“I’m sure you do, Mr. Oldham.” His grave thanks for her approbation were declared as he exited, and she leaned against the door thankfully when she heard his tread on the stairs. “Aunt Effie . . ."
“For God’s sake, Marianne, whatever were you thinking of to take such a pompous long-tongue into the house? Did you ever hear such drivel? Why, when I was a girl, Mr. Addison did a marvelous satire on such ‘virtuosos.’ He detailed the will of Shadwell’s Sir Nicholas Gimcrack and we laughed over it for days. A box of butterflies, a female skeleton, and a dried cockatrice to his wife; his receipt for preserving dead caterpillars, and three crocodile eggs to his daughters. He cut his son out of the will for having spoken disrespectfully of his little sister, whom he kept by him in spirits of wine.” Miss Effington laughed reminiscently, but her face soon darkened. “We shall never rid ourselves of his company. I give you fair warning, he will be forever dropping in—just to tell us of the dragonfly which landed on his brief, or inviting us to lectures on petrified things.”
Marianne absently picked up her aunt’s spectacles and crossed the room to hand them to her. “He was the only one who would pay what I was asking, Aunt Effie. And now you can see why. I can just hear him telling his friend Mr. Midford, ‘You will find my lodgings in the house between that of the Earl of Latteridge and Sir Reginald Barrett, my dear fellow. Quite a convenient and exclusive location.’ No wonder he didn’t remark on the worn carpet and the bruised wainscoting, with such attractions right by. But you mustn’t think he will pester us, my dear, for he keeps regular office hours and I am determined to ward off any attempt at familiarity.”
Adjusting the spectacles firmly on her long nose, Miss Effington grunted. “It’s as plain as paper he’s interested in you, my girl, and I doubt he’s one to take a hint, so be on your guard.”
“Interested in me?” Marianne chuckled delightedly. “He may be interested in my house, Aunt Effie, but you may be sure he would find me sorely lacking in the more sober virtues a man of his position must look for in a wife.”
"Humph. He could just as easily decide that the house is more important in the long run.”
Chapter Two
After Sir Reginald’s visit in the morning, it had occurred to Marianne that her other neighbor’s property, too, might have been damaged, but she could not see from the gardens any broken windows or signs of disruption. Nonetheless, she had penned a note to Mr. Vernham, the earl’s secretary, whom she had met on several occasions, inquiring into the matter. Now, when she sorely needed to relax with a dish of tea, Roberts came to inform her that Mr. Vernham had called.
“Show him in, Roberts, if you will, and have Beth bring tea for us all, and some biscuits if Mrs. Crouch has any fresh.” She smiled gratefully. “And thank you for all your efforts, Roberts. I fear it has been a hectic morning.”
“Everything’s right and tight now, ma’am.” He permitted himself the ghost of a smile before exiting, to return almost immediately with the caller.
Mr. Vernham, dressed soberly in an olive green kerseymere coat and black knee breeches, approached to take Marianne’s hand. “I’m delighted to see you again, Miss Findlay. And you, Miss Effington. I trust you are well?”
This last, directed to the older woman, who was carelessly stuffing her spectacles in her work basket, brought a sharp retort. “I would be a great deal better if Mr. Geddes had not taken it into his head to destroy the kitchen. Have you come to claim damages on the earl’s behalf?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he murmured under her piercing gaze. “Rest assured we have suffered no ill from the explosion, save only that it woke his lordship much earlier than he had intended to rise.”
Marianne’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “A great pity, especially since his lordship had a late night, or so I would infer from the roisterous comings and goings until all hours.”
“Just so. Harry Derwent is with us at present and we are expecting the earl’s mother and sister in a week or two. The mourning period for the late earl is over now, and we will probably be in residence for several months.”
A faint shadow passed over Marianne’s face, and she exchanged a glance with her aunt which Mr. Vernham could by no means interpret, but she merely smiled and said, “The house has been empty very nearly the entire time since we came here. I’m sure it will be pleasant to see it occupied. I pray you will convey our apologies to his lordship and his household for the disturbance.”
