Chapter 4

I wonder what has happened to the simplicity of a good night’s sleep , Lord Ragsdale thought to himself as he fumed in his bed and watched morning gradually overtake the Norman and Saxon. Sleep was out of the question; the more he thought about the disaster of the night, the more put-upon he imagined himself.

Never mind that Robert Claridge lay on the floor of the room, noisily sleeping off a prodigious amount of rum. John Staples rose up on his elbow to give his cousin a particularly malevolent glare. The effort was wasted. Robert slumbered on, wrapped in peaceful sleep that he, Lord Ragsdale, could only wish for.

The nerve of his aunt and uncle Claridge to foist such a problem off onto an English relative they had never met. Lord Ragsdale punched his pillow savagely, trying to find a spot without a lump, and considered that the whole affair must be yet another way for Americans to wreak vengeance on their late antagonists. I have done nothing to deserve this cousin , he reflected.

He thought of Emma Costello, standing so quiet as Robert prepared to sell her on the drawing of a card. He groaned and stuffed his pillow over his face, as if to shut out her calm face that seemed to stare at him still. He had never seen anyone so totally without hope and yet so brave in the face of it. He removed the pillow and sat up so he could stare daggers at his sleeping cousin.

“One thing is certain, Robert,” he said, making no effort to lower his voice. “Only a truly wicked master would try what you tried. And I don’t care if she is Irish. It was a low blow.”

Beyond the smacking of his lips and a rude noise, Robert made no comment. Lord Ragsdale sighed and looked away toward the window, urging dawn to forget that it was February and appear sooner.

By seven o’clock he was dressed and pacing the floor, stepping over Robert on each trip across the room and resisting the urge, each time, to kick him. Finally, his baser instincts triumphed. He kicked Robert in the ribs with enough force to waken his cousin.

Or, perhaps at that moment, Robert had decided to wake up on his own accord. He sat up, making no comment on ill treatment, and regarded his cousin beatifically. “Ah, Cousin John,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

Cousin John could only stare in amazement at his relative and open his mouth once or twice like a fish hooked and tossed onto the shore. Lord Ragsdale looked down at Robert, certain in his heart of hearts that if he murdered his cousin on the spot that no jury of twelve men just and true would ever convict him. He sat down on the bed and glared at his relative.

“Don’t you remember anything of last night?” he began and then stopped. The conversation sounded familiar to his ears, and he almost smiled in spite of himself. That hoary question, probably asked since caveman days, was the preamble to many a morning’s argument when his father was still alive. This will never do , he thought as he stared hard at his cousin. “Robert, you are a certifiable scoundrel,” he stated firmly. “You have been through your money and my money. You nearly sold your servant to a man I wouldn’t trust a saint with and forced me to give up two thousand pounds’ worth of horse to redeem her and to keep you from a knife in the ribs and a trip to the river, I don’t doubt.”

Robert burped, winced, and sat up. “All that happened last night?” he said as he clutched his head with both hands.

“It did. We happen to be dead broke now, and if my mother doesn’t have any yellow dogs on her person, we will be making beds and cleaning the pissoir to pay for our lodging!” Lord Ragsdale gave an unpleasant laugh. “Or rather, you will be doing that and we will watch!”

He regarded his cousin a moment more and then stood up. “Wash your face and come to the parlor. I think you and Sally owe the Staples branch of the family some enlightenment.”

He slammed the door behind him and was rewarded with a groan from Robert. Lord Ragsdale smiled in satisfaction and resisted the desire to slam the door again. Life is suddenly full of exertions , he thought as he rapped lightly on his mother’s door.

The inmates were dressed already, and two out of three were regarding him with some anxiety. Sally Claridge was easily the more agitated of the two. She gave a start when he came in, and he wondered for a second if he had forgotten to put on his eye patch. No, it was carefully in place. As he watched, Sally’s face turned bright red as she reached for her handkerchief and began to sob. The marquess groaned.

“Sally, it is much too early for tears,” he assured her. Sally sobbed louder into the already soaking scrap of lace in her hand. In desperation, he gestured to Emma. “Tell her that nothing was ever solved with tears,” he pleaded.

