Part 12 (2/2)

Obviously there was no point in holding back. ”I was just pic-turing you ejected from your horse and supine on the ground, bored into sleep because I am a dull conversationalist.”

He shook his head. ”On the contrary, Emma, I was about to congratulate you on the pleasure of your silence. Do you know that just since the beginning of this interminable Season, I have heard every stupid conversation that people such as myself utter? I am sure that the things we say over and over, thinking ourselves so witty, must be written somewhere on clay tablets.” He looked her in the eye then. ”You may reform me too completely, Emma. Suppose I become addicted to long silences and rational conversation that leads somewhere? Imagine the shock to my friends.”

He joined in her laughter. ”Seriously, Emma, we are halfway to luncheon, and you have not made one single remark about the weather, fas.h.i.+on, or the latest gossip.”

”What would you like to talk about, my lord?” she asked fi-nally.

”Weather, fas.h.i.+on, or gossip?”

He reined in his horse, and she was compelled to stop, too.

”My father, Emma. Please.”

Chapter 13.

But... but... your mother tells me ... I thought you did not wish to speak of him,” she stammered. The mare sensed her sudden agitation and stepped in a dainty half circle. She patted the animal into control, searching for the right words. ”I mean, your mother, your banker, David Breedlow even-they all warned me not to bring up the subject.”

He spoke to his horse, and they continued. ”They are wrong,” he said finally when they were some distance in front of the carriage, and he could slow the pace slightly. ”It may have been my choice at one time, but I find now that avoiding the topic breaks my heart.”

His words were so simple, and so full of feeling that they went straight to her own heart. As she rode beside Lord Ragsdale, Emma realized that she would never be able to look at him in the same way again. It was powerful knowledge, and left her almost breathless. What do I say to this man? she wondered. He was looking at her, as though expecting something, and as she searched her mind for something to say, she thought of her mother, that woman of few words and much heart.

”Tell me, my lord,” she said simply, remembering with an ache those calm words spoken to her so many times.

”I think he must have been the best man who ever lived, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said, with a glance over his shoulder, as though he feared his mother could hear him. The carriage was only a speck in the distance. He cleared his throat and smiled ruefully down at his saddle. ”But I suppose that is part of the problem.” He reached over and touched her arm. ”Have you ever tried to measure up to an impossible ideal?”

She considered his question, and understood him for the first time. She smiled at him and shook her head. ”We were all so human in the Costello household, my lord. I... I was the only daughter, and my brothers either ignored me, or were happy I was nothing like them.”

He nodded. ”I imagine it was a lively household, Emma. Perhaps you will tell me about it some time.”

”Perhaps,” she replied, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. ”But we are speaking of you and your father, sir, are we not?”

”We are. He was all goodness, all manners, impeccable in character and possessing every virtue, I think. I was a younger son for much of my early years, thank goodness, so the onus of perfection rested on my brother. Claude was very much like Father.”

He paused then, and she had the good sense not to rush into the silence. Perhaps I am learning wisdom, she thought as she watched Lord Ragsdale struggle within himself.

”Claude died when I was at Harrow, and then Father transferred his entire interest to me.”

Again there was a long silence. Quiet, Emma, she told herself as they rode along, side by side. ”I don't mean to say he wasn't interested in me before, Emma, but this was different.” He shook his head. ”I am probably not making much sense, but that's how it was. Claude died of a sudden fever, and overnight, I was the family hope.”

He looked at her. ”There are some things that the heir learns that I never learned. I suppose it becomes a way of life. Too bad I was a poor student.”

Two weeks ago-a week ago even-she would have agreed with him. This is odd, she thought as they rode along. I want to defend him from himself, and he is someone I do not even like. She looked at the sky; it was still overcast. She could not blame her strange thoughts on too much sun. Her next deliberation came unwillingly, but she considered it honestly as Lord Ragsdale rode beside her in silence. Can it be that I have nourished myself so long on hatred that I do not recognize an attempt at friends.h.i.+p? I cannot even remember my last friend.

It was a shocking thought, almost, but instead of dismissing it, as she would have done only recently, she allowed herself the luxury of considering it. That is what I will do, she thought. I will leave myself open to a change of feeling. She nodded. It is a prudent measure, taking into allowance the plain fact that I must serve this man until he considers my debt paid.

