Carla Kelly (27 page)

He chuckled. “Yes, his mother told me about that while we waited for you to return this evening.” He leaned forward then. “Good for you, my dear, good for you. John has some wonderful qualities to share with the world.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I am Irish, as you can plainly tell, and I was prepared to hate him forever. But I can't. I am determined to see him successfully married. Then remains the thorny problem of finding him some occupation to fill his time.”

He nodded but said nothing, as though encouraging her to continue.

“He could easily take to the drink again, if he finds time hanging heavy,” she went on, “and this I do not wish.”

“Why not?” he interjected suddenly.

Why not indeed?
she thought. She leaned forward too, across the desk, drawn to this kind man, now that she knew he meant her no harm. “I like him, Sir Augustus. He's lazy and bears no resemblance to other people I used to admire, but I like him. I see … well … potential.” She stopped in confusion. “I do not think I can explain it any better, sir.”

Sir Augustus leaned back in his chair then and crossed his legs comfortably. “I think the finest quality about the Irish is their forthrightness, Emma. I like him too and would hate it right down to my socks if he continued to throw his life away.” He shook his head. “One tragic death was enough.”

“Exactly so, my lord,” she agreed.

He sat there another moment, then rose to his feet, nodded to her, and went to the door. He paused there and looked back at her.

“My dear, have you ever considered pursuing him yourself? I think he would make you a first-rate husband.”

Emma blinked and wondered if she had heard the old man correctly. When she realized she was staring at him with her mouth hanging open, she closed it.

“I wish you would consider it, Emma. Perhaps his friends would be surprised, but I don't recall that John ever cared much what people thought.”

“You cannot be serious,” she managed to say finally. “He's only now beginning to court an unexceptionable lady in London.”

Sir Augustus considered her reply and nodded slowly. “Well, if you say so. I wonder that he did not mention her, but only spent the last few minutes over port, both extolling your abilities and saying how you drive him to the edge of patience on a daily basis.”

She leaped on this opening. “See there, sir, you said it yourself. I drive him to distraction!”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. “If you maneuver this correctly, I don't think it would take more than a week or two to turn that into love, my dear, if it isn't already there. Think about it.”

“Oh, I could never!” she burst out.

“Never?” he asked, his eyes bright. “That's a long time. Emma, perhaps you should consider how good
you
would be for John. Good night, my dear.”

Emma made a point to dismiss thoroughly from her mind Sir Augustus Barney's closing remarks to her. “I think your eccentricity must come from living too long on a fog-bound, windy coast,” she said grimly after the man smiled at her and bowed himself out of the room. She shook her head at the closed door, then picked up the outline of the letter she was to compose to Lord Ragsdale's banker.

She bent to the task in front of her, still at it two hours later, and wondering why. The floor around the wastebasket was littered with crumpled papers, evidence of her failure to compose a simple letter.
That's what comes from using old ink,
she thought, as she sharpened yet another quill. She looked down at the page before her, crossed out and agitated over. Of course, ancient ink would hardly account for her numerous misspellings.

This is a lost cause,
she reflected as she put away the ink and paper finally.
I must admit that Sir Augustus's words have put me into a pelter.
She folded her hands in front of her and resolved to consider the matter.

“I don't love Lord Ragsdale,” she said out loud and waited for something inside her to deny it. Nothing did; there were no whistles or bells or fireworks going off inside her, or even in the near vicinity, so it could not possibly be true. “Well, that's a relief,” she said, and again, nothing contradicted that sentiment.

I suppose I am just tired,
she thought as she surveyed the ruin around her.
This letter can wait until tomorrow.
She picked up the crumpled remains of her evening's effort and stowed them in the wastebasket, thoroughly irritated with herself. She stood at the window a moment and watched the rain thunder down, then sighed, blew out the lamp, and left the book room.

She closed the door behind her and noticed a paper tacked to the frame. It was in Lord Ragsdale's familiar, scrawling handwriting that by now she could have picked out from a roomful of letters. “Emma, come riding with me in the morning. Be at the stables at seven. John.”

She folded the note, amazed that Lord Ragsdale would rise so early. She could hear laughter from the sitting room, so he was still up.
I could go in there and remind him that I have his work to do in the book room,
she considered, then rejected the idea. Sir Augustus was probably in there too, and she didn't feel like facing him.

“Very well, sir, I suppose I will go riding,” she said to the note as she hurried belowstairs.

She overslept the next morning, waking to the sound of someone rapping on her door with a riding whip. She sat up in bed, clutching the blankets around her when Lord Ragsdale came into the room. He clucked his tongue at her and shook his head.

“Really, Emma, weren't you the one who extolled the virtues of early rising?” He came closer, and her eyes widened. “Need any help pulling the bed off your back? I seem to remember someone forcing me into a tub at an unwholesome hour.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, bereft of conversation.