“I have always found tears to be singularly valueless,” she agreed and handed her mistress a more substantial rag. “Dry up, now, miss, or your eyes will swell and you will look quite twenty.”

Lord Ragsdale smiled in spite of himself, charmed—if against his will—by the lilt of Emma’s brogue and her common sense. Lord Ragsdale was grateful. One woman in tears would suffice, especially before breakfast. He regarded his mother, who smiled back at him from her seat by the window.

“Troubles, John?” she asked, her voice hearty enough to make him suspect that she was enjoying this domestic tempest.

“You needn’t appear so cheerful, Mama,” he insisted. “I think my cousins are a great lot of trouble.”

Sally burst into louder tears, edging on the hysterical. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his temper shorten perceptibly. He looked to Emma Costello for help, and to his amazement, she glared back at him.

“Must you make a situation more difficult, Lord Ragsdale?” she asked.

No servant had ever addressed him like that. Hot words rose to his lips, but to his further astonishment, he stopped them. She was absolutely right; there was no sense in tossing another log onto the blaze. He bit his tongue, glared back, and turned his attention to his mother again.

It may have been his imagination, but Lady Ragsdale seemed to be enjoying the whole affair. “You needn’t take such pleasure in all this,” he snapped, coming as close to pouting as he cared to admit. “It may put some sand in your eye when I tell you that Beau Rascal in the other room gambled away all my money too. My dear, unless you have some pounds sterling tucked somewhere to pay the innkeeper, we’re going to have a hard time avoiding the constable. Oh, Sally, cut line!” he ordered when his cousin increased the volume of her misery.

Lady Ragsdale blew a kiss to her sorely tried niece. “John, dear, you know I always travel with cash. I have enough to pay our receipt here.”

“Well, thank heavens for one piece of good news this morning ... Now if you could only produce enough for me to reclaim my horses. ”

“That I cannot do,” she said and gave her head a sorrowful wag.

He sighed, the martyr again. “Mama, they were prime goers,” he began and then stopped himself, because it sounded like he was whining.

“I’m sure they were, my dear,” she agreed as she reached out to clasp his hand. “But I want you to tell me something, son.”

“What?” he asked in irritation when she continued to look at him.

“Tell me if all this will matter in even a week or two.”

“Of course it will!” he shot back.

“Why?” she asked softly.

He had no answer. Of course it mattered, he wanted to shout, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think why. He had plenty of money, and there would be other horses. He looked at Sally, who was hiccupping through her tears now, and then at Emma. Why the deuce do I wonder what you are thinking? he asked himself.

He was spared the pain of further analysis by the arrival of Robert. It was a soft tap on the door, as though sound was painful to his cousin. I can appreciate that , John thought grimly. He opened the door quickly, hoping that his cousin might be leaning on it to support himself.

“Robert!” he exclaimed, noting with a certain malicious pleasure that his cousin winced at his loud greeting. “Grand of you to join us. Sit down, please.”

Robert sat, after looking around at Sally as though for help. His sister was deep in a handkerchief and unlikely to be of any assistance. No one spoke. To Lord Ragsdale’s supreme annoyance, everyone looked at him as though expecting leadership. He could have told them that was a waste of time, but since they seemed to expect him to take charge, he did.

Lord Ragsdale clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the window. He stood there a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels, and then regarded his cousins. “I would like one of you to tell me exactly what is going on.”

Sally tunneled deeper into her handkerchief; Robert merely looked around. Lord Ragsdale sighed and tried again. “Your parents have solicited us to see that you, Robert, are located at Oxford, and that you, Sally, participate in some part of the London Season.”

Neither relative said anything. Lord Ragsdale paced away from the window and then back again. “I know there are several excellent, if provincial, colleges in America.” He looked at Sally. “And I suspect that Virginia society is lively enough to provide for a spring’s entertainment. I must ask myself, then, why you have inflicted yourself upon us.”

“Really, John,” his mother murmured as Sally began to sniffle again.

“Yes, really,” he insisted and paced some more. “Can it be possible that you are no longer welcome at home, Robert?” Lord Ragsdale asked. “Could it be that you have ruined your family?”

