The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

  “I cannot believe you’re serious, Aunt Effie!”

  Her aunt carefully adjusted the spectacles at the bridge of her long nose, noting with some surprise that they fitted exceedingly well and stayed in place as the ones without temple pieces never would, and eyed the indignant young woman with calculated impatience. “Play no airs off on me, Marianne. How do you think a woman in your position gets a husband? By sitting back and watching life pass her by? There may be those, possessed of fortune and birth and looks, who appear to do so, but let me tell you, it is never the case. Every successful courtship is carefully planned, if not by the woman involved, then by some other guiding hand. And we are not speaking of the Almighty! He has quite enough to do without bothering himself with the likes of you. No, my girl, matchmaking is a very temporal matter, and treating the good doctor like a brother is a wretched strategy!”

  Marianne lowered herself into the chair opposite her aunt and said gently, “I thought you didn’t like Dr. Thorne.”

  “I have no objection to him as a husband for you. If his practice of medicine is not always to my taste, still I keep an open mind.” She ignored her niece’s snort. “He will doubtless achieve a measure of success because he is a personable fellow and . . . and because he was not altogether clumsy in his treatment of my case.”

  “Oho, I see. You are so grateful to him for curing you that you thought to offer me as a reward.”

  “Men do not like pert, saucy women,” her aunt proclaimed with a majestic wave of her hand. “If you intend to captivate him, you will have to cultivate a more pliant nature.”

  “I do not intend to captivate him.”

  Miss Effington narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “You like him, don’t you?”

  "Of course."

  “And you respect his professional abilities, do you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is not an unattractive gentleman—well-dressed and courteous, sensible with engaging manners and a quick understanding. Perhaps a little too lively for my taste, but certainly not for yours, I would have thought. In short an excellent match for you.”

  Marianne cast her eyes heavenward. “He has no intention of marrying me, Aunt Effie.”

  “To be sure, but that can be changed. What do you think we are discussing? Precisely how to alter his casual friendship into a warmer regard.”

  “But, my dear, I don’t want to marry him.”

  “Nonsense! We have already established that he is a perfectly suitable parti. You cannot afford to be too nice in your choice, my girl. The advantages of matrimony are far too numerous and obvious to bear repeating. You are already past the age when you can expect men to consider you as a potential mate, so you must take measures to clear their vision.” She allowed the spectacles to fall about her neck on the silver chain and regarded them with satisfaction. “I can slip them right under my handkerchief and no one will notice them at all. Thank heaven he made the chain long enough!”

  Marianne was willing enough to have the discussion sidetracked. “I shall tell Mr. Geddes that you appreciate his thoughtfulness. Would you like me to have him fix the other pair as well?”

  “Since when do I have a second pair?” Miss Effington asked sharply.

  “I found it convenient to have them made some time ago, considering the frequent occurrence of their being mislaid. We should have less of that problem now, but the spare pair will come in handy if those should be broken.”

  “Don’t ask Mr. Geddes to do it. That would only make you beholden to him. You must concentrate on Dr. Thorne. Men like women to be dependent, Marianne, though luckily Dr. Thorne is likely to see the advantages of a capable woman, he being a doctor. Still, you must flatter his intelligence and superior strength; nothing is so sure to fire his interest in you.”

  "How am I supposed to do that?” Marianne asked with suspicious sweetness.

  "Don't be dense! Ask him about his work and let him know how impressed you are by his skill. Tell him how clever you think him. I’ve seen dozens of ladies do just that.”

  “Simpering misses, Aunt Effie?”

  Her aunt eyed her placidly. “They all have husbands now.”

  “Unanswerable,” Marianne returned with deceptive meekness, as she allowed a long, heartfelt sigh to escape her. “Poor Dr. Thorne.”

  “Bah! He needs a wife. It must be intolerably lowering to the spirits to spend the greater part of one’s days with sick people. He will rejoice to come home to a healthy, attractive woman who admires him. You aren’t getting any younger, Marianne. Another year or two and even Dr. Thorne would hesitate, knowing that you are well into your childbearing years. That aspect is important to men.”

  Marianne smiled mischievously. “Tell me about it, Aunt Effie.”

