Part 17 (1/2)

”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 Iris.h.!.+ 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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.”