the need to prepare her ingredients and kitchen for tomorrow’s baking, she could go straight up to bed and sleep for maybe ninety minutes before it was time to have dinner with Winnie. She met Cook on the stairs, explained her plan, and dragged herself up the steps.

***

Rosecroft,

I am pleased to inform you both Caesar and Wulf continue to execute consistently clean flying changes of leg, though Ethelred has developed a tendency to be late behind. Stevens has suggested work in counter canter, but I am more inclined to avoid the problem and leave it to your superior skills to address upon your return.

I must warn you, as well, a Canine of mythical proportions has taken up residence in Miss Winnie’s heart. This beast follows her everywhere, though Miss Emmie insists the animal spend its nights in the stable, which, given his size, is only appropriate. The earth shakes when he moves, and if I could get a saddle and bridle on him, I’d suggest you add him to your training program.

I have notified my bishop it is my intention to quit the district before the year is out. I do not exaggerate when I say that means a replacement at St. Michael’s will likely appear by May Day, or thereabouts. My brother’s health is not sound, and I am needed at his side.

It is particularly pleasant, when family matters are not sanguine, to have the pleasure of riding your geldings. Miss Farnum accompanies me on her most excellent mare, who endeavors to set a good example for the younger fellows. Perhaps, if I am considering choosing my future viscountess, I should look to such as Petunia for my example. I have asked Miss Farnum to bear that honor, and have every hope she will agree this time.

I am asked at least a dozen times each week what has become of you and when you will be at services again. I assure one and all (by which I mean Lady Tosten, who is well versed in churchyard dialects), you have been carried off by bandits to be sold into slavery on the Barbary Coast.

Seriously, one hopes your journey goes well and you will soon arrive safely back to home and hearth. Miss Winnie, at the least, longs for the sight of you.

Hadrian Bothwell, Vicar

St. Michael’s of the Sword

Rosecroft Village, Yorkshire