A long silence followed, but Lord Ragsdale did not leap into the void. He walked back to the window and looked out, waiting for an answer. And I will wait until the end of time , he thought grimly. We may all grow old in this room.

“I really don’t think it is as bad as all that,” Robert said at last, his tone sulky. His mouth opened to say more, but Sally leaped to her feet and hurried to the window to face her cousin.

“It is worse than that,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “Robert’s gaming debts have mortgaged our home right to the attics. Papa has had to sell half his slaves, and the next two tobacco crops are already lost to repay Robert’s creditors.”

Lord Ragsdale whistled in spite of himself. “My word, Robert,” he exclaimed. “Can’t you resist a wager?”

Once started, Sally was ready to contribute in abundance. “He cannot!” she exclaimed, deeply in earnest, tears forgotten now. “There are whole counties where Robert dare not show his face.” Her own face clouded over again. “And no one will even consider a marriage arrangement for me with Robert ready to sponge.”

She looked so sad that Lord Ragsdale put his arm around her shoulders, drew her close to him, and provided her with his handkerchief. “I appreciate your candor, Sally,” he said when he could be heard over her tears.

Sally looked at him, her wide blue eyes so like his mother’s. “What will you do to us?” she asked.

He smiled at her. “Exactly what your parents wished, my dear.”

He leveled a less-pleasant look in Robert’s direction. “You, cousin, will go to Oxford. And if I hear of a single card being turned, you will be on your way to Spain, to serve in the ranks. I know a colonel of foot who will have you flogged regularly if I ask him to.”

“Oh, cousin!” Robert exclaimed, getting slowly to his feet. “I am sure that if you will let me bargain with Emma’s indenture one more time I can. . .”

“Don’t you ever learn?” Lord Ragsdale shouted, oblivious to what the other clients of the Norman and Saxon might think. “She belongs to me now, and I am more careful of my property! Sally, we will attempt to provide you with a come out of some sort. There must be someone of my acquaintance who prefers a pretty face to a large income.” He released Sally and turned to his mother. “And now, my dear, if you will fork over some of the ready, I will spring us from this inn.”

She handed him some money and then patted his arm. “Well done, John,” Lady Ragsdale said in a low voice.

“Someone had to do something,” he said pointedly. He started for the door and then turned suddenly and shook his finger at Robert. “I mean what I say about serving in the ranks, you idiot!” He yanked open the door, looked at Emma standing there so quietly beside it, and pulled her out into the hall with him, slamming the door behind him .

“I want a word with you, Emma Costello,” he snapped.

She said nothing but pulled her hand from his and clasped them in front of her. She looked him directly in the eye, something servants never did, and he found himself unable to bear her level scrutiny.

“Dash it, Emma,” he whispered furiously. “Why did you allow Robert to take you downstairs last night? Why didn’t you wake my mother or pound on my door? He could have sold you to one of those ugly customers. Don’t you care?”

She was a long time answering him. The servant looked down at her hands, her eyes lowered, and he noticed how absurdly long her eyelashes were. He was standing close enough to see that her skin was as beautiful up close as across a room, and with the most disarming freckles on her nose. She wore no scent but the honest odor of soap. Finally she looked at him.

“I did not dream that you would raise a hand to stop him, my lord,” she replied.

Almost bereft of speech, he stared back. “You ... you think I would have allowed him to sell you?” he demanded, his voice rising to a higher pitch not heard since his younger years.

“I was sure of it,” she said, her voice soft.

If she had calculated for six months or more to devise a way to cut him to the marrow, she could not have hit upon a better plan. He stared at her another moment and felt shame wash over him like a sudden cold spray. It was the most alarming thing anyone had ever said to him, and it came from a servant. He regarded her another moment, and the thought struck him that she was probably right.

“Oh, Emma” was all he could say.

“With your permission, sir, I’ll go back inside and help the ladies pack.”

He nodded and walked down the hall to his own room. He turned at the door, his hand on the knob, and glanced back at the servant, who had not moved. She regarded him in silence another moment and then went back into his mother’s room, closing the door quietly behind her.