Lord Ragsdale laughed as he went back to the door. “Emma, you've been away from Ireland too long,” he said over his shoulder. “This is the second time in as many days that I have found you speechless.”

Impulsively, she grabbed a shoe on the floor by the bed and threw it at him, but it only slammed harmlessly into the closed door.

“And your aim is off,” she heard from the other side of the panel. “Ten minutes, Emma, or I'm coming back in to help.”

There is such a thing as too much improvement
, she decided as she hurried into Lady Ragsdale's riding habit and pulled on her boots. She grinned to herself, reminded suddenly of Paddy Doyle, one of her father's tenants. After years of “the daemon dhrink,” as he put it, Paddy reformed and spent the rest of his life driving his fellow tenants crazy as he extolled the virtues of abstinence.

“Lord Ragsdale, you could become tedious,” she told him ten minutes later as she found him in the stables, giving a little more grain to his hunter. She yanked the brush she had carried with her across the stable yard through her sleep-tangled hair.

“I'll do that,” he said, taking the brush from her and handing her the grain bucket. “Here, have some breakfast.”

She laughed in spite of herself and looked in the half-filled bucket. “You wretch!” she exclaimed as he brushed her hair. “I mean, you wretch, my lord.”

“Well, I would only say it to the least horse-faced woman I know,” he replied, brushing her hair. “If you'll move with me over to the fence rail, you will see a biscuit I brought for you, and some ham. Really, Emma, you should practice what you preach about a good breakfast.”

She turned around to say something, but he took her hair in a large handful and towed her toward the fence rail. “You are certifiable,” she said as she reached for the ham. “I don't know why I didn't see it sooner. Thank you, Lord Ragsdale.”

He chuckled as he finished brushing her hair. She handed him a ribbon, and he tied it in a tight bow while she started on the biscuit. He turned her around to admire his handiwork.

“You'll do,” he said, setting down the brush. “You know, Emma, that's the trouble with reformation. Sometimes you get more than you bargained for.”

She stood there, her mouth full of biscuit as he smiled at her. She noticed then he wasn't wearing his eye patch.
I wonder why I didn't notice that sooner
, she thought as she swallowed and wiped her hands on her dress.
Maybe because it doesn't matter to me.

He did observe the direction of her gaze. “I'd rather leave it off, if you don't mind,” he said. “I don't think we'll see anyone, and it's just you.”

She smiled at him, reminded of her brothers and similar, offhand remarks. “It's fine with me, my lord,” she said. “It doesn't matter one way or the other.”

He took her by the shoulders. “You really mean that, don't you?” he asked.

She gently slid from his grasp. “I really do. If you're more comfortable without it, leave it off.”

He thought that over and helped her saddle the mare. “I wonder how Clarissa would feel about that,” he wondered out loud as he cinched the saddle.

“You could ask her,” she said sensibly as she handed him the bridle.

“Emma, do you always reduce everything to black and white?” he asked, the humor evident in his voice as he put the bit in her horse's mouth.

I thought I used to know right and wrong when I saw it,
she reflected.
But that was before that man, before Robert Emmet, came walking up the lane to our house and I made the worst mistake of all. Since then, nothing has been black and white.
“Of course I do,” she lied.

He was watching her face, and she turned away to busy herself with the stirrup.

“You're a liar, Emma,” he replied, his voice mild. “I wonder when you will finally tell me something true about yourself.”

ER MIND FROZE AS HE HELPED HER INTO the saddle. She arranged her leg across the horse and spread her skirts around her, afraid to look at Lord Ragsdale. She said nothing as he watched her for a long moment, his face unreadable now. When she thought she would start to cry if he did not turn away, Lord Ragsdale whistled to his hunter and mounted him.

“I can wait, Emma,” he said as she rode beside him, too shocked to look at him. “I am also led to wonder sometimes who we are redeeming here, me or you.”

They rode in silence from the stable yard, until she managed to calm herself. “You could not possibly be interested in anything about me,” she said finally, knowing it was her turn to speak, but not knowing what to say to this man beside her.

“And why not?” he asked.

She looked at him then for the first time since his quiet declaration. “Because I am just your servant.”

He smiled then, reached over, and tugged her horse's mane.

“Emma, you've never been just a servant. I doubt the Claridges knew what to make of you, all skinny and ragged and covered with lice, from that voyage in the ship's hold. But I know your kind.” He touched her arm this time, lightly, briefly. “When you want to talk to someone, I hope it is me.”

What good could you do me?
she reflected as they rode along. You
have to be flogged to do your duty, and you are busy now with wooing. If you are not lazy now, it is only a temporary thing. You will be indolent again, when you are bored.
To her relief, Lord Ragsdale changed the subject and began to talk of his plans for the crofters.