  “Graceless girl. Bring me my work box. And you should sew some new lace on your morning gown. You don’t want Dr. Thorne to think you a pauper.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sir Joseph Horton and his family made a stately progress from Cromwell to their town house in York, which was situated in Castlegate. Some might have been chilled by residing so close to the old castle which housed a spacious prison for forty felons, but the Hortons were of a disposition, all three, to relish the proximity of retribution on the heads of poor devils who had transgressed God’s (or at least man’s) laws. They felt somehow that their situation justified their own unusual beliefs and were wont, when visitors called, to point out the circumstance. Few of their visitors were impressed.

  In her heart of hearts, Clare Horton acknowledged that this was the season when she must capture a title for herself. At twenty, and entering her third year on the social scene in York (her parents refused adamantly to carry her off to the iniquities of London), she was in a position where she felt she must achieve her goal before the spring came and those marvelously wealthy, titled gentlemen withdrew to London. Lord Latteridge’s visit to Cromwell had encouraged her immensely, for she knew she had looked her best that day, and her best was beautiful indeed.

  Clare was positive that nowhere in the wilds of Yorkshire was there another lady to compare with her loveliness, her natural graces, her sterling character. Her limited understanding she was not aware of, but had she been, she would have found it no handicap, as gentlemen notoriously shied away from intelligent women. Nor was she aware that her two previous seasons and her growing desperation had wiped away any traces of charming innocence and inexperience which might once have clung to her from the very nature of youth. But if she was lacking in any quality (which she would never have contemplated believing), she was most certainly not deficient in determination and perseverance.

  Miss Horton was, as any lady of refinement must be, knocked up by the short journey from her home to York. Addressing her cousin Janet Sandburn with her accustomed roughness, she ordered, “Have my apricot silk gown ironed while I have a rest, Janet. If the servants are too busy settling in, take care of the matter yourself.” When her dresser murmured that she would have the matter attended to, Clare said sharply, “You are to see that the rest of my clothes are properly put away, Perkins. It’s not asking too much of Janet to see to one simple matter for me. Lord knows she’s lazy enough, forever sneaking off to read a book when she could make herself useful. "Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ Run along, Janet.” Clare, distracted by the reference to hands, regarded her own long, smooth fingers with infinite pleasure as her cousin, without a word, closed the door behind herself.

  Lady Horton’s sister had married beneath herself, a country parson with a paltry living, not to be compared with Sir Joseph’s situation. One might have thought that the Hortons would have viewed the marriage more charitably, considering the magnitude of their own religious convictions, but such was not the case. Janet Sandburn was the only child of that union, and, since her parents, being dead, could no longer feel the opprobrium as yet insufficiently vented by Sir Joseph and his lady, their daughter was the beneficiary of their continuing rancor. Of course, they would n
ot have considered abandoning the young lady to her fate, being good Christians themselves, so they had taken her in on sufferance.

  Janet had been raised in an atmosphere of loving country hospitality, where scarce a day passed by when the parsonage was not visited by several neighbors, or the family was not invited to dine at the local squire's or some other comfortable home. The shock of having first one, and then the other, of her parents die of a fever raging in the village, had not diminished before she found herself yanked from the only home she knew, to the barren wasteland of Cromwell. For some months, she had been too numb to realize the true extent of her loss, and when she did, her situation seemed hopeless. There was some money, to be sure, but it would not come to her until she married, or came of age, and Sir Joseph, as her guardian, had informed her that he would apply to the executors of her father’s estate for recompense for her room and board during the period she resided with his family. He had, in fact, insisted that until the matter was settled, Janet was to contribute thirty of the forty, pounds she received per year from the executors to offset her maintenance.

  During the first year, Janet had lived with this arrangement, but she had no intention of doing so for a second. Unfortunately, Sir Joseph, as her guardian, was sent the money and, short of resorting to legal action, Janet was unsure how she was to carry out her resolution. Another fourteen months remained until she came of age, and counting the days was no solution, though she thanked God each night that she had made it through another day and asked for strength to face the next one. She spoke only when spoken to, and then, only if she was sure that she could control her tongue. The only ray of light she had enjoyed in the entire stay at Cromwell was the.. Earl of Latteridge’s visit. And not the earl himself, but his secretary had provided her with the first laugh she had experienced in over a year. The removal of the household to York held for Janet only one benefit, and that was that she might catch a glimpse of William Vernham in the charming old walled city.

  Lost in her thoughts, Janet was startled by Perkins’s voice. “I’ll take care of the dress, Miss Sandburn. There will be several of them to touch up.”

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Perkins. Perhaps I had best see to it.”

