Page 32 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
He wanted to tease her some more, because he liked the animation that came into her face when he challenged her with words.I wish that I felt clever in the morning, he thought, as her demeanor changed and she became all business again. In fact, she was clearing her throat and demanding his attention again.
“My lord, here are your bills outstanding. Please initial them, and I will see that your banker gets them.” She pointed to a smaller pile. “Here are invitations. Your mother has already perused them and has indicated with a small check in the corner that these would further Sally’s ambitions, and probably your own.”
He picked up the one on top and sighed. “Emma, these people are boring, they have an indifferent cook, and their daughter is plain.”
Emma was ruffling through the other pile of letters on his tray, ignoring him. Playfully, he slapped her on the wrist with the invitation he held, and she stopped and looked directly at him.
“Then you can study a little patience, not eat so much, and put your patch on your good eye.” She handed his eye patch to him. “Put this on, by the way.”
He set the patch on the tray. “Does my eye bother you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, and at the same time, wondering why on earth he even cared what she thought. “It bothers my mother.”
Emma was pulling out another letter. “Not particularly, my lord,” she replied, her voice absentminded. “I’ve seen worse sights. See here, I really want you to pay attention to this letter, my lord.”
He took it from her, filled with a strange new charity.Ihonestly believe that my eye doesn’t bother you, he thought. “I think you just paid me a compliment, Emma,” he said.
Mystified, she held out the letter opener. “I cannot imagine what it was then.” And there was her dimple finally, that visible expression of humor that gave her face even more character. “I’ll make sure that it does not happen again, my lord. Do open that letter. Lady Ragsdale says it is from your bailiff on the Norfolk estate.”
He did as he was told and spread out the letter on the tea tray as he took another sip of the cooling drink. It was Manwaring’s usual reminder about the state of the crofters’ cottages and the necessity for repairs that could not be put off, but which he had managed to avoid for some three years, mainly because it did not interest him.
“Something about new roofs for the crofters,” he said, tossing the letter aside.
Emma picked up the letter. “Which are three years overdue, according to your bailiff,” she added, glaring at him over the top of the letter. “And now he writes that some of the floors are rotting too, because of this neglect. He wants you to come to Norfolk immediately, my lord.”
“Too much trouble,” he snapped. “I do not know why the man cannot just attend to it without my presence.”
“You landlords are all the same! I am certain Dante intended a special rung in the Inferno for you,” Emma raged at him, folding the letter and shoving it in the pocket of her apron.
He stared at her in amazement, then glared back, wondering at her sudden vehemence, more curious than angry. “You think I should go there?” he asked. “To Norfolk, I mean, not Dante’s Inferno.”
“It is your land, my lord. You should attend to the needs of your people,” she said, her voice quieter now, as though she regretted her outburst. She sat down in the chair next to the bed and pulled out the letter again. “You can visit your estate, approve the new roofs, and then at your next dinnerparty, impress the young lady seated next to you with your benevolence toward your tenants.”
She said it so calmly, so factually, that it suddenly became quite clear that Emma Costello despised him. She did not have to express her loathing for his class in her voice or manners; it was amply evident in the matter-of-fact way she reduced any good intention—had he possessed any—to pure calculation.
“And you are disgusted that you must cajole me into doing what I should, eh, Emma?” he asked quietly, interpreting the wooden expression on her face. “I do not need a special rung in the Inferno, because you have already located me there.”
He spoke quietly, biting off each word. He did not think she would reply, and she did not; she did not need to. In silence he picked up the eye patch and put it on, feeling strangely as though he was attempting to cover his nakedness and failing utterly. He had been weighed in the balance and found wanting by a maid who, had she found him bleeding by the side of an Irish road, would probably have crossed on the other side. As it was, she must serve him, whether she liked to or not. The shame of it bored into his brain like an awl.
“Go away, Emma,” he said quietly, rubbing his forehead. “I’ll be ready in an hour, and we will see my banker.”
She left without a word or backward glance.
He picked up the tea tray and pulled back to throw it across the room, then changed his mind. Such a stupid gesture would only confirm his unsavory character, he considered as he set it on the end of the bed and got up. He shaved and dressed in fifteen minutes, then sat at his desk and read through his correspondence that Emma had separated for him.
Mama had decreed that he would accompany her and Sally to a boring dinner two blocks over, charades and parlor talk four blocks beyond, and then to a dance for four or five hundred of a distant relative’s closest acquaintances.By allthat’s holy, this is a paltry existence, and Emma is ever so right. I am lazy and bored and don’t know what to do about it.
Dressed and ready to go, he remained in his room and read over all his letters, penciling notes to Emma, instructing her to write his bailiff and tell him to proceed with repairs. He set aside two invitations that interested him, with directions that Emma respond. He worked his way through the stack, pausing on a letter with a peer’s frank. It was from his father’s old friend Sir Augustus Barney, whose land marched beside his in Norfolk. He would write a personal letter tonight and advise the old fellow to expect a visit soon. He spent a few minutes in conversation with Lasker, perused the correspondence in the book room, then made it to the breakfast room before the maid removed the ham and eggs.
He ate standing up, looking out the window, wondering if spring would ever put in an appearance this year.
“You’ll ruin your digestion, son, if you take your meals standing up,” said his mother from the doorway.
He smiled and turned around. “Mama, will you still be scolding me when I am forty or fifty?”
She stood in the doorway with a cloak draped over her arm and blew him a kiss. “If you do not marry, I am certain I will. As it is, I hope you will find a wife who can scold you instead of me.”
He shook his head. “It’s a heavy business, Mama. I don’t think I made much of an impression on anyone last night at Almack’s.”
She nodded in agreement. “Thank goodness there is an entire Season stretching before you, with ample time for redemption.”
