Part 4 (1/2)

His Grandmama Whiteacre kindly loaned him a horse and saddle for the return to London, so it was not necessary to stifle himself inside the family carriage this time. The day was no warmer than before, but at least it did not snow. His horse, serviceable if somewhat elderly, plodded sedately alongside the carriage, where Mama read, Sally slept, and Emma continued her everlasting stare out the window. He watched her and resolved to turn her over to his butler. Emma Costello could polish silver, or clean out drains, for all he cared.

London was already foggy with the light of many street lamps when the carriage turned onto Curzon Street and released its grateful occupants. Lord Ragsdale remained on his horse. ”Mama, 1 am off to White's,” he told her. Lady Ragsdale, shaky and pale from a day's travel, nodded to him as Emma helped her from the carriage. The front door opened then, and Lasker stood there, with the footman behind him and Mama's dresser, too.

He left them without another qualm, praying that traffic would not be so terrible on St. James that he would be kept long from the brandy he had been thinking about all day. He would sink into his favorite leather chair, a full bottle near his hand, and p.r.o.nounce himself liberated from all further exertions. Fae would be glad enough to see him later, he was sure. In her own practiced fas.h.i.+on, she would remove any rough edges that remained from the day. That was what he paid her for.

As he was dismounting in front of White's, he was struck by the thought that this was what he had done the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Barring any unforeseen eventualities, he would do it all again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The thought dug him in the stomach, and he clutched the reins tighter, ignoring the porter who stood by to receive them.

Something of his unexpected agony must have crossed his face. In a moment, he heard the porter asking, ”My lord, my lord, are you all right?”

He looked down at the little man, and after another long moment, handed him the reins. ”I am fine,” he said, fully aware for the first time that he was lying. He had never been worse. As he went slowly up the steps and into the main hall, he realized that he would probably never be better, either. This was his life. Oh, G.o.d, he thought to himself, oh, G.o.d.

The milkmen were already making their rounds when he returned to Curzon Street. His head was large as usual. He had drunk too much brandy at White's, and then compounded the felony at Fae's by attempting exercise far beyond his capacity. The results had left him embarra.s.sed and Fae irritated, muttering something she refused to repeat.

The house was dark and silent. In another hour or so, the kitchen staff, with yawns and eye rubs, would gird itself for another day of cooking, and the upstairs maids would answer tugs on the bellpulls with tea and hot water. Lord Ragsdale listed slowly down the hall toward the stairs, which loomed, insurmountable, before him. I think I will sit down here until they shrink, he thought as he grasped the banister to keep it from leaping about, and started to lower himself to the second tread. To his relief, it did not disappear. He sank down gratefully, leaned against the railing, and closed his eyes.

He opened them a moment later. He was not alone on the stairs. Someone else sat nearby. He turned his head slowly, wondering what he would do if it was a sneak thief or cut purse, come to rob and murder them all. Lord Ragsdale sighed philosophically, and sat back to wait for the knife between his ribs. At least when they found his sprawled corpse at the foot of the stairs, the constable would think that he had died there defending his family. It would be rather like Thermopylae, he thought, and giggled.

”All right, do your worst,” he managed finally, looking around.

In another moment, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman sat near the top of the stairs, asleep and leaning against the railing. He looked closer and sighed again. My G.o.d, it is Emma Costello, he thought, the plague of my life. As he watched her, his mind began to clear and he wondered what she was doing there. Surely she was not waiting up for him.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she had no place to sleep. He remembered his mother mentioning something about hiring a proper lady's maid for Sally. The woman must have arrived and usurped Emma's place in the dressing room. He stared at Emma and wondered why his mother had not done anything about the situation, until he remembered her exhausted face as her own maid helped her from the carriage. Mama must have gone directly to bed, too tired for a thought about Emma.

And here she was now, at the mercy of his staff, and asleep on the stairs. He felt an unexpected twinge of remorse, remembering his own disparaging words about her to his butler. The staff knew how he felt about the Irish.

”Emma,” he called out softly, not wis.h.i.+ng to startle her into a plunge down the stairs.

He called her name several times before she straightened up, moving her head slowly as though her neck hurt. She was silent a moment, and then, ”My lord?” she asked, not sure of her answer.

”The very same,” he replied. ”Emma, what are you doing sleeping on my stairs?”

She was silent a long moment, and he wondered if she still slept. ”I am sorry, my lord,” she said finally. ”It seems that all I do is apologize to you. I don't have a place to sleep.”

He didn't say anything. After another small silence, she rose and shook out her skirts. ”I'll go find the back stairs, my lord,” she mumbled.

Without quite knowing why, he put out his hand to stop her. ”Just a moment, Emma,” he said. ”Help me up, will you?”

She could have left him there, and by morning's light, he probably would have put the whole thing down to an imaginary alcoholic haze. Someone else would find him and help him to bed, and it wouldn't be the first time. Emma would sleep on the stairs for a few more nights until his mother got wind of the situation and straightened things out belowstairs. It didn't have to be his worry.

He was about to withdraw his hand when she clasped it firmly in her own and with one swift movement, tugged him to his feet. He swayed on the stairs, and she quickly grasped him around the waist and commanded him to take up his bed and walk. It was a voice of command, resounding inside his head, cras.h.i.+ng around from ear to ear until he wanted to whimper and crawl into a corner. Instead, he did as she ordered, putting one foot in front of the other until he was outside the door to his own room.