  "No, miss,” the girl said firmly. “‘Tain’t fitting. There’s plenty of time before Miss Horton will be a-needing of it.”

  “Thank you, Perkins. I’ll be in my room; please don’t hesitate to call for me if you need my help.”

  Janet smiled and hastened to her room, realizing that part of Clare’s irritation with her stemmed from the fact that Clare’s own season in York the previous year had been cut short by the death of Janet’s parents. Clare was wont to point this out to her cousin on any given occasion as the reason several young gentlemen had not been given the opportunity to declare themselves. Lady Horton had insisted on their return to Cromwell in mourning, fearful that her acquaintances would consider her disrespectful if she failed to observe this tradition, but inwardly quite as annoyed as her daughter at the necessity. Sir Joseph had been indifferent; after all, he had the liberty of going shooting every day in his own domain, instead of sitting in smoky coffee houses; and reluctantly attending the York assemblies with a daughter who was proving inordinately difficult to get off his hands.

  The room assigned to Janet was on the second floor, though the family had their rooms on the first. Being set further apart from them did not have the desired effect on the girl, however, as she was pleased to escape from their vicinity whenever she was able. Hers was not a maid’s room, but a secondary guest room which had not been attended to in years, overlooking the street through smallish windows. Janet was delighted with it—the faded wallpaper, the ill-hanging door, and the drafty windows—because there was a charming window seat with a battered pillow which she could sit on and watch the movement in the street below. Never having spent much time in a city, she was fascinated by the strollers and riders, the occasional street vendor or ragged dog. Janet busied herself distributing her few possessions about the room, drawn time and again to the window at the clop of horses’ hooves or the cry of “Lavender!”

  Instead of bringing the mourning dresses she had been wearing for the last year, Janet had chosen from among the clothing she had brought from the parsonage. Lady Horton had frowned on her gowns these last weeks, urging her to enliven them with lace and aprons, "For I won’t have you looking like a bereaved widow when you are in York, miss. You have no call to depress everyone’s spirits with your drab dresses; it is time you forsook your mourning.”

  How Lady Horton expected Janet to enliven her mourning gowns on the dismal pittance her husband had granted the girl, Janet did not know, but she had said nothing, carefully attending to her former apparel in readiness for the trip. Now she removed the black bombazine, suitably alleviated by lace, which she had worn for the journey, and held up the pomona green striped poplin with its quilted petticoat. It caused her a moment’s sadness, remembering the last occasion on which she had worn it before her parents’ illnesses, that lovely dinner party where they had all laughed with their friends, unaware of the tragedy about to strike.

  Resolved to remember those happy times, to cling to them when she had nothing else to support her, she carefully dressed herself in the walking gown, chose a round-eared cap and set it on the scarred dressing table while she brushed out her long black hair. It might be wise, too, to loosen the severity of her hairstyle, she decided, as she regarded her reflection in the glass, the dark eyes thoughtful, the full lips rueful. No need to give Clare further opportunity for snide remarks on her resemblance to a village schoolmistress.

  Before she had quite finished, there was an imperative summons to accompany Miss Horton on her promenade. Sufficient experience had taught Janet that it was diplomatic to answer such a call promptly, and she allowed the hair to remain free, save for a small clip her father had given her, grabbed up the green cloak, and presented herself at Miss Horton’s room, where she found her cousin as yet unready to depart.

  Clare sat at the glass admiring her reflection as her dresser settled a low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat carefully on the silver-blonde tresses. The apricot gown had triple falls of lace just below her elbows, and was held wide from her body by panniers, so that Perkins had to avoid them as she came around to touch the hat into place. When she moved, Clare for the first time saw her cousin in the glass and her eyes widened. "Well, Miss Sandburn, what have we here? A new gown? Sadly out of fashion, I fear.”

  “No, it’s not new.”

  For a moment, annoyance at the surprisingly attractive sight her cousin presented contorted Clare’s features, but she had only to level her eyes on her own reflection to reassure herself that there was no comparison. With a spiteful laugh she said, “I suppose it is better than those black rags you’ve been wearing, but don’t expect anyone to pay the least heed to you.”

  “I won’t, cousin.”

  "Then let us be off.” Clare rose and pulled on long white kid gloves. “We will take the promenade by the river. That is perhaps the best way to announce my arrival in York. And we will call on Mrs. Whittaker on our return to take tea.. She can spread the word to anyone we miss."

  “Won’t you take a shawl?” Janet