Reforming Lord Ragsdale Part 17

"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 down the 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 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 trading 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 the h.e.l.l 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 fhe opera, or any other d.a.m.ned nonsense selected for me tonight." He wanted to say more, to remind his butler that 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 a.s.sured 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.

"What happened, Emma?" he asked, feeling like a brute in the face of her torment. "Why didn't Eamon go to Oxford?"

"Because he was dead by fall, or I think he was. Oh, John, I don't know! I have spent over five years not knowing, and it is killing me." Her words came out in a rush, as though they had been dammed up years ago.

She loosened her grip on his hand, but did not let go. He put his other hand over hers, too.

"Then tell me, Emma."

She nodded. "We never involved ourselves in Irish troubles, my lord," she said. "Da always said it was not our fight. After the '98, he severed any connections any of us had to the Society of the United Irish. Some of our neighbors belonged, but Da said to leave it alone, and we did."

"Are you Catholic, Emma?" he asked.

"Aye, me and two of my brothers. Eamon and Da were Presbyterian." She released his hand then, and wiped her eyes again with the soaking handkerchief. He looked in his drawer for another, and handed it to her. She accepted it with a brief smile.

"I suppose he thought we could rub along and not get involved," she continued, and her voice took on an edge. "And we would have, except that I blundered. What happened then is all my fault."

She bowed her head, as though the weight of her pain was too great. He moved closer, and touched her hair, his hand going to the back of her neck and then her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against his hand for a moment, as if seeking strength. Strength from me, he thought in wonder. Emma, this does reveal the measure of your desperation.

"Tell me," he urged.

She straightened up then, but would not look at him. He could sense the shame in her, the G.o.dly sorrow that went beyond bone deep, and it touched him as nothing ever had. "Emma," he said.

"Timothy-my younger brother-was ill with a cold. Da, Eamon and Sam were away on estate business. I was in charge because Mama was asleep from tending Tim all night. Oh, John, I can't," she said. "Don't make me."

"You have to, Emma," he insisted, feeling like a churl.

She rose and went to the window, looking out for the longest time. He turned to watch her profile, and he knew that the view she saw was not the one he was familiar with out that same window.

"He came walking to the house at dusk. I remember the time, because I had just lit the lamps, and told the cook to wait dinner until Da and my brothers returned."

"Who, Emma?" he asked.

She turned to look at him then. "Robert Emmet, my lord."

Suddenly he remembered. "Castle Hill," he said.

Emma nodded. "He told me his carriage had broken down on the road from Cash, and asked if he could stay the night. I.. . I let him in."

She turned back to the window and raised her fist as though to strike the gla.s.s. He leaped to his feet and grabbed her hand before she did herself an injury. She began to weep again, and he pulled her onto his lap, holding her so tight that he could almost feel her sobs before they came. He listened to her sorrow, and began to understand. He kissed her hair and kept her close.

"Of course you did, Emma. I am sure your mother always taught you to help those in trouble. But you didn't have any idea who he was, did you?"

She shook her head. "No. It was just a name to me then. I told him he could stay and be welcome, too. He said it would only be for the night."

He searched his mind, trying to recall the Castle Hill revolt just outside of Dublin, and Robert Emmet's attempt to stage a rising. If he remembered right, it had fizzled and come to nothing.

"How old were you?" he asked, marking time, and trying to help her calm down.

"I was nineteen, my lord. My little brother Tim was five." She was silent a moment more, and he could feel her relax slightly. He loosened his grip on her, but kept his arm about her waist.

"When your father returned ..." he prompted.

"Oh, he and my brothers welcomed him, too, and they sat a long time over port when dinner was done." She laughed bitterly. "Papa told me later they talked about hunting and fishing, and his fiancee who lived close by. He said he was on his way there when his carriage broke down. Of course, Papa never saw a broken carriage on the Cash road, but he didn't think of it at the time."

She realized then that she was sitting on his lap, and put her hands to her cheeks. "I am sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for being so forward!"

He smiled at her. "I put you there, Emma, and I believe I will keep you there."

He thought she would leap off his lap then, but she did not. She settled herself against him like a puppy seeking warmth. "He stayed the night, and then he was gone by morning light." She stared straight ahead then. "He was arrested by government troops at the entrance to our estate. I think they must have watched us all night." She shook her head and made an impotent gesture with her hand.

It was so clear to him what had happened then that his own mind recoiled from speech. How could they? he thought. If the sins of nations must be atoned for at some distant judgment bar, England will pay for this one.

"And they arrested your family for complicity," he whispered, when he could speak. "Oh, G.o.d, Emma."

She spoke then in a monotone voice, so low and chilling that he was reminded of tales of zombies his Caribbean nursemaid told in the nursery years and years ago. "They yanked Tim out of his sickbed and ordered me to carry him. Da, Eamon, and Sam were bound together. Mama and I carried Tim ten miles that day toward Dublin." She paused then, and her voice because wistful. "I remember that it was raining, and I lost a shoe in the mud."

"You walked all the way to Dublin?"

"Aye. Tim died on the way." She made another odd gesture with her hand, as though to wipe away the memory. "At least, I am sure he did. He was burning with fever, and the captain of the guard forced us to leave him in Diggtown with a family named Holladay." She burrowed closer to him. "His eyes were sinking back in his head, and there was a fearsome gurgle in his throat."

