Reforming Lord Ragsdale (Carla Kelly’s Regency Romances)

Chapter 14

E asier said than done , Emma thought as she allowed Lord Ragsdale to help her into the saddle again following luncheon. It had been a quiet meal, what with Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge white-faced and exhausted from a day and a half of travel and capable of managing only a little soup. Weaklings , Emma thought as she watched them. Exertion does not appear to be a strong suit among any of this family.

She regarded Lord Ragsdale, sitting at the head of the table and tucking away a substantial meal. Two weeks ago, I would have thought you would be the first to complain , she reflected as she watched him down his meal with evident gusto. Yet you have not complained about anything.

“Well, Emma, are you up to a ride about the estate?” he asked, when his mother and cousin excused themselves and allowed Acton to help them to their rooms. “Let’s see how bad the damage is that I have done.”

It will be a thorny issue , Emma thought as they rode toward the first cluster of dwellings just beyond the back lawn of the manor. How does one convince a lazy, care-for-nobody peer that he is not the beast he has painted himself to be? And if he discovers that he is a better man than he thought, will he be comfortable with the feeling? Heaven knows it is easier to live, when no one expects anything of you. She resolved to try .

“My lord, I learned something of real interest from Mr. Manwaring,” she began, feeling like a circus performer on a tight wire.

“I hope you did, Emma,” he replied in a teasing tone of voice. “Heaven knows, that’s what I am paying you for.”

She laughed in spite of her discomfort, pleased to see a sense of humor surfacing through all the misery of the last day. “Do be serious, my lord,” she began.

“Must I?” he interrupted.

“Mr. Manwaring showed me the estate records, my lord.” She hesitated, took a deep breath, and plunged in. “No one has made any improvements to the crofters’ cottages since before your grandfather’s time.”

He let her words sink in and then rejected them, as she feared he would. “You must be mistaken, Emma,” he said, in a tone that wanted no argument. “My father was the best kind of landlord.”

“I am certain that he had the best of intentions, my lord,” she hedged, wishing she had not tackled the subject at all.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, staring straight ahead. “You never even knew the man. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself about something you know so little.”

She winced at his tone, wondering why she had ever involved herself in the matter. I shall hold my tongue , she told herself. There is no reason why I need to make a career out of blundering into crises. She glanced at his face, and it was set and hard again. She reined in the mare, and he stopped out of habit.

“John Staples, you have to tell me what is so attractive about thinking the worst of yourself,” she declared. “Just because your father never got around to doing the work you’re about to begin doesn’t mean he is less of a man. It only means that he was human like the rest of us.”

“Shut up, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said and put spurs to his horse. In another moment he was gone from sight, and she was left to kick herself in solitude and wonder why on earth she even cared what he thought about himself.

It was a new emotion, one she had not felt in years, this curious anger at the stubbornness of others. She rode slowly along, feeling the raw wind that began to blow in suddenly from the sea, but not regarding it beyond hunching down tighter inside her cloak. I have not felt this kind of irritation since those days before 1803 with my family , she finally forced herself to admit. We fought, we brawled, but we loved each other. I had forgotten that special painful anger, and how it can sting. I want something better for this man, even though there is no real reason why I should.

She looked down the road where Lord Ragsdale had ridden. Oh, I would like to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you , she thought. How dare you go through life thinking you are not a good man?

“I have a few more things to say to you, Lord Ragsdale,” she said out loud. “Now, where are you?”

She rode in the direction she had last seen Lord Ragsdale, but he was long out of sight. “You’re not getting away from a piece of my mind that easily,” she said grimly as the wind began to blow harder, twirling in odd circles as it seemed to blow both from the sea and toward it at the same time.

The rain came then, thundering down until she couldn’t see the track in front of her. After a few minutes, she was soaked to the skin, and she determined to return to the manor house. But where was it? She looked behind her, but she could see nothing, in the pelting rain. Oh, dear , she thought as she reined in the mare and squinted into the storm. Somewhere not far were the cliffs overlooking the ocean. She leaned over and patted the mare.

“Well, it wouldn’t be any loss to anyone on this miserable island if I rode off the edge of England,” Emma told the horse, “except that I refuse to give Lord Ragsdale that pleasure.”

“What pleasure, you baggage? ”

A gloved hand grabbed her reins and then brushed her sodden hair back from her eyes. Don’t show too much relief, Emma , she told herself when Lord Ragsdale, as soaked as she was, led her horse beside his.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m not angry with you still,” she concluded.

“Emma, you would try a saint,” he said, his voice mild. “I wonder the Claridges in Virginia didn’t just pay you to leave their indenture, and good riddance.”

She laughed, despite her soggy discomfort. “You know they never had any money. Robert spent it all!”

He chuckled and gathered the reins in closer. “Well, unlike my cousin, I am rich as Croesus. Had I not signed an agreement with you—under duress, I might add—you would be a free woman now, and probably plaguing someone else. Let’s find some shelter.”

The rain was turning into sleet as Lord Ragsdale stopped before a crofter’s cottage and dismounted. “When in Rome, Emma,” he said as he helped her from the saddle, then knocked on the door.

The cottage was warm with the fragrance of both farming people and cows. “Good heavens,” Lord Ragsdale said under his breath as the cows stared back at him, moving their jaws in rhythm. “I had no idea.”