”I'll be all right now,” he gasped. ”You can let go.”

Other servants had helped him to his room before. Practice told him that he could negotiate the distance from the door to his bed, and throw himself down on it, not to rise until afternoon or the resurrection, whichever came first. He tried to turn her loose, but she would not budge. Suddenly he realized, in spite of his weakened state, that the rules had changed.

”I'll see you to your bed,” she insisted, her voice low but carrying into his brain, where her earlier words still careened off his skull. ”I'll not give you the satisfaction of telling someone tomorrow that your shanty Irish servant did you an injury, no matter how richly you deserve one,” she a.s.sured him.

She lowered him to his bed, and he flopped there. In another moment his shoes were off, and she was covering him with a blanket.

”That should hold you until morning,” she said.

His head throbbing beyond belief, he waited like a wounded animal for her to hurry up and leave. To his chagrin, she stared around his room until her vision rested on his untidy desk. He watched stupidly as she shook her head in amazement at the ruin of his life.

Then the whole thing made him giggle. He tried to raise up on one elbow, but he seemed to have misplaced his arm. He remained where he was, content to watch the two of her. ”Reform me, Emma,” he said, and then hiccupped.

”You are disgusting, Lord Ragsdale,” she said at last, each word as distinct and penetrating as a bell. She shook her head. ”I never saw a more worthless man, much less served one.” Her words boomed about in his skull some more. She went to his desk and rummaged about for a moment. He raised up his head to watch her sit down at his desk, clear off a spot, and put ink to paper.

She sat there quite awhile, crumpling two sheets of paper, then resting her elbows on the desk as she contemplated him lying helpless and drunk on his bed. In another moment, she dipped the quill in the inkwell again and wrote swiftly, pausing at last to read over what she had written in the dim light. She nodded, picked up the paper and the ink, and came back to the bed.

”My G.o.d, Emma, would you get out of my room?” he insisted, wis.h.i.+ng he did not sound so feeble.

”Not until you sign this,” she replied, sitting down next to him. ”Here.” She thrust the paper under his nose.

He tried to wave away the paper, but she would not relent. ”What is it?” he asked finally. ”At least tell me that.”

”It has to do with what you just said, my lord,” she said. ”You have given me such an idea. Now, sign, and then I will leave you.”

Said? Said? What did I say? he thought wildly. I really must stop drinking so much. He closed his eyes, but she rattled the paper at his ear.

As drunk as he was, Lord Ragsdale knew that he could leave the paper alone, roll over, and go to sleep. She would go away eventually, and he would be in peace. Nothing would change; by evening he would be at White's again, and drunk, or at Fae's and miserable. He was on the verge of sleep when Emma Costello touched his hair. She smoothed it back from his sweaty face and rested her hand for a moment on his head. ”Sign, my lord,” she ordered, her voice softer now, and held out the quill to him.

He grasped the pen and managed to scrawl out his name. He closed his eyes then and relaxed as she stood up. He reached for her hand. ”Emma, please tell me that I have just released you from that d.a.m.nable indenture. Then you can go away, and I will be happy,” he said. It was his longest speech of the evening, and his head lolled to one side.

I should worry, he thought when she started to laugh. My G.o.d, have I signed away my fortune to this Irish harpy? But she was speaking now, and he strained to listen.

”Lord Ragsdale, I owe you five thousand pounds, and I will pay this debt,” she was saying.

”How?” he managed at last, wondering at the effort it took to form the word.

”By reforming you, my lord, now that I have your written consent. It was your idea. Good night.”

Chapter 6.

Emma's neck was aching in good earnest by the time the scullery maid nearly tripped over her on the way down the back stairs to begin another long day in the kitchen. She grabbed onto the banister, scowled at Emma, and then snickered.

”Can't find a place to sleep, can we?” she mocked. ”Find a peat bog.” The maid hurried on down the stairs, tying her ap.r.o.n as she went and laughing at her own cleverness.

Emma drew her knees up to her chin and watched the maid's progress. ”No, but I will find a place someday,” she said, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Not that anyone was listening to her. As Emma sat on the back stairs, she heard the butler giving his orders. Soon the upstairs maids would be coming up the stairs, staggering under the weight of cans of hot water, and then teapots. Another day has come to the Ragsdale household, she thought as she looked down at the paper still clutched in her hand. She spread it out on the landing and wondered for a moment at her audacity. She shook her head over the doc.u.ment containing Lord Ragsdale's shaky signature. I must be crazy, she thought.

She made herself small in the corner-something she was good at -as the first maid hurried upstairs with hot water. Five years ago -or is it six now?-she never would have done something that outrageous. There was a time when I cared what happened to me, she thought as she carefully folded the paper. I wonder which room is Lady Ragsdale's?

The problem was solved for her as she quietly moved up the stairs in the wake of the upstairs maids. The first closed door she identified from last night. No one went in there; she knew it would be hours before anyone stumbled out. Two doors down was Sally Claridge's room, if she remembered right. Ah, yes. The woman who opened the door was the dresser who had made herself quite at home in the little s.p.a.ce that Emma had carved out of the dressing room before the trip to Oxford. Robert had slept in the room next, but now the maid was tapping softly on the door beyond. The tall, thin woman with the sneer who opened the door was Lady Ragsdale's dresser.

Emma thought at first that she would wait until the maid left and then knock, but hurriedly discarded that idea. The dresser probably would not let her in. She took a deep breath and followed in after the maid, who looked around in surprise and glared at her.