Carla Kelly (26 page)

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. “As I have already seen all of you before, and these good tenants have not, you might ask them which end they would prefer covered. 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 you informed'em that you'd already seen all of me? And then 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.”