Page 47 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
“Hush,” Emma said out of the corner of her mouth as she observed the startled looks on the faces of the people within. “Oh, please, we are so wet,” she began, and friendly hands pulled her inside.
Only minutes later she sat before the fire, a blanket clutched around her, a mug of warm milk in her hand, and her clothing draped demurely by the fireplace. She sipped at the milk, trying not to laugh at the sight of the marquess, similarly clad, but with more of him to cover. He tugged at the blanket, trying to cover both his shoulders and his legs at the same time.
“It’s a mathematical problem, my lord, which is whyyou probably cannot resolve it,” she commented and took another sip.
“What are you talking about?” he snapped.
“There are only so many square inches of blanket, and more square inches of you, my lord,” she explained, her eyes merry. “You might ask them which end they would prefer covered. It’s their house, and we are guests. It’s all the same to me.”
He gave her a gallows smile and resolved the matter by cinching the blanket about his waist and moving closer to the fire to keep his bare shoulders warm.
“All the same to you, eh?” he asked finally as he accepted a cup of milk. ‘‘That cuts me to the quick. No preference, Emma?”
“My lord, I am not Fae Moullé,” she retorted, swallowing her laughter when he blushed.
“No, you are not,” he replied finally, when he could think of something to say. “And I say my prayers daily in gratitude for that tad of information.” He looked up at the older man, obviously the head of the house, who stood beside him, as if wondering what he should do. “Do be seated, sir, and forgive this frightful intrusion. We thank you for your hospitality and promise to leave as soon as the rain lets up.”
The man touched a work-worn hand to his forehead and sat down. “My lord, you and Lady Ragsdale may remain as long as it suits you.” He looked about the crowded room and then at the cows behind the barrier. “After all, sir, it’s your property.”
Lord Ragsdale looked about him. “Why, so it is,” he murmured. “Don’t let us keep you from your tasks, uh, your name, please?”
“David Larch,” said the man. “My father worked here before me, and his father before him, my lord.” He stood up and looked toward the cow bier. “It’s time for the milking, my lord, if you and your lady will excuse me.”
Lord Ragsdale nodded, but Emma wondered why he didnot correct the man. She moved closer to the fire, careful to keep the blanket well-draped around her. “Why didn’t you tell him we are not married, my lord?” she whispered to his back.
He set down the cup and grinned at her. “What? After teasing me like that? They wouldn’t believe we weren’t married, and I shan’t confuse them.”
It was her turn to blush. The marquess tugged her wet hair suddenly, then turned back to the fire. “It’s so refreshing when you’re speechless, Emmie dear,” he said, loud enough for the family to hear him.
In another moment, to her relief, Lord Ragsdale gathered his blanket about his middle and padded on bare feet over to the cow bier, where he tucked in his blanket, leaned across the railing, and chatted in low tones with the crofter.
“Your lordship has a nice touch about him, my lady.”
Emma looked around with a smile as the crofter’s wife sat down beside her with her baby, opened her blouse, and began to nurse. Emma looked on in simple delight, reminded of her father’s estate all over again, and the quiet people who inhabited it.I wonder if they were driven out too, she thought with a pang as she listened to the baby’s soft grunt of satisfaction. She looked back at Lord Ragsdale.He has a nice back, she decided.I hope Clarissa Partridge will appreciate the fact that I rescued him.
“Yes, he does have a pleasant way with folk,” she replied.
The wife leaned against the wall of the hut and admired her child, who was kneading at her breast now, his eyes closed. “Now, his father before him ... there was a stiff man. I know he always meant well, but he just never could talk to people like us.”
Emma touched the baby’s hair, pleasuring in the fineness of it. “Tell me, Mrs. Larch. Did my ... the late Lord Ragsdale ever make any repairs on your cottage?”
She shook her head and smiled, as if amused at such a naive question. “I disremember any repairs, but he did comeby every now and again and promise them.” She sighed. “I am certain sure he meant well, but promises don’t butter any bread, now, do they?”
“They do not,” Emma agreed, looking at the marquess and wishing he could have heard Mrs. Larch’s artless declaration. They both watched the marquess then, and Mrs. Larch shifted her baby to the other breast.
“He looks a sight better now than he did ten years ago,” she offered, her voice low. “We all went to the chapel for the memorial service for poor Lord Ragsdale, him all cut up in tiny pieces by the blamed Irish.”
Emma gulped and wondered why the crofter’s wife had made no mention of her brogue. “Dreadful affair,” she agreed. “I did not know him then.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, my lady,” the woman agreed. “You don’t look much older than a baby yourself. Sometimes I wonder what men are thinking when they take a wife. Ah, well. The doings of the aristocracy are not my affair, so pay me no mind, Lady Ragsdale. All I remember was the sight of him on that stretcher, his eye covered in a bandage, and him so quiet.” She shivered. “And then he began to wail. I can hear it yet, if I think about it.” She shook her head as she burped her son and handed him to Emma. “He seems better now. Here, my lady. If you’ll hold the little’un, I’ll see to some supper. You must be fair famished.”
Lord Ragsdale was quiet all through the simple meal of porridge and milk. Mrs. Larch had found a cloth to drape over his shoulders, “So ye’ll set a good example for the elder’uns,” she teased and glanced at her older children, who had come indoors, wet and shivering, from evening chores.
“Mind your tongue, mum,” the crofter said, even as he smiled and nodded to the marquess. “Women do get uppity, my lord, as you may have noticed.”
Lord Ragsdale dragged his attention to the crofter, whose shoulders were shaking in silent laughter over his own brazen wit. He smiled at Emma. “Yes, I have noticed.Sometimes they even tell us things we don’t want to hear.”
The rain stopped while they were finishing the last of the porridge. Mrs. Larch cast an expert’s eye at the variety of pots set by the smoking fire, filled with rain. “Storm’s over, my lord and lady,” she said. She winked at Emma. “I must say, my lady, what with all this ventilation, we always have rainwater for our hair and the little tyke’s bath!”
