Carla Kelly (24 page)

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 Brase-nose.” 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, 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 passed 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.
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.”

“Dreadful 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.

“Truly, sir.” It was right enough. If he did not know any more about Ireland than Vinegar Hill, he would never come up with another connection, and she would not have to relive anything more, beyond that summer of 1798. She was afraid to look at him and chose instead to go on the attack. “But we were talking of you, my lord. Were you glad enough to be in the army at last?”

He shook his head, then motioned his horse off the road. She followed, wondering what he was doing. He dismounted then and helped her down. “Let's sit here, Emma,” he said. “When the carriage arrives, we can wave them on.”

She was glad enough to dismount and only hoped that she did not grimace as she walked with him to the tree.

“A little stiff, are we?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“I haven't ridden since 1803,” she said, and then wished she had not.

“Now, why does that year ring a bell?” he asked, more to himself than to her.

Emma held her breath.

“Never mind, never mind,” he said and sat under the tree, leaning back against the trunk. She threw the reins over her horse's head and sat down, when both animals were cropping grass by the road. “Where was I? Ah, yes, the army.” He began to rub his forehead. “I discovered, to my chagrin, that I liked the army no more than I liked school.” He made a face. “All those stupid rules. Papa had bought me a captaincy, and let me state here that you have seldom seen a more inept officer than I was.”

“But I thought you wanted to join the army,” she said. She sniffed at the pleasant, earthy aroma of autumn's leaves blending into the soil.
I could wish it were a sunnier day,
she thought,
and that our topic was a cheerful one. This could be a pleasant setting.

“I thought I did want the army, but the fascination did not endure long.” He turned to regard her. “Emma, has it ever occurred to you what a stupid system it is for a man to buy a commission? The most cloth-headed private in the king's East Anglia knew more than I did about soldiering.” He sighed and picked up her hand absentmindedly. “And there we were among the saddest kind of poverty, and people who hated us. War is not all it is cracked up to be. Uniforms get dirty fast. Everyone starts to stink.” He paused. “And people die. Oh, Emma, how they die.”

He released her hand and sat in silence again, rubbing his forehead over his eye patch.

“My father died at Vinegar Hill because I did not have the wit to save him. My sorrows, Emma, for such a good man to die that way!”

The words burst out of him, and she jumped. He gripped her hand again, as if unable to go on without her physical presence. She squeezed his hand in return, and in another moment, he released her, mumbling some apology.

“I wish I could say it was a glorious battle, but it wasn't even anything important, Emma. Some of the mob had killed a cow not far from the picket line and butchered it for those enormous copper pots. You could tell they were hungry devils. I think I felt more sorry for them than anything else,” he said. “I mean, we were just standing around watching and nothing more.”

She could not wait through another silence. “And then what, my lord?”

“I don't know why, but one of my men leaped up from the picket line, stormed halfway up the hill, and grabbed a hunk of that wretched beef.” Lord Ragsdale's voice had a wondering tone to it, as though the matter still puzzled him. “True, we had been on half rations for several days ourselves, but why that? It was such an irrational, impulsive gesture.”

Emma leaned closer until their shoulders were touching. “I do not understand how this is your fault, my lord.”

“Well, it was,” he replied, his voice grim. “I was standing right next to the man, and all I could do as he sprinted up the hill was look around for my sergeant, to ask him what to do! By the time I found my sergeant, the mob had swarmed down the hill and dragged Father off his horse where he sat with his back to them. I'll never know if he was even aware what had happened, so fast did it occur.” He slapped his fist in his hand. “I was so inadequate!”

Emma took his hand this time, but he shook her off and mounted his horse again. She hurried to join him, but he was far down the road before she was even in the saddle again. The carriage was close now, but she waved to the coachman and hurried at a gallop after Lord Ragsdale, thinking to herself how odd it was that sometimes the largest events hinged on the smallest actions. She felt the tears sting her eyelids. Sometimes innocently offering a traveler a bed for the night can lead to complete ruin.
But I cannot think about that
, she told herself as she dug her heel into the mare's side.

She caught up with Lord Ragsdale in another mile, but only because he had dismounted, his lathered horse following behind him now like a large dog. She walked her horse alongside him, and she wondered for a moment if he even realized she was there beside him, so deep was his concentration on the road in front of him.

“I started up the hill after Father, but there wasn't any point,” he continued, his eyes on the road ahead, his voice dull. “From the time they grabbed him until I was wounded couldn't have been more than a minute, but it still seems to go on forever, when I think about it.” He looked at her then. “And Emma, I think about it all the time. I don't suppose an hour goes by that I do not think about it.”

Of course you think about it,
she thought, her own heart full.
You are idle and have nothing to fill your time. Now, if you were serving out an indenture, you would discover that probably two hours would pass before you thought about it.
Emma longed to tell him that she understood what he was suffering, but she held her tongue.
For you would only demand to know why I think myself an authority on this kind of pain. I haven't your courage to tell yet.

He stopped and raised his hands to her in an impotent gesture. “He disappeared into a crowd of men and women with pikes and clubs. Then I was struck in the eye by a pike, and I was blinded by my own blood. I don't remember anything else.”

“Perhaps it's just as well.”

“I suppose,” he replied, but he did not sound convinced. “Others say that too. They took me by ambulance to Cork, and at least I was spared the sight of his head on a pike at the top of Vinegar Hill.” He shuddered. “There wasn't enough left of his body to transport home for burial.”

“Heaven help you!” she exclaimed and took him by the arm. He suddenly twined his fingers in hers then, and they strolled along hand in hand. After a few yards, he looked down at their hands.

“Someone would think we were having a pleasant outing,” he commented as he released her. “I do not have many of those, Emma.”

“You will, my lord,” she said finally, not so much that she believed it herself, but that he needed to hear it. “You will return to London and drink tea in Clarissa Partridge's sitting room, and take her to the art gallery, and think of other things.” She stopped and took his arm again. “It will help if you do not flog yourself on a regular basis, and if you find some suitable employment.”

“Up you get, Emma,” he said as he cupped his hands and helped her into the sidesaddle. He mounted the hunter again, and they set out to overtake the carriage. “There's the rub, Emma. I'm obviously not suited for the army, and I only squeaked by at Oxford. I would be a poor vicar, because I do not believe the Almighty is very nice. Mama assures me that I do not need to work ever, but you know, I will go crazy if I do not find something useful to do.”

“Perhaps you will find sufficient occupation in managing your estates, my lord,” she suggested.

He made a face. “Unlikely, my dear secretary. My land is prodigiously well managed already and provides me with an obscene revenue.”

She cast about for something to say to encourage him. “I suspect that soon enough you will be a husband and then eventually, a father. This can be time-consuming.”

He smiled. “Ah, yes, the unexceptionable Clarissa. She is lovely, Emma, and I am eager for you to meet her. But seriously, one cannot breed all the time. Not even I,” he added generously. “And Clarissa is probably not likely to …” He stopped, and grinned at her. “Yes, Emma, I need to find an occupation that will keep me too busy to think about what a wretched excuse for a man I am.”

She could think of nothing else to say. Mama would have scolded him for being so centered on self as he was, but Lord Ragsdale's agonies struck too close to the bone for her to offer advice.
I am a fine one to suggest personal improvement, when I spend spare moments wishing I could reverse that awful day in 1803 and begin it again. It would end differently, if only I could take it back.

There was no need for further conversation then or that night during their stay at the inn. After dinner, Lord Ragsdale announced his intention to take a stroll, and something in his tone told them all that he did not wish company. He was still gone when she crawled into bed and pinched out the candle.
Walk some miles for me, my lord,
she thought drowsily as her eyes closed.

They arrived at Staples Hall the next day around noon. Miracle of miracles, the sun shone on the East Anglia coast. The contrast of blue sky and low chalk cliffs was almost blinding, Emma thought as they rode along the seacoast route. The wind was bracing and reminded her of home more forcefully than anything she had yet experienced in England.
I like it here,
she thought all at once. There were no soft Wicklow Hills, and the shades of green were even now just struggling out from under winter, but the landscape was promising. She felt her heart rising like a lark.

Lord Ragsdale seemed to read her thoughts. “Most people think it too dramatic for comfort,” he commented as he watched her face.

“I think it just right,” she replied. “I suppose the wind can really roar through here.”

He nodded, a smile of remembrance on his face. “The rain blows sideways so the glass doesn't even get wet.”

The manor was much smaller than she expected, with gray stone and white-framed windows. The front lawn was sparse of shrubbery, and the few trees were stunted and permanently bent into the wind. She looked at Lord Ragsdale in some surprise.