Reforming Lord Ragsdale Part 6

"Your energy continues to astound me, Emma," he said dryly. "But why on earth did you leave my house with no gloves, no bonnet, and no m.u.f.fler? I call that d.a.m.ned silly."

"I don't have any of those things, my lord," she replied, trying to keep the embarra.s.sment from her voice. It was his turn to be silent for several blocks.

"Well, you should have waited for warmer weather, then," he muttered finally. "Those bills have kept this long; they'll keep until warm weather." He was silent then, his eyes on the traffic.

Emma glanced at him, hoping he was not too angry with her. Somehow I must learn to get along with this man, she thought as she watched his expert hands on the reins guide his horse through city traffic. She was impressed, despite her suspicion.

He spoke to his horse, pulled back slightly on the reins, and looked over his shoulder. "Are we going back?" she asked.

"Oh, no, Emma," he replied as he turned the corner onto Bailey. "Actually, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to give David Breedlow a piece of my mind."

Are you sure you can spare that much? she thought, and smiled in spite of herself.

Lord Ragsdale glanced at her, and then pulled his horse to a stop. "I don't know what you find so dashed amusing about a prison, Emma Costello," he snapped.

She sobered immediately and tugged her cloak over her cold fingers. "There is nothing funny about prison," she said, her words more distinct than she intended.

He snorted, and nodded to the tiger to help her down. "You say that like an expert, Emma Costello."

She didn't mean to respond, but the words came out anyway. "Oh, I am, Lord Ragsdale," she replied, then turned to the tiger and took his helping hand.

As Emma waited for Lord Ragsdale to join her on the sidewalk, she looked up at the gray pile before her. So this is Newgate, she thought. I wonder if they are here. The view blurred over then, and she found herself in tears. Quickly she dabbed at them, intensely aware that Lord Ragsdale was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. She waited for a jibe or a scold, but instead, he took her arm and steered her toward the entrance.

"It's a sooty neighborhood, Emma," he said as he pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her.

He nodded to the porter who stood lounging beside the low entrance. "Mind your head, Emma," he directed as he ducked his head under the gloomy stone portal.

She followed him in, holding her breath against that first whiff of prison air that she knew was coming. The oak door beyond was open, and topped with a row of spikes and transverse bars. She hesitated a moment, fearing all over again the sound of such a door slamming.

Don't be silly, Emma, she told herself. Another porter stood there, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lord Ragsdale's elegant clothing, and then ogling her own shabbiness. He winked at her, and when she drew back, surprised, made kissing noises that stopped when Lord Ragsdale turned around and fixed him with a stare that could have melted marble.

"Dreadful place," Lord Ragsdale said as he waited for her to stand beside him. "I don't know why you couldn't have just asked me to answer your questions, Emma."

She looked at him, her eyes wide. "Hanley told me that you had no intention of helping me."

Emma thought he smiled at that, but the antechamber was gloomy with the light of only one lamp, and she could not be sure.

"He is quite right, of course," Lord Ragsdale said as he motioned the porter forward. "But perhaps I would have given you the information you needed in a day or two."

She couldn't tell if he was quizzing her, so she made no reply. The stench of the place was appalling, and she held Lord Rags-dale's handkerchief to her nose, thinking to herself as she did so that British prisons smelled much like Irish ones. Spoiled food, unwashed bodies, filthy straw, she thought, disease rampant, and I wonder, does despair have an odor? She concluded that it did as she stood next to Lord Ragsdale.

"Tell the governor of this fine old inst.i.tution that John Staples, the Marquess of Ragsdale, wishes an audience with him," the marquess was telling the porter. He held his hand to his nose a moment.

The man nodded, backed through a doorway, and vanished. He was back promptly. "It'll be a moment, my lord," he explained. He looked at Emma, then. "Is she with you, me lord?" he asked.

"Regrettably, yes."

The porter smirked at Emma. "Then she'll have to be searched by the warden over there before she goes any farther."

Emma looked to the left where he pointed, and saw a pale, thin woman leaning against a door frame who straightened up and started toward her. Despite herself, Emma found herself crowding closer to Lord Ragsdale.

"A search will hardly be necessary," the marquess snapped, stepping slightly in front of Emma.

"My lord, you'd be amazed what females try to smuggle in here under them skirts," the porter a.s.sured him. "Go with her like a good girl, miss, or I'll have her lift your skirts right here."

Emma took a deep breath, regretted it instantly, and steeled herself to step forward. It's not that bad, she told herself. You've done this before, she thought as the female warden gestured to her impatiently.

"I hardly think this is necessary" came Lord Ragsdale's smooth voice. "Emma, be a good girl and open your reticule for the nice lady."

She did as he said, and he peered inside first. "H'mmm, nothing more dangerous than a tablet, pencil, and what appears to be a letter. Are you satisfied, madam?" he asked the matron.

The woman looked inside, too, then stared up at the marquess. "I'll still have to look under them skirts."