He chewed that over, letting her sit in silence until the coals settled in the fireplace and she sat up, startled. He pulled her back against his chest again.

"The rest of you made it to Dublin?"

"Aye. Mama and I were taken to the Marlborough Street Riding School where they were holding women involved in Castle Hill. The others went to Prevot Prison." She shuddered, and he understood why. He had been to Prevot himself in 1798, when he had escorted prisoners there from Cork before his own injury.

"Were they tortured?" he asked as gently as he could.

She nodded. "But they wouldn't say anything." She looked at him, her eyes huge. "What could they say? They knew nothing!" She pounded on his chest in her rage, then threw her arms around him and wept.

He held her close, murmuring softly to her, devastated at the depth of her sorrow, and understanding her deep shame. And you think you brought it on them all, my dear. This is too big a burden to bear alone. "This is tragic, my dear, but hardly your fault."

"I am not through," she interrupted, her voice cold. "When they would not speak, the English took me from Marlborough to Prevot and tortured me in front of them."

"Oh, G.o.d!" he exclaimed, feeling such a measure of horror and revulsion that his stomach writhed. "No, Emma!" he declared, as though his words could take it away.

She held up her left hand to him, holding it with her right to steady it. "You've noticed my fingers, my lord?" she asked, her eyes glittering with a fierce anger that burned into his body almost.

"Yes," he whispered. "They pulled out your fingernails, didn't they?"

"Aye." She looked at her hand, the fingernails grown back, but with b.u.mpy ridges. "I tried not to scream, but I couldn't help myself. I even bit through my lip."

"Emma, don't," he pleaded.

"You wanted to know," she said calmly. "Well, now you will know. They told my father they were going to rape me right there. That was when Eamon confessed."

"But. .."

"Confessed to crimes he never committed, to spare me." She stood up, and there was a dignity and majesty about her. "Now you begin to understand something of what drives me, my lord. It is not pretty, is it?"

Chapter 17.

No, it is not pretty, he agreed, after a night of twisting and turning in his bed until he was a prisoner of his sheets and weary with no sleep. As dawn was beginning to tinge the sky, he dragged himself to his armchair by the window and propped his bare feet on the ledge. I wonder that she can endure. May the Lord smite me if I ever whine again.

The rest of her story was told in fits and starts. How Eamon had been ripped from them and thrown into a cell for the condemned. They heard gallows under construction for some, and learned from their triumphant jailers of Robert Emmet's death by beheading. They begged, they pleaded, but the authorities did not bother to tell them who else had died, as though Irish grief was as dismissible as a gnat before the face.

On his lap again, Emma spoke of her escape, her voice still wondering at the mystery of it all. They had kept her in Prevot for another week, and then suddenly all the prisoners were removed to Marlborough Street Riding School, hurried along through the streets of Dublin as night was falling.

"It was typhus, and they moved everyone," she explained into his soaked waistcoat. "Da and I were not chained together, and I know it must have been an oversight. When we pa.s.sed a crowd and the guard wasn't looking, he pushed me into the mob and said, 'Indenture,' to the man who caught me."

Her voice lost some of its tightness as she told of being hustled that very night to the Dublin docks and put aboard a ship bound for America and the West Indies. "And so I came to the Clar-idges," she concluded. "I never thought I would have a chance to look for my family again, but when Mr. Claridge said he was sending Sally and Robert to England, I knew I had to come."

"And you have been treated shabbily," he concluded. "That will change tomorrow, Emma. We are returning to the Office of Criminal Business, and I a.s.sure you that Mr. Capper will see you."

"You would do that for me?" she asked in surprise, not realizing how her spontaneous question deepened his own shame.

"Of course, Emma."

"Of course," he repeated at dawn to the window. And then what? Will there be tidy lists of prisoners bound for Australia, or am I only letting Emma in for more frustration and heartache? Put baldly, is this a kindness?

He decided that it was, as he watched, bleary-eyed an hour later, as the maid put more coal in the grate and started the fire. He knew he looked worse than usual, because of her darting glances and the way she almost ran from his room. Even if Emma continues to be disappointed at every turn, at least she will know that we tried everything we could, he reasoned. This was far better than going through life never knowing.

Dressed and ready for the day, he came downstairs at six, surprising Lasker. "There is no breakfast yet, my lord," he apologized, even as he hurried to light the candles in the breakfast room.

Lord Ragsdale shrugged. "Tea then, Lasker," he said, and sat down at the empty table with the paper. He looked up at his butler, whose face wore a quizzical expression. "Tell Emma to come here."

"Yes, my lord." The butler hesitated. "I do not believe she slept last night," he said. "The scullery maid heard her crying in the next room."

Emma, and I was not there to hold you? he thought. I would have. I was sleepless only one floor below you. He considered the paper a moment, then rejected it, struck by the fact that he was the best friend she had at the moment. "Well, then she'll be awake, won't she?" he asked, and turned back to the paper. "Bring two cups."

She was there in a few minutes, pale and serious in the deep green wool dress he had commissioned for her. He gestured to a chair, but she did not sit. He looked up.

"My lord, it is not my place to sit here," she reminded him.

"It is if I say so. Sit."

She perched on the edge of the seat, as if ready for flight if another family member were to appear. He filled a teacup and pushed it toward her. She sipped it slowly, cradling her hands around the cup as though she were cold inside and out.