Page 57 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
“And you won’t let her in to see Mr. Capper?” he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the porter. “What gives you that right? You are a scoundrel, and I don’t mind telling you.”
“Y-y-yes, my lord,” the porter stuttered, retreating behind his desk again.
“How dare you humiliate that lady,” he said, warming to the cause and coming around the desk.
The little man scrambled over the desk and darted for the door. “But she’s Irish! She’s fair game!” he shouted as he tripped over the doorsill, leaped to his feet, and ran downthe hall, leaving Lord Ragsdale in possession of an empty anteroom.
It was dark out now. Lord Ragsdale shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly from the building, nodding to the night watchman. Outside, he leaned against the wall and collected himself.How can we be so cruel?he asked himself.What gives us the arrogance to treat our own kind like the meanest vegetation? She has family somewhere, and no one will help her find them. I make her do my stupid business, when I should be doing everything in my power to help her find those she loves.
He drove slowly back to Curzon Street, ignoring the curses of other drivers in more of a hurry.I do not know that I could ever apologize enough, he thought as he rode along, hunched down in the seat, the reins loose in his hands.And if I were to try, I would probably be treading on her dignity yet again.
He arrived in time for dinner, or so Lasker informed him as he came into the main hall, feeling as though he had just climbed one hundred steps instead of ten.
“I am certain Lady Ragsdale and Miss Claridge will understand if you do not dress, my lord,” Lasker offered as he took Lord Ragsdale’s overcoat.
He paused then and took a serious look at Lasker. “Did you ever think how silly that expression sounds?” he asked his surprised butler. “I mean, ‘dressing for dinner.’ I am already dressed. And who cares whether I address a roast of beef in proper attire?”
“My lord?” Lasker inquired.
“Nothing, Lasker,” he said, waving his hand wearily. “I am just amazed at myself and people like me.”
“Very well, then, my lord, but are you coming to dinner?” the butler asked, persistent to the end.
“I’m not hungry, Lasker, and I am not going to Almack’s, or the opera, or any other blasted nonsense selected for me tonight.” He wanted to say more, to remind his butlerthat there were people on the streets of London who were hungry, and cold, and who needed help, while people like him dressed for dinner and put their rumps in chairs at the opera. “I’m not going out tonight, Lasker,” he said instead.
“Very well, my lord,” Lasker replied, his face wooden.
Lord Ragsdale looked at his butler and took a deep breath. “I will be in the book room. I want you to send Emma Costello there immediately. We are not to be disturbed.”
He turned on his heel and left his dumbfounded butler standing in the hall, holding his overcoat. He stood for a long moment in the book room doorway, acutely aware that this was no place to prod at someone’s wounds until they bled again, but he could think of no other place. He closed the door behind him and lit a fire, noting with some surprise that his hands were shaking.
He was seated at the desk, looking at nothing, when Emma knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said, wishing that his voice did not sound so wintry. It was not her fault that he and his countrymen were weighed every day in the balance and found wanting. “Please,” he added.
Emma came into the room and stood before him at the desk. He looked up at her, noting her red eyes and the defeat evident in the way she held herself. He pulled up a chair beside his at the desk. “Sit down, Emma.”
She sat, leaning ever so slightly away from him, as though she feared the look on his face. He sighed and began to rub his forehead. He took off his eye patch and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Emma, I’ve just come from the Office of Criminal Business.”
He heard her little gasp but spared her his scrutiny. “The porter there assured me that you would never get in to see Mr. Capper because you are Irish. I will have his job in the morning, my dear, and I promise you we will see Mr. Capper.”
She began to cry then, a helpless sound more painful to his ears than any he could remember, including his own agony at the death of his father. She bowed her head and wept, and he could only sit there and watch her. In a moment, he handed her his handkerchief, and she hid her face in it, sobbing the deep, wracking tears of someone in the worst kind of misery. He let her cry in peace, wondering what to say.I think I shall be wise and keep my mouth shut, he decided finally.
Emma stopped crying and blew her nose vigorously. She dabbed at her eyes and glanced in his direction. “I am so sorry, my lord.”
“No, it is I who am sorry. I want you to tell me everything. Don’t leave out a detail. How can I help you if I do not know?”
She stared at him then, her face red, her eyes swollen. “You would help me?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.
“Oh, Emma,” was all he could say.
She took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. “My father was a landowner in County Wicklow. He was a Presbyterian, and his family had been in Ireland for generations. Mama was Catholic, but he loved her and married her anyway. There were four of us, two older brothers, me, and a younger brother.”
She paused then, as though even that much was difficult. “I remember you told me once that your father went to Magdalen College,” he said, trying to keep his tone conversational, hoping to relax her.
She nodded and gave him the ghost of a smile. It vanished almost before he was sure he had seen it. “Eamon was headed there in the fall.” She shook her head and began to wail this time. The hair rose on the back of his neck as he remembered that keen from his days of trouble in Ireland. He wanted to leap from his chair, but he forced himself to stay where he was. He took her hand, and she squeezed it so tight that he almost winced.