"I don't think so," Lord Ragsdale said. "Emma is irritating and three parts lunatic, but I would wager that there is nothing under her skirts beyond a pair of legs."

The porter t.i.ttered behind his hand, and the matron glared at him, then cracked him so suddenly on the side of his head that he dropped to his knees. Emma flinched and leaped back against the marquess as the little man howled in pain. Lord Ragsdale put his hand on her shoulder and moved them both out of the reach of the matron.

The woman jerked her hand back to strike again when the door to the governor's office opened suddenly.

"Mrs. Malfrey, remember yourself!" growled the man who stood in the doorway, a napkin tucked under his chin. As he came closer to the marquess, Emma noticed his greasy shirtfront, and wondered why he bothered with the nicety of a napkin.

The matron slunk back to her side of the hallway as the governor of Newgate wiped his hand on equally shiny breeches and held it out to the marquess, who merely nodded at him.

"What can I do for you, my lord?" he asked. "It's a little late for morning callers." He laughed at his own humor.

"We have a matter of business to discuss with David Breed-low," Lord Ragsdale said. "He embezzled from me and is awaiting transportation."

"Breedlow, Breedlow, Breedlow," said the governor as he motioned them into his office. The remains of a leg of mutton and various pastries were jumbled over his desk, mingling with various papers and what looked like an earlier meal. "Ye caught me at table, my lord," he apologized. "I always eats in my office, I do." He leaned forward confidentially. "Do ye know, I was cited by the Lord Mayor himself last year. He called me a model of efficiency, he did."

"I am sure you are," Lord Ragsdale murmured, shaking his head when the governor offered him a chair. "We won't disturb you much longer. Show us to David Breedlow, please."

The governor looked longingly at the mutton again, then laughed. "I'll have to find the bleeder first, won't I?"

"I'm sure he can't have gone far," Lord Ragsdale said, more to her than to the governor, who busied himself with a row of books that looked old enough to have been in William the Conqueror's library, if that notable had been literate. He opened the newest-looking ledger on the row and thumbed through it, muttering "Breedlow, Breedlow."

In another moment he stuck his head out into the antechamber and called to the porter. They conversed a moment while Emma stayed close to Lord Ragsdale, who was looking about him in real distaste. Finally, the governor turned back to them, bowed to the marquess, and indicated the door again.

"Follow this bloke. He'll have Breedlow taken to an a.s.sembly room."

"Come, Emma," Lord Ragsdale said. "Let's see what delights this charming place has for us."

The governor laughed out loud and then winked at the marquess. "Come back anytime, my lord, anytime."

"Not if I can possibly help it," Lord Ragsdale replied as they followed the porter down a narrow hallway, lit, almost as an afterthought it seemed, by candles here and there. "Emma, what did I do to deserve this?"

She thought a moment and then smiled in spite of herself as she hurried to keep up. "Well, you will own, my lord, that you have probably not thought about a drink lately."

He laughed out loud, and the porter stopped and looked back, startled. The marquess only gazed at him serenely. "That was laughter-a natural eruption of good humor that occurs when people are amused. Do lead on, man. If we stand here much longer, we will use up all the air in this part of this fine old inst.i.tution, I am sure."

They continued deeper into the building, winding around in narrow pa.s.sages that made Emma pray that the porter would not abandon them. We would never find our way out, she thought.

They pa.s.sed several gang cells, filled to bursting with men and women jumbled in together. Somewhere she heard a child cry, and her heart sank. She must have sucked in her breath, or said something, because the marquess reached behind him and took hold of her hand. She clung to it gratefully.

They stopped finally before another oak door bound with iron, one of many they had pa.s.sed through. For all I know, we are back at the entrance, Emma thought, her sense of direction confused by the gloom and the halls. The porter selected a key from the many that dangled at his waist and opened the door.

"In here," he said as he swung the door wider. "Breedlow, you have visitors."

Emma squinted in the gloom as she looked around. There were several other women there, sitting on benches facing a row of prisoners who were chained to the wall by one hand. Most of the men sat on the straw-covered floor, their one chained arm raised over their head as though they had a question.

"That's Breedlow, my lord, standing there on the end."

"I know him," the marquess said.

Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale, surprised at the uncertainty in his voice. She glanced at Breedlow, rail thin and pale as parchment, who gradually sank to the floor as though he had not strength to remain upright. His eyes were on the marquess, and in another instant, he started to sob.

The suddenness of the sound stopped all the low-voiced conversations in the a.s.sembly room for a moment. When Breedlow continued to cry, the talking began again, like water washing around a boulder in a stream. All this misery, and no one has any pity, Emma thought to herself as she watched Lord Ragsdale's former secretary. Yes, this is very much like Irish prisons. I shall feel right at home. She moved toward the bench, then looked back at Lord Ragsdale, who had remained by the door.

"My lord? My business will take some time, so perhaps if you wish to give your secretary a piece of your mind, you might go first," she said.

There was no reply. "My lord?" she repeated. It is different, is it not, she thought as she watched Lord Ragsdale's face, to turn someone over to justice in a fit of rage, and then to see the results of it. "Really, my lord, you may go first. I don't mind."