“Certainly. If I may be of any assistance . . ."
“You are very kind, Mr. Vernham, but I believe matters are in hand. We did have an irate visit from the baronet, which is perfectly understandable, as any number of his windows were blown out. Hardly an acceptable circumstance, when the house is but newly finished.”
“Yes, a shame. Sir Reginald is not known for his placidity of temper, and I hear he wished to buy your property for the lot.”
Marianne grimaced. “Perhaps I should have sold it to him, but we had begun making the improvements and he offered no more than for the Moore house, which was in a shocking state of decay. If he had agreed to compensate for the added investment . . . But of course he would not, since he only wished to tear it down. It’s a pity he didn’t have his man of business approach me when we first came, before I had done anything. Heaven knows I would as soon have had a house elsewhere.”
Again the mysterious exchange of glances occurred between aunt and niece, vastly piquing Mr. Vernham’s curiosity. "You've never met Lord Latteridge, have you?” he asked conversationally.
“No, he’s not been at his townhouse but for a day or two the whole year we’ve been here. At least I’ve seldom seen much activity there.”
“He’s spent most of the time since his father’s death at Ackton Towers setting things to rights. The old earl lived largely in Italy due to his health, and my lord was often there or in France. We’ve spent little time in England these last ten years.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Miss Findlay knew any of the other members of the Derwent family, but she seemed to sense his curiosity and, during the refreshments, pressed him for details of his travels, showing not the least interest in the earl, but only in his own impressions of the continent. When he took his leave, Marianne abstractedly retrieved her aunt’s spectacles from the work basket, a rare frown on her forehead. “We’re bound to see her.”
“Don’t let it fret you, my dear. She’s done her worst, and we’ve known, since before we came here, that it was well nigh inevitable. What’s a snub, after all? Consider the source!”
“You’re right, of course.” Marianne picked up her tambour frame, but her eyes were still troubled. “You don’t think Lady Susan and Freddy will come here, do you?”
“Why should they? They’re probably in Hampshire or in town. I can’t see any reason for them to traipse off to Yorkshire at this time of year. If the weather turns bad, the roads will be impassable, and Mrs. Whixley swears it is bound to be a blustery autumn.”
Marianne carefully set a stitch before replying. “I hope you’re right, Aunt Effie.”
* * * *
The Earl of Latteridge surveyed his younger brother with amused eyes as he grimaced over the contents of a glass set before him. “Drink it down, Harry. It tastes foul but it will clear your head. You cannot expect to down three bottles of claret, and as many pints of strong beer, and feel at your best in the morning.”
“You never seem any the worse for wear,” the young man grumbled. “How you can face a plate of eggs and sirloin for breakfast, I shall never comprehend.” With an unsteady hand he lifted the detestable brew and wrinkling his nose and screwing his eyes shut, he consumed it in two lengthy drafts. “Wretched stuff! Where the devil did you come across it?”
"Turkey. You’ll find it’s more efficacious than rhubarb. What now, William?” the earl asked lazily, as he glanced up at the breakfast room door where his secretary had entered wearing a rueful smile.
“Sir Reginald has called and d
eclares he must see you immediately.”
“Does he?” The earl lifted a quizzical brow. “A matter of great urgency, no doubt. Perhaps he has lost one of his patches.”
“He has several on, but I suppose it is possible.”
Harry snorted. “Damned jackanapes. You should have seen the buckles on his shoes last night, Press. Gold rings with diamonds studded all over them. Harper watched all evening to see if any of them came loose.”
“I’m surprised Harper didn’t just pluck a few of them off,” the earl remarked dryly.
Harry flushed. “He ain’t that bad, Press.”
“You reassure me.” Languidly the earl rose from his seat, casting a regretful eye on the remains of his breakfast. “Since I’ve not called to welcome him to the neighborhood, I suppose I must sustain this interview. Where have you put him, William?”
