Carla Kelly (4 page)

Robert's eyes were closing. “I can't see how it signifies. It's just Emma, and I know there are times when she would try a saint.”

“Of which I am not one,” Lord Ragsdale said with no regret, grateful down to his boots to be so easily out of that mess. He crossed his legs and settled back in the chair. “Tell me, cousin, how did you get a servant from Ireland?”

Robert opened his eyes. “I was fourteen or fifteen when Papa bought her in the Norfolk sales.”

“Bought her?” Lord Ragsdale sat up straight again. “Surely you don't mean that.”

“I do, cousin. She's indentured. I was with him at the wharf when the ship's master led the lot of them into the sale shed.”

Lord Ragsdale closed his eyes. He had heard of things like that, but the reality was never closer than a column in
The Times
. “Were they … were they chained together?” he asked.

“Heavens, no,” Robert said. He sat up in bed, wide-awake now. “You've never seen a more harmless lot of lice-ridden, scraggly men and women. Everyone was so thin.” He paused. “My lord, that's the way things are in America. We buy, sell, and indenture, and don't ask too many questions.” He reflected a moment, as though groping about in his memory. “There was something about a rising in Dublin. Papa could tell you.”

If that's the way things are, good riddance to the colonies
, Lord Ragsdale thought. He was spared any comment on the hypocrisies of American government, because Robert was warming to his subject.

“Papa was looking for a clerk who could cipher. He stood there with the other buyers, calling out what he wanted. You know, someone was yelling ‘Seamstress,’ and someone else, ‘Blacksmith,’ and another, ‘Cordwainer.’ Quite a racket in that barn,” Robert explained. “Anyway, they must have been an ignorant lot of bogtrotters, because no one responded to any trades.”

“Were they all Irish?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then that explains it,” Lord Ragsdale said. “You've never seen a more illiterate bunch of popish bead rubbers then the Irish. The only exertion they are capable of is breeding like rabbits.”

“Well, I wouldn't know that,” Robert said. “Anyway, Papa called out ‘clerk,’ one more time, hoping for a miracle, and Emma stepped forward.” Robert smiled at the memory. “I thought she was daft, and Papa even more daft for considering her.” He sighed and lay back down again.

“Well?” John prompted.

“She wasn't wearing much more than a shift, her hair was nasty-looking, and her feet were bare, but Papa snapped off a string of figures, and she added it all in her head.” His cousin's eyes closed again. “Papa wouldn't let her ride in the carriage because she had lice, so she walked behind the carriage all the way home.”

Lord Ragsdale shook his head. The Emma in his best sitting room this afternoon was a woman with an unmistakable air of elegance, no matter how shabby her clothes. What a strange day this was. “She was your father's clerk, then?” he prompted.

Robert was a moment replying, and Lord Ragsdale resisted the urge to give his shoulder a shake. “No. Mama wouldn't hear of it. Said it was indecent for any female, servant included, to tote up figures and do bookkeeping in the tobacco barn, and besides, she wanted a maid for Sally. So there you are. She's been with us five years. I could check her papers, but I think she has two years to run on her indenture.”

Lord Ragsdale chewed on those facts for only a few moments, but it was long enough for Robert to begin the steady, even breathing of sleep. His questions would have to wait. “How odd,” he murmured out loud as he watched his cousin another moment and then snuffed the candle with his fingers. He sat there another moment and then left the room quietly.

Lasker, keys in hand, met him in the hall. He bowed. “Good night, my lord. Is there anything else you will be needing?”

Lord Ragsdale shook his head. He almost asked the butler where they had found room for Emma but changed his mind. Such a question would seem presumptuous, as though Lasker didn't know his own business well enough to make arrangements, no matter how cramped things were belowstairs. And if Emma ended up sleeping next to the coal chute, what concern was it of his?

He retired to his room, tugged off his boots, and settled on the bed with a full bottle of brandy in his lap and another on the night table. He avoided even a glance at his overflowing desk, hoping it would go away. The late hour, followed by a swallow or two of brandy and then another, permitted philosophy to override misanthropy. While he could not overlook entirely the desire to bolt the metropolis, he decided that he could tolerate the remaining few months of this London Season.

There was no question that he owed his mother and cousin the favor of an escort, he thought as he drank steadily. And while he was doing his duty, he could peruse the females that frequented Almack's and other venues of quality, find a lady not wanting in too many particulars, and make her an offer. He had money enough to make Croesus a loan; barring his absent eye, his parts were all present and easy to look upon; he was healthier than most of his acquaintances. “Ah, yes, I will do well enough in the marriage mart,” he told the ceiling. “I doubt this will require overmuch exertion.”

He took another swig or two from the brandy bottle, and then set it carefully on the floor. To his surprise, the bottle fell on its side; to his further surprise, nothing spilled out. He leaned off the bed and regarded the bottle.
I must advise Lasker not to be taken in by the vintner
, he thought.
It seems that he is buying smaller bottles than he used to.