”Emma, what on earth are you thinking?”

It was a quiet question, coming almost from nowhere, so wrapped up in her own thoughts was she. Emma knew she did not have to answer it, but as she looked at Lord Ragsdale again, took in his seriousness where earlier there had only been a certain irritating vapidity, she felt that she owed him an answer. She reined in the mare and turned to face him.

”I am thinking, sir, that I would like to be your friend.”

The impudence of her words caught her breath away. Emma, you nincomp.o.o.p, she scolded herself as Lord Ragsdale stared at her. You're hardly in a position to recommend yourself to a marquess. When will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?

”I... I'm sorry,” she apologized when he continued to say nothing. ”That was probably not good form, my lord. Forgive it.”

I will die of embarra.s.sment if he just stares at me, she thought, her mind in a panic now. Suppose he turns his back and rides ahead? Or worse yet, makes me dismount and get in the carriage with the others and that witch Acton? ”I'm sorry,” she mumbled again.

”Well, I'm not,” Lord Ragsdale said. ”By G.o.d, Emma, let's shake on this. It's d.a.m.ned nice to have a friend.”

She looked at him in amazement, well aware that her face was flaming red. He was holding out his hand to her, and sidling his horse next to the mare. Instinctively, she held out her hand. They shook hands, Emma holding her breath and looking him in the eye. She took a deep breath then, and plunged ahead. ”Since we are resolved to be friends, my lord, you can rest a.s.sured that no matter what you tell me about you and your father, I will not judge.”

He smiled, and some of the ravaged look left his face. ”You will not dare, as my friend, will you?” he murmured. ”Let us ride ahead a little.” He put spurs to his hunter, and she followed just as nimbly.

When they were a good distance from the carriage, he slowed his horse, then rested his leg across the saddle as they sauntered along. ”As a second son, I was supposed to embrace an army career. All that changed when Claude died. After Harrow, I found myself at Brasenose.” He sighed. ”I was not a good student. The warden remembers me well, and probably is not suffering cousin Robert Claridge any better than he did me.”

”Did your papa rake you down and rail on?” she asked. ”I know mine would have.”

He shook his head. ”Papa was much too kind to do that,” he replied.

I wonder if that was such a kindness, she thought. Sometimes nothing says love like a really good brawl between fathers and sons, Emma thought, thinking of some memorable rows. I wonder if your father was as good a man as you think, she considered, then tucked the thought away. Surely Lord Ragsdale knew his own father better than she, who had never met the man.

”He would come to Oxford, and sigh over me, and remind me that the family was depending on me,” the marquess said. ”He was right, of course.”

”My lord, did you begin to drink and wench then?” she asked suddenly.

He was silent a moment, reflecting on her quietly spoken question. ”I suppose I did,” he said slowly. ”Of course, it seems as though I have always engaged in too much gin and the petticoat line.” He looked at her without a blush. ”At least I do not gamble, too.”

She laughed. He joined in briefly, then put his leg back into the stirrup and cantered ahead. Again she followed.

”Papa commanded the East Anglia regiment, and they were called up during the '98,” he continued. ”I had always wanted an army career, and I badgered Papa to free me from Brasenose's environs. He did, finally, and I joined him in Cork. Oh, G.o.d, Emma.”

She did not disturb the silence that followed, because she found herself forced back into the '98 herself. She was fifteen then, almost sixteen, and she remembered staying indoors when ragged mobs or uniformed soldiers pa.s.sed the estate, the one slouching on the prowl, the other marching smartly. And Papa would bang on the dinner table, and shake a finger at her brothers, warning them of the folly in getting involved in a quarrel that was not theirs. And so we did not, she thought, and see where it got us. Mama and Tom are dead, and I do not know where the rest of you are, Jesus and Mary help me. She looked at the marquess, and knew that sooner or later, he would ask the inevitable question.

”Was your family involved, Emma?”

She shook her head, relieved she did not have to lie yet. ”We were not, for all that we lived not far from Ennisworthy and ... and Vinegar Hill.”

”d.a.m.ned place,” he commented. ”How did you not get involved?”

She stared straight ahead. ”My father was a Protestant landowner, my lord. It was not our fight.”

”Truly, Emma?” he asked quietly.

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