“The gold drawing room, sir.”
In the drawing room there were any number of excellent paintings and pieces of sculpture to attract a visitor’s eyes, but Lord Latteridge found his guest studying his own reflection in a gilded glass. Not that he primped or rearranged any detail; Sir Reginald seemed entirely enthralled by the vision before his eyes. Instead of a greeting, he commented, “It rather magnifies, don’t it? I should get a few of those.”
“My dear sir, if your mission is to investigate mirrors, you had much better have spoken with my secretary. I haven’t the slightest idea where they may be had.”
“I didn’t come about glasses,” Sir Reginald replied shortly, as he followed the earl’s lead in seating himself. “It’s that damned woman next door, Miss Findlay. Do you know there was an explosion in her kitchen which broke half a dozen windows in my new house?”
“How unfortunate.”
The earl’s patent lack of sympathy, in fact his total lack of interest, drove Sir Reginald to more strident tones. “She was not the least concerned with causing me any inconvenience! She said she would send a glazier and told me to run along because she was busy.”
“Such magnificent disregard of your consequence is inexcusable. Have you considered having her drawn and quartered?”
“This is no joking matter, Latteridge! When I asked her what assurance she could give me that my house would not be subjected to future explosions, she told me I should sheath it with gold buttons!”
A lazy survey of his guests’ apparel (no less distinguished than it had been on his visit to Miss Findlay the previous day) inspired a certain approval of his unknown neighbor in Lord Latteridge. “My secretary informs me that the blast was caused by gunpowder accidentally left near the kitchen fire. I doubt such a freak circumstance could happen again, Sir Reginald.”
“But did you know,” his visitor asked spitefully, “that Miss Findlay takes lodgers?”
His host remained unmoved by such a dire revelation, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch. “You don’t say.”
“I do say. When I had my man of business deliver a list of damages to her, she had one of her lodgers down to see the reckoning.”
“Ah, I understand. He wouldn’t pay. You probably padded the sum too much.”
“That’s not the point! The fellow raised no objection; it was his gunpowder, foolishly left on a breakfast tray, for God’s sake. What is important is that my man of business cleverly ascertained that there are two lodgers there. Now I ask you, is that to be tolerated? This is Micklegate, a perfectly respectable street; nay, a great street. The Bathursts, the Courchiers, the Garforths, and the St. Quintons all have houses or are planning them here. What would they say to be living side by side with Miss Findlay and her lodgers? It is not to be tolerated. I have decided to get up a petition.”
“A subscription, you mean,” the earl suggested blandly. “When you attempt to raise money to help someone in financial difficulties, it is called a subscription.”
“I don’t intend to raise money for the woman!” Sir Reginald yelped. “That is the last thing on earth I would consider. I want her drummed out of the neighborhood. Clearly it is illegal to keep lodgers in a residential district.”
“I doubt it. Let’s have William in and ask his opinion.” Despite his companion’s protest, Latteridge rang the bell which rested on the marble mantelpiece and considered his secretary gravely when he entered. “Ah, William, we have a question to put to you. Do you think it would be legal for someone to let lodgings in this street?”
William Vernham was an excellent secretary: intelligent, efficient, and diplomatic. He also had a good understanding of his employer, and did not doubt for a moment the situation which was being considered. The earl’s hooded eyes might have given a lesser man no indication of his wishes on this occasion, but William had no misgivings. “No, sir, I should think it perfectly legal. There is, however, an attorney lodging with Miss Findlay and I would be happy to get his opinion if you wish.”
Ignoring the profanity which escaped his guest, the earl said, “I think that won’t be necessary, William. That will be all.”
Sir Reginald’s chagrin took a nasty turn. “She’s probably involved with one of her lodgers."
“I once,” mused the earl, “heard a man do public penance for defaming the character of a woman. A most unnerving experience, I would think.”
“So you are content to let matters rest as they are?”