The next bottle went down faster than the first. Lord Ragsdale considered an expedition down the stairs to the wine cellar for more but discarded the notion. The room seemed to be shrinking, and he did not think he could get out of the door before it disappeared altogether.
Such an odd phenomenon
, he considered as he unbuttoned his trousers, loosened his neck cloth, and closed his eye.

O SAY THAT LORD RAGSDALE AWAKENED with a big head would be to mince words. His stomach was as queasy as though he was sailing an ocean with mountain high waves. When he sat up, he whimpered at the pain in his skull. He lay back down again, hoping with all his heart that it had snowed ten feet last night and they would be unable to travel today.

But the gods were not smiling on Lord Ragsdale this morning. When the maid who brought in the coal noticed that he was awake, she screamed a cheery, “Good morrow, my lord,” that filled the room and echoed back and forth inside the sorely tried empty space between his ears. After she thundered at least a ton of coal onto the grate, she threw open his draperies on runners that shrieked like banshees.

“It's a good morning for a trip, my lord,” she offered with the voice of a boatswain in a hurricane.

He could only force his lips into a weak smile and put his hand over his eye against the glare that threatened to blind his one remaining orb.
If you say another word, I will die,
he thought. To his relief, she said nothing more but slammed the door on her way out so loud that his guts quivered. He gritted his teeth and moaned.

He had progressed to dangling his legs off the bed when his mother banged on the door with a battering ram and opened it a crack.

“John, we want to leave within the hour,” she reminded him and then took a closer look. “Oh, John!”

Three hours later, he groped his way downstairs and onto his horse, which waited patiently by the front stoop. Lasker had sent the footman in to help him pack and also to rescue him from his own razor when he attempted to shave his pale face. A splattering of bay rum was more than he could bear. It sent him lurching back to his washstand, where he vomited his toenails into the basin, vowing, as he gagged and retched, never to drink again.

The cold February air was a relief. He breathed as deep as he dared of the icy blast and then pulled his hat low and his riding coat tight around him. He carefully shook his head over his mother's attempts to get him inside the carriage and waited, reins held in slack fingers, while Emma Costello carried in the last bandbox.

As she went to climb in, her cloak caught on the door handle. Her hands full, she struggled to free herself and then glanced in his direction, as if to ask for help.

Embarrassed, he shook his head, knowing that if he dismounted, he would disgrace himself again. To his further chagrin, she quickly lowered her eyes and turned away as if humiliated, continuing her efforts to free herself until Robert dismounted with an oath and lent a hand. Lord Ragsdale watched as she hurried inside the carriage, closed the door, and made herself small in the corner.

Merciful heaven, I am off to such a start with this one
, he thought as he regarded Emma another moment and then gently eased Champion into the street.
Please, please let this London Season go by quickly.

They traveled steadily into a dreary afternoon, the clouds gray and threatening, the wind coming in puffs of blasting cold from all directions at the same time. Robert kept him company for part of the journey and proved to be an amiable companion. He was one of those persons who, if given free rein to talk, would carry on a merry discourse that required little comment or addendum from another. John was content to listen to his cousin. He learned all he ever wanted to know about tobacco farming, the growing slave trade, and the trouble with Federalists without having to respond beyond the occasional “Hmm,” or “Indeed.” Robert's mellow voice with its soft drawl was soothing in the extreme. By the time Robert succumbed to the weather and begged a seat inside the coach, John was almost sorry to see him surrender.

As soon as Robert retreated to the relative comfort of the family carriage, Lord Ragsdale realized that the next few hours of travel would hang heavy. The day was no warmer the farther they traveled into it, and he felt ill unto death. Had he traveled by himself, Lord Ragsdale would have stopped at the first hostelry that appeared to offer clean sheets and quiet premises. His head began to throb again.

He was about to stop the coachman, admit defeat, and plead illness, when Sally Claridge came to his unexpected rescue. He was swallowing his pride and rising bile when his mother lowered the glass and rapped on the side of the carriage with her umbrella. The coachman reined in and peered back at her. Lady Ragsdale opened the door and leaned out to speak to her son.

“John, Sally is experiencing some distress from the motion. I know this will irritate you, but could we stop early tonight?” she asked.

It was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears of gratitude.
Dear Sally, can it be that you are as estimable as your brother?
he thought as he faked a frown and then nodded, hoping that he did not appear too eager.

“If we must, Mother,” he responded after a suitable length of time had passed. He sighed heavily for the effect and then wished he hadn't as his stomach heaved. “Let me ride on ahead and find the nearest inn,” he offered, hoping that the inmates of the carriage would see his act as a magnanimous gesture rather than a desperate attempt to get out of their range of vision before he disgraced himself.

Lady Ragsdale nodded and spoke to Sally, who raised her pale face to the window and blew him a kiss. He glanced at Emma, but she studiously ignored him.
Ah, well
, he thought as he tipped his hat and spurred ahead, eager to outdistance the carriage.
I can puke in peace.