“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 why you 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 did not 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 come by 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!”

“And that’s why your daughter here has such a fine complexion,” Emma said, entering into the spirit of the joke as she touched the cheek of the oldest daughter next to her.

“Almost as nice as yours,” chimed in another daughter.

“Almost,” Lord Ragsdale said as he touched Emma’s cheek.

He winked at her and then looked at the host. “And now, sir, if our clothes are dry, I think it’s time we gave you back your privacy.”

“Dry enough?” he asked her after they had dressed and made their good-byes to the Larches. The family lined up outside the door and waved and curtsied them off.

“I think so, my lord,” she replied, still embarrassed by the way he had buttoned up the back of her dress, as though it were something he did every day. “I think you are a thorough-going scoundrel, my lord, and I cannot fathom why I did not see this sooner. I thought you were merely a drunkard.”

He thought about her words for a moment as they picked their way carefully along the road, guided by moonlight. “Maybe you just weren’t looking deep enough, Emma,” he teased. He touched her arm. “Or maybe I wasn’t much fun, either.” He cleared his throat then. “And, Emma, I owe you an apology.”

“Let’s see now, which of the myriad wrongs are you going to make amends for?” she teased, eager to lighten his tone.

“The one where I insisted that my father would never have neglected these people,” he said, his voice so quiet that she had to lean closer to hear him. “You were so right, Emma, so right. David Larch told me all that over the milking. ”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, my lord,” she said softly. “You’d have discovered this same as I did, when your bailiff showed you the books. What matters is that you’re going to do something about it.”

“I certainly am, Emma,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you say it was time I spent some of my money on new homes and separate barns for these people who work my land?”

“I would,” she agreed. “And I don’t think it will reduce you to patching your shirts or blacking your own boots to economize.”

He smiled at her and then tightened his grip on the reins. “What a relief! I don’t know that my indolence could stand that much strain. Race you to the house, Emma.”

~

Sir Augustus Barney was there when they arrived, pacing up and down in the sitting room, impatient for his dinner. Lord Ragsdale greeted him with a broad grin, striding across the room and grasping his hand and then clapping him on the back.

“I believe we are still a little damp, Gus,” he said. “Emma, drop a curtsy to Sir Gus like a good girl. He was my father’s best friend, and he can tell you any number of horror stories about my youth. I think he knows me better than I know myself—now there is a frightening thought.”

Emma curtsied to Sir Augustus, wondering how soon she could excuse herself from the room. Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge were seated by the window, looking refreshed after a long afternoon nap. Emma wondered briefly what they would think if they knew about her afternoon with Lord Ragsdale, wrapped in blankets in a crofter’s cottage. With any luck, she could retreat belowstairs to change clothes, and then to the book room to look over the estate figures.

“Emma, you’ll join us at the table,” Lord Ragsdale said as she made her curtsy and started to edge toward the door. “Mrs. Larch’s bread and milk was good enough, but I’d like something more substantial.” He winked at Emma. “Especially after a tough afternoon of stripping down and drying off by a crofter’s fire. Got you, Emma.”

Emma blushed and glared at him, carefully avoiding a glance in Lady Ragsdale’s direction. “Very well, my lord,” she said, “but then I must catch up on my work in the book room.”

Sir Augustus stared at her and then at Lord Ragsdale. “’Pon my word, John, I thought your bailiff was quizzing me. She really is your secretary?”

“She really is,” he agreed, taking the older man by the arm. “She knows my business better than I do, which, of course, has not been difficult.” He steered his guest toward the door. “Emma, pay attention during dinner and let us both hang on such pearls of wisdom that Sir Gus chooses to drop about duties of landlords to tenants.”

Emma escaped to the book room after the last course when Lord Ragsdale called for port and the ladies retired to the sitting room for cards. She sat down at the desk and ruffled through the pages of the estate ledgers, thinking to herself how fortunate Lord Ragsdale was to have such a useful bailiff. She thought again about what he had said yesterday. “But for all that, what a pity things are in such order, my lord,” she murmured as she ran her finger down the neat columns of debits and assets. “You won’t find employment here to occupy your mind and heart.”

She thought suddenly of her brothers then, remembering their constant activity about the estate and their good-natured exhaustion at the end of each day. She thought of her own household duties and the work she was learning from her mother. I always knew what I would do in life , she considered, resting her chin on her palm. I would marry someone like myself and take care of his estate and our children. It would have kept me busy all my life.

“My dear, do you have a moment?”

She looked up in surprise, startled out of her daydream, to see Sir Augustus standing in front of the desk. He smiled down at her.

“I knocked, but I don’t think you heard me,” he said. “May I sit?” he asked.

She stood up in confusion, and he waved her back to her chair.

“I want to talk to you a moment, my dear. That is all. John has gone to the sitting room to set up the whist table.”

She sat down again, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. “Say on, sir,” she said.

He seated himself across from her and regarded her in silence for so long that she began to get that uneasy feeling in her stomach. She swallowed, praying that her fear of Englishmen was not beginning to creep into her eyes as she sat and returned his gaze.

“I did not think to see John so improved, and something tells me that the credit is yours,” he said finally.

She nearly sighed with relief at his calm statement. “I forced him into a silly agreement whereby I would improve his character and he would then release me from a rather expensive indenture.”

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?”

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.”