~

Lord Ragsdale thought the ride to Oxford would never end. He felt the loss of his horse sorely. A restless person by nature, he chafed at the inactivity of sitting still in a carriage. If he could have paced inside, he would have. As it was, he was forced to endure Sally’s snufflings into a long succession of handkerchiefs and her occasional frightened glances in his direction. Robert sulked in his corner, suffering a hangover of monstrous proportions, brought on by bad rum, drunk in immoderate quantities. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but nothing ever came out.

Lady Ragsdale seemed to enjoy the ride. She settled comfortably into the opposite corner, her nose deep in a novel. The only sound in the carriage beyond Sally’s sniffles was the regular slitting and turning of pages. Emma Costello stared out the window, occupied with her own thoughts. Her face was blank of all expression, the perfect servant’s face.

Except that I know you have not always been a servant , he thought as he watched her. As the miles and hours dragged by, he remembered a fairy tale from the nursery about a princess forced into servitude by a wicked maid. Absurd , he thought, wishing that he could fling open the carriage door and trot alongside. Ireland has nothing but a cursed population that stinks and breeds. I wonder how soon I can get rid of her , he thought.

As they approached Oxford, Emma Costello claimed his attention again. Sally and Robert were both asleep, leaning against each other, but Emma sat forward and grasped a strap by the window, surprised into exclamation. He glanced over idly to see what was capturing her notice.

“It is Magdalen Tower,” he said, following her gaze. Come, come, John , he thought, try for a little conversation, even if she is Irish. “You should see it in high summer, with the trees all leafed out.” There. That was a respectable volley of dialogue. I can’t have her thinking I am a dog of a fellow.

Emma nodded, her eyes still on the scene before her. “I thought it would look like that,” she murmured.

He smiled at her, feeling the hypocrite because of his dislike, and unable to resist the vantage point of superiority. “I had no idea that Magdalen was a subject for the servants’ hall in America.”

It was a shabby remark, and he knew it. She looked him in the eye, and he felt the urge to squirm again under her scrutiny.

“My father went there,” she commented and directed her gaze to the window again, effectively shutting him out of all further conversation.

Lord Ragsdale felt himself blushing. By all that’s imaginable, I have been set down , he thought in amazement. His embarrassment worsened when he noticed that his mother watched him over the top of her spectacles, her eyes merry. He glared at her, and to his further discomfort, she winked at him.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice too loud. He rolled down the glass and leaned out the window. “Stop the coach.”

The carriage stopped. His mother watched in amusement, her finger marking the place in the book. Emma’s emerald-green eyes measured him up and down and found him wanting.

He flung himself out of the carriage. “I will walk to Grandmama’s,” he told his mother.

“Very well, John,” she said. “Take your time.”

He swore out loud as the carriage left him, and stood there a moment, wondering why he was walking and not Emma.

Lord Ragsdale took his time getting to his grandmother’s house. At first he walked fast in his anger, but as his rapid stride carried him along through narrow, favorite streets, he found himself slowing down, glancing about even as though his friends from former years might reappear to walk with him, to commiserate, to cajole, to suggest alternatives to duty, to demand that he share notes or a pint. He sighed and stood still, staring up at Magdalen Tower, almost like Emma. “To remind me that life had a purpose once,” he said out loud.

Others were passing by. He reminded himself also that at Oxford no one stared at people who talked out loud to themselves. The colleges cherished their eccentrics, and even after ten years and more, he felt himself under that same protective umbrella. It was a pleasant thought, and oddly soothing. He strolled along more slowly now. True, he could not recall what the purpose of life was anymore, but at least it was a comfort to be there.

He thought about lifting a pint at Walsingham’s again, but the moment passed. Instead, he let himself into the Brasenose Quadrangle and walked about until he pronounced himself ready to face his grandmother. I wonder that anyone ever leaves Oxford , he thought as he sauntered along the outer corridor, his eyes on the dark beams close overhead. He stopped, the first smile of the day on his face. There it was. He reached up and traced “John Staples,” carved at the end of his second year. The smile left his face. I was different then , he considered. I was better.