Page 13 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
“You could put her in the kitchen, John,” Grandmama said, taking another sip of her brandied tea, and held out the cup for more. “That’s a good place for the Irish.” She giggled.
“Not Emma,” he said, wondering how she would fare belowstairs with the servants he employed. Besides that, as much as he disliked her, he couldn’t ignore Emma’s obvious intelligence anymore than he could overlook her trim shape. The kitchen was no place for Emma, no matter how much she richly deserved to be sentenced there.
“This becomes difficult,” he told his grandmother as he laced their tea with a little more brandy. “I don’t need her,Mama and Sally don’t need her, the kitchen would be better off without her. . .” He went to the window and grasped the frame as the room wobbled. “Maybe she can clust and dean. I mean, dust and clean.”
Grandmama made no reply. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. Her head drooped on her chest, and she was beginning to snore. He sighed and rested his head against the window frame. What was he going to do with Emma?
~
To Lord Ragsdale’s infinite relief, Robert Claridge allowed himself to be taken quietly to Brasenose College in the morning. The two of them rode in silence through the narrow streets of Oxford, which already bustled with scholastic purpose. Lord Ragsdale introduced his sullen cousin to the warden and gave him his back without a qualm. After Robert had been ushered away, he spent more time with the warden, urging that worthy to let him know of any infractions.
“He’s a worthless young man, sir,” Lord Ragsdale concluded. “Had I known the extent of his worthlessness, I would never have moved heaven and earth to foist him upon you at this juncture of the term. But here he is, sir.”
The warden regarded him with some amusement. “Do you have any sons of your own yet, Lord Ragsdale?”
“I do not, sir.”
The warden smiled at him. “You cannot imagine, then, how many variations of your conversation I have heard before.”
He paused and Lord Ragsdale understood. “My own father, eh?” he asked, with just a ghost of a smile playing around his lips.
“Yes, my lord. Somehow we managed to turn you into someone acceptable to the world at large. I suspect we will succeed with this American too.”
Lord Ragsdale managed a reluctant smile. “The Brasenose touch, sir?”
“Exactly, my lord. I think we can render him sufficiently busy to keep him from the gaming table.” The warden rose and held out his hand. “I will attempt to warn him with the perils of serving in the ranks, should he choose to indulge in a gaming career within our walls. Good day, my lord.”
Grandmama Whiteacre kindly loaned him a horse and saddle for the return to London so it was not necessary to stifle himself inside the family carriage this time. The day was no warmer than before, but at least it did not snow. His horse, serviceable if somewhat elderly, plodded sedately alongside the carriage where Mama read, Sally slept, and Emma continued her everlasting stare out the window. He watched her and resolved to turn her over to his butler. Emma Costello could polish silver or clean out drains, for all he cared.
London was already foggy with the light of many street lamps when the carriage turned onto Curzon Street and released its grateful occupants. Lord Ragsdale remained on his horse. “Mama, I am off to White’s,” he told her. Lady Ragsdale, shaky and pale from a day’s travel, nodded to him as Emma helped her from the carriage. The front door opened, and Lasker stood there with the footman and Mama’s dresser behind him.
He left them without another qualm, praying that traffic would not be so terrible on St. James that he would be kept long from the brandy he had been thinking about all day. He would sink into his favorite leather chair, a full bottle near his hand, and pronounce himself liberated from all further exertions. Fae would be glad enough to see him later, he was sure. In her own practiced fashion, she would remove any rough edges that remained from the day. That was what he paid her for.
As he was dismounting in front of White’s, he was struck by the thought that this was what he had done the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Barring any unforeseen eventualities, he would do it all again tomorrow, and theday after, and the day after that. The thought dug him in the stomach, and he clutched the reins tighter, ignoring the porter who stood by to receive them.
Something of his unexpected agony must have crossed his face. In a moment, he heard the porter ask, “My lord, my lord, are you all right?”
He looked down at the little man, and after another long moment, handed him the reins. “I am fine,” he said, fully aware for the first time that he was lying. He had never been worse. As he went slowly up the steps and into the main hall, he realized that he would probably never be better, either. This was his life.Mercy, he thought to himself.Mercy.
The milkmen were already making their rounds when he returned to Curzon Street. His head was large as usual. He had drunk too much brandy at White’s and then compounded the felony at Fae’s by falling asleep, which irritated Fae. She muttered something she refused to repeat.
The house was dark and silent. In another hour or so, the kitchen staff, with yawns and eye rubs, would gird itself for another day of cooking, and the upstairs maids would answer tugs on the bell pulls with tea and hot water. Lord Ragsdale listed slowly down the hall toward the stairs, which loomed insurmountable before him.I think I will sit down here until they shrink, he thought as he grasped the banister to keep it from leaping about, and started to lower himself to the second tread. To his relief, it did not disappear. He sank down gratefully, leaned against the railing, and closed his eyes.
He opened them a moment later. He was not alone on the stairs. Someone else sat nearby. He turned his head slowly, wondering what he would do if it was a sneak thief or cutpurse come to rob and murder them all. Lord Ragsdale sighed philosophically and sat back to wait for the knife between his ribs. At least when they found his sprawled corpse at the foot of the stairs, the constable would think that he had died there defending his family.It would be rather like Thermopylae, he thought, and giggled.
“All right, do your worst,” he managed finally, looking around.
In another moment, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman sat near the top of the stairs, asleep and leaning against the railing. He looked closer and sighed again.Heavens, it’s Emma Costello, he thought,the plague of my life.As he watched her, his mind began to clear and he wondered what she was doing there. Surely she was not waiting up for him.
Suddenly it occurred to him that she had no place to sleep. He remembered his mother mentioning something about hiring a proper lady’s maid for Sally. The woman must have arrived and usurped Emma’s place in the dressing room. He stared at Emma and wondered why his mother had not done anything about the situation, until he remembered her exhausted face as her own maid helped her from the carriage. Mama must have gone directly to bed, too tired for a thought about Emma.
And here she was now, at the mercy of his staff, and asleep on the stairs. He felt an unexpected twinge of remorse, remembering his own disparaging words about her to his butler. The staff knew how he felt about the Irish.
“Emma,” he called out softly, not wishing to startle her into a plunge down the stairs.
He called her name several times before she straightened up, moving her head slowly as though her neck hurt. She was silent a moment. “My lord?” she finally asked, not sure of her answer.
“The very same,” he replied. “Emma, what are you doing sleeping on my stairs?”