"No, Emma," he said finally. "I will wait for you in the hall." The door closed behind him.

Emma seated herself in front of Breedlow, and handed him the marquess's handkerchief. "It is only a little wet," she said.

He took it, wiped his eyes, then stared at her.

"I am Lord Ragsdale's new secretary," she said. "I believe that you can help me. You see, I am reforming Lord Ragsdale."

Chapter 8.

The hour pa.s.sed quickly. She took notes rapidly, and trusted her memory for the rest of Breedlow's information about how to manage Lord Ragsdale's affairs. "I am certain he will ask you to write his letters for him," Breedlow continued as the guard by the inner door blew a little bra.s.s whistle. "He's not that difficult to please." He paused and looked toward the guard. "I only wish he had not been so lazy. Perhaps then I would not have been tempted ..." His voice trailed away as the women on the benches started to rise.

"How long before you are transported?" Emma asked, wishing there was something she could do for the man.

"Very soon, I fear," he replied. He took a last dab at his eyes, then started to hand back Lord Ragsdale's handkerchief. He hesitated. "May I keep this?"

Mystified, she nodded. "Why would you want to?"

Breedlow bowed his head, and she could tell that her question had humiliated him further. "I can sell it for food." He raised his eyes to hers. "You can't imagine how hungry I am."

"Oh, I can," she said softly as the guard blew the whistle again. "Keep it, by all means. I wish I had some money to give you."

He shook his head, and managed a ragged smile. "Actually, I have enjoyed your company. You are my first visitor. My sister lives too far away to visit." Again he stopped and looked away as the tears came to his eyes. "And now I will never see her again, and it was all for twenty pounds."

They were both silent. Emma leaned forward then and reached into her reticule. "Please, Mr. Breedlow, can you do me a favor?"

He stared at her blankly. "How could I possibly do you a favor?"

"I want to hand you a letter. Please take it to Australia. See if you can deliver it for me." She kept her voice low as the guards began to herd the women together at the other end of the narrow room.

He shook his head. "You daren't hand me anything. The guards will only tear it up and beat me later."

"It was just a thought," she said then, and withdrew her hand from the reticule. "Mr. Breedlow, good luck."

He started to reply, when one of the women near the door screamed and fainted. As the other women cl.u.s.tered around, jabbering and gesturing, the guards hurried to that end of the room.

"Quickly now." It was Breedlow, holding his hand out to her.

She grabbed the letter again and thrust it at him, grateful for the unexpected diversion. It disappeared as soon as she handed it over.

Order returned quickly, and a guard gestured her toward the door and thrust his key in the lock that chained Breedlow to the wall.

"Good luck, Mr. Breedlow," she called again as he was led away. "Please don't lose that letter," she said softly as the other women, more of them crying now, hurried from the room. She watched the former secretary until the door clanged behind him, then sighed and stepped into the hall again.

Lord Ragsdale waited for her. He snapped open his pocket watch. "I trust you learned all you need to know, and I hope you don't have anyone else to visit at Newgate. As it is, I am certain I will never get the stench of this place out of my coat."

"No, my lord, I have no one else to visit," she replied as he started back down the hall. "But I do want you to stop in the governor's office for a moment."

"Not if my life depended on it," he a.s.sured her, and hurried faster.

"I want you to give the governor some money to keep Mr. Breedlow from starving," she said, and then held her breath and waited for the storm to break.

She was not disappointed. He stopped, took her by the arm, and gave her a shake. "Emma, he robbed me!" Lord Ragsdale shouted.

Why am I doing this, she thought as she nerved herself to look into his eye and stand her ground, even though he was taller than she by a foot at least, and seemed enormously large in that many-caped coat he wore.

"And Mr. Breedlow is going to a lifetime in a penal colony for stealing a paltry twenty pounds from you," she continued, surprised at her own temerity. I am not afraid of you, she thought, and to her amazement, she meant it.

"So he is," Lord Ragsdale said, calm again. He let go of her arm and hurried her along the endless pa.s.sage, past cells crammed with wretched people, prisoners for whom all time was suspended into a continuous, dismal present that she understood very well.

Emma did not really expect Lord Ragsdale to stop at the governor's office again, but he did. The governor ushered them into the office that still smelled of elderly mutton.

"This is for David Breedlow's upkeep," the marquess said as he slapped a handful of coins down on the desk and then scowled at Emma.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, and edged closer to the row of ledgers as the governor searched around on his messy desk for a receipt book. In another moment she was looking through the newest ledger, running her finger down the row of names of prisoners incarcerated in the last five years. There were so many, and the governor's scribe had such poor handwriting. This will take me an hour at least, and I do not have an hour, she thought as the governor scratched out a receipt and handed it to her employer.

"Come, Emma," Lord Ragsdale said. He stood next to her, and she jumped at the sudden intrusion on her rapid scramble through the ledger. "We have come to the end of this day's philanthropy, I trust."

She closed the book reluctantly.