“I find nothing distressing about our neighbor letting lodgings, Sir Reginald. I should think she had a great deal more to complain of in us than we do in her. Ever since he came, Harry has had rowdy friends in and out of here most of the night. And for the last half year or so, your house has been a-building with a consequent disturbance of the peace of this charming little street.” At the other’s scowl he relented slightly. “A fine building you have there. Designed by Carr, I take it?”
“Yes, he’s making quite a name for himself. Of course the exterior is dignified rather than showy, and I have a mind to call in someone who will decorate the interior a little more to my taste, but it’s a handsome place, ain’t it?”
“Indeed, and likely to be a great deal more convenient than this pile. Are there any races scheduled for the Knavesmire this afternoon?”
Having successfully diverted, his caller from further animadversions on the lodging-keeper, the earl patiently waited out the length of Sir Reginald’s astute observations on the various matches and watched him depart with unconcealed relief. When William Vernham returned from seeing the visitor out, he presented himself in the library where he found Latteridge contemplating a paperweight. The earl lifted humorous gray eyes. “It wasn’t a patch after all, William, but his offended dignity. Our neighbor laughed at his gold buttons. What’s she like, Miss . . ."
“Findlay. A handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and obviously gently born in spite of her present circumstances. I’ve met her only a few times when I’ve been in York on business for you. She lives there with a maiden aunt and two lodgers, one of whom is but recently moved in. The house was a shambles when she inherited it and she is little by little restoring it to its former glory. Miss Effington, her aunt, has a sharp tongue, but I find I like the old lady. Apparently Sir Reginald tried to buy the house from Miss Findlay, to tear down with the other one, but she wouldn’t sell because he refused to compensate her for the renovations she had already made. Not that she blames him, but I don’t think she could afford to see the money wasted. I doubt he offered her very much.”
“He wouldn’t. Findlay. It’s not an unusual name. Does she come from Yorkshire?”
William considered the question for a moment before replying. “I couldn’t say. She never makes any mention of her past except . . ."
His hesitation awakened the earl’s flagging interest. “Some mystery, William?”
“I’m not sure,” the young man admitted. “She seemed . . . distressed that you were in residence. Or it may have been when I said your mother and sister were coming to stay here.”
“And you didn’t pursue the matter?” the earl a
sked, surprised.
“I tried. She said she had never met you, but then she turned the discussion.”.
“I see. Did you mention that Harry was here?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps that would explain it. The boy appears to have been up to the devil of a lot of mischief while we were abroad. Has he ever come here with you?”
“Never. He may have come on his own.”
“I’ll speak with him. Not now, though. His head is about as clear as cotton wool this morning. Was I that ramshackle at his age, William?”
His secretary grinned. “Worse, my lord.”
* * * *
Marianne pulled the faded draperies across the window saying gently, “I have sent for Dr. Thorne, Aunt Effie.”
“There is not the least need,” her aunt retorted as she plucked agitatedly at the bedclothes. “It’s the merest fever and you know I have a great detestation of being coddled.” She glowered on her niece whose cool hand rested for a moment against her forehead. “You know I have promised Mrs. Whixley to visit her this afternoon.”
“I’ll have a note sent around, Aunt Effie. You mustn’t stir from bed until Dr. Thorne has come. You wouldn’t want to have the Whixleys all down with a fever, now would you?”
Miss Effington sniffed at the possibility that she could communicate her illness to her friend, but she was, in fact, too feverish to rise from her bed despite her protests. “It’s all Roberts’s fault for letting us run out of rhubarb.”
"Then you must blame me, my dear, for I kept him too busy preparing for Mr. Oldham’s arrival to remind him about the rhubarb. Rest now and I’ll show Dr. Thorne in to you when he comes.”
“How you can place any faith in that young man is incomprehensible, Marianne. Do you know he told me I would do well to eat less and not drink more than a glass or two of port a day? Mr. Garrowby in London— now there was a doctor!—said I would build my blood by drinking no less than a pint a day.”
The Lady Next Door Page 2