"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 gra.s.s 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 hot 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 G.o.d, 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 inadequately 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 pa.s.s 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."

"Oh, G.o.d!" 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 a.s.sures 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d I am."

She could think of nothing else to say. Mama would have scolded him for being so self-absorbed, 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 gra.s.s doesn't even get wet."

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

"Where is the big house, you are thinking?" he questioned. "Grandfather resisted adding onto it, and Papa couldn't bear to change anything, either. I think it a little small, myself, but Mama would probably be aghast if I changed anything."

The bailiff met them at the door with a short line of servants, who curtsied and bowed as they entered the hall. Emma looked about her in appreciation and allowed the housekeeper to take her cloak. Lord Ragsdale handed over his hat and overcoat, and gestured to the balding man in well-worn leathers.

"Emma, this is Evan Manwaring, my bailiff. Evan, this is ..."

The bailiff stepped forward and bowed, to Emma's dismay. "You didn't tell me you had married, my lord," he said, before Lord Ragsdale could finish his sentence. "May I say that your exertions have certainly borne fruit."

Emma gasped, and then laughed out loud. "Oh, sir, you do not understand."

"She is my secretary," the marquess said hastily, his face red. "Oh, don't look so startled! It's a long story, to be sure, but permit me to promise you that Emma Costello here has a right understanding of my correspondence and financial affairs. Emma, this is Mr. Manwaring."

They shook hands as the bailiff stammered out his apologies, then had a chuckle on himself. He wiped his hand across his shining baldness and scrutinized Emma. "It's an honest mistake. You seemed so easy-like together." He stepped closer to the marquess, and tried to whisper. "Your secretary?"

"My secretary," Lord Ragsdale replied firmly. "You will own that she is better to look at than David Breedlow, d.a.m.n his carca.s.s, and she does not cheat me."

Emma thought of Fae Moulle, and their inflated millinery shop figures, and had the good grace to blush. What he doesn't suspect will certainly not hurt him, she thought even as she owned to a guilty twinge. She shook hands with Mr. Manwaring, and resolved not to worry about what he was thinking.

Lord Ragsdale clapped one hand on her shoulder and the other on his bailiff's. "In fact, I suggest that you two adjourn to the book room and you acquaint Emma with the sordid details of my estate neglect. She will tra.s.s up your figures and admonitions, and present them to me in a more palatable form, I trust."

"We can do that," the bailiff replied dubiously.

"Excellent, then! Mr. Manwaring, I will watch for my mother and cousin, who should be arriving soon. I trust you will inform Mrs. Manwaring to provide luncheon for us."

"I already have, my lord," the bailiff said. "And do you know, Sir Augustus has invited himself over for dinner."

Lord Ragsdale smiled. "Well, if he hadn't, I would have talked my way into his house. Excellent, sir, excellent." He rubbed his hands together and started down the hall to the sitting room, as the bailiff gestured toward the book room.

Mr. Manwaring paused to watch his master go into the sitting room. "Looks better than he did ten years ago when I saw him last," he murmured, "all wan and white, and looking fit for fish bait. I wouldn't have given him one chance in five of surviving a strong wind."

"You mean he truly has not been here in all this time?" Emma asked.

The bailiff shook his head. "Not once, miss. Now, Lady Rags-dale comes every now and again to sit on a bench in the mausoleum, but Lord Ragsdale never has. Here, miss, have a seat, and let me get at the books."

Whatever awkwardness there might have been wore off quickly, as Emma knew it would as soon as the bailiff realized that she understood what he was talking about. In the time before the carriage arrived, they sat with their heads together, poring over the estate records from the past ten years. From what a cursory glance told her, the estate was well run, the figures all in order. The bailiff finally sighed and pushed the books away.

"We look good on paper, miss, but the crofters' cottages are in serious need of repair."

"All of them?"

"Yes. We've been patching and making do, but it's beyond that now. Cottages wear out fast on this rough coast. It could be a prodigious expense," he warned, "and not one I was willing to undertake without his express knowledge and approval. In fact, I would advise new cottages from the foundations up. And what could I do, when he avoids the place?"

"He is here now, Mr. Manwaring," she said, "and he can be brought to do his duty."

Mr. Manwaring leaned back in his chair. "Then, it will be the first time since I can remember that a Marquess of Ragsdale has been inclined to exert himself for the benefit of others."

Emma stared at the bailiff. "But his father... he tells me ... I mean, didn't the late marquess walk on water?"

"Lord, no!" The bailiff laughed as he pulled the books toward him again. "I think our young lad has spent ten years putting together a mythology, Emma." He rubbed his chin, regarding her. "I'm wondering now if that is how he has managed to get through this pesky time. I mean, there were rumors everywhere about how the son had let down the father. I suppose if you hear something long enough, it almost becomes true."

"He would never believe anything ill of his father, even if you told him," Emma murmured.

Mr. Manwaring put on his spectacles and gazed at her over the top of them. "I know that. I'm thinking he might believe you, miss."

Chapter 14.

Easier said than done, Emma thought as she allowed Lord Ragsdale to help her into the saddle again following luncheon. It had been a quiet meal, what with Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge white-faced and exhausted from a day and a half of travel, and capable of managing only a little soup. Weaklings, Emma thought as she watched them. Exertion does not appear to be a strong suit among any of this family.

She regarded Lord Ragsdale, sitting at the head of the table and tucking away a substantial meal. Two weeks ago, I would have thought you would be the first to complain, she reflected as she watched him down his meal with evident gusto. Yet you have not complained about anything.

"Well, Emma, are you up to a ride about the estate?" he asked, when his mother and cousin excused themselves and allowed Acton to help them to their rooms. "Let's see how bad the damage is that I have done."

It will be a th.o.r.n.y issue, Emma thought as they rode toward the first cl.u.s.ter of dwellings just beyond the back lawn of the manor. How does one convince a lazy, care-for-n.o.body peer that he is not the beast he has painted himself to be? And if he discovers that he is a better man than he thought, will he be comfortable with the feeling? Heaven knows it is easier to live when no one expects anything of you. She resolved to try.

"My lord, I learned something of real interest from Mr. Man-waring," she began, feeling like a circus performer on a tight wire.

"I hope you did, Emma," he replied in a teasing tone of voice. "Heaven knows, that's what I am paying you for."

She laughed in spite of her discomfort, pleased to see a sense of humor surfacing through all the misery of the last day. "Do be serious, my lord," she began.

"Must I?" he interrupted.

"Mr. Manwaring showed me the estate records, my lord." She hesitated, took a deep breath, and plunged in. "No one has made any improvements to the crofters' cottages since before your grandfather's time."

He let her words sink in, and then rejected them, as she feared he would. "You must be mistaken, Emma," he said, in a tone that wanted no argument. "My father was the best kind of landlord."

"I am certain that he had the best of intentions, my lord," she hedged, wishing she had not tackled the subject at all.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, staring straight ahead. "You never even knew the man. I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself about something you know so little."

She winced at his tone, wondering why she had ever involved herself in the matter. I shall hold my tongue, she told herself. There is no reason why I need to make a career out of blundering into crises. She glanced at his face, and it was set and hard again. She reined in the mare, and he stopped out of habit.

"John Staples, you have to tell me what is so attractive about thinking the worst of yourself," she declared. "Just because your father never got around to doing the work you're about to begin, doesn't mean he is less of a man. It only means that he was human like the rest of us."

"Shut up, Emma," Lord Ragsdale said, and put spurs to his horse. In another moment he was gone from sight, and she was left to kick herself in solitude and wonder why on earth she even cared what he thought about himself.

It was a new emotion, one she had not felt in years, this curious anger at the stubbornness of others. She rode slowly along, feeling the raw wind that began to blow in suddenly from the sea, but not regarding it beyond hunching down tighter inside her cloak. I have not felt this kind of irritation since those days before 1803 with my family, she finally forced herself to admit. We fought, we brawled, but we loved each other. I had forgotten that special painful anger, and how it can sting. I want something better for this man, even though there is no real reason why I should.

She looked down the road where Lord Ragsdale had ridden. Oh, I would like to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you, she thought. How dare you go through life thinking you are not a good man?

"I have a few more things to say to you, Lord Ragsdale," she said out loud. "Now, where are you?"

She rode in the direction she had last seen Lord Ragsdale, but he was long out of sight. "You're not getting away from a piece of my mind that easily," she said grimly as the wind began to blow harder, twirling in odd circles as it seemed to blow both from the sea and toward it at the same time.

The rain came then, thundering down until she couldn't see the track in front of her. After a few minutes she was soaked to the skin, and determined to return to the manor house. But where was it? She looked behind her, but she could see nothing in the pelting rain. Oh, dear, she thought as she reined in the mare and squinted into the storm. Somewhere not far were the cliffs overlooking the ocean. She leaned over and patted the mare.

"Well, it wouldn't be any loss to anyone on this miserable island if I rode off the edge of England," Emma told the horse, "except that I refuse to give Lord Ragsdale that pleasure."

"What pleasure, you baggage?"

A gloved hand grabbed her reins, and then brushed her sodden hair back from her eyes. Don't show too much relief, Emma, she told herself when Lord Ragsdale, as soaked as she was, led her horse beside his.

"I just don't want you to think I'm not angry with you still," she concluded.

"By G.o.d, Emma, you would try a saint," he said, his voice mild. "I wonder the Ciaridges in Virginia didn't just pay you to leave their indenture, and good riddance."

She laughed, despite her soggy discomfort. "You know they never had any money. Robert spent it all!"

He chuckled and gathered the reins in closer. "Well, unlike my cousin, I am rich as Croesus. Had I not signed an agreement with you-under duress, I might add-you would be a free woman now, and probably plaguing someone else. Let's find some shel-ter."

The rain was turning into sleet as Lord Ragsdale stopped before a crofter's cottage and dismounted. "When in Rome, Emma," he said as he helped her from the saddle, then knocked on the door.

The cottage was warm with the fragrance of both farming people and cows. "Good heavens," Lord Ragsdale said under his breath as the cows stared back at him, moving their jaws in rhythm. "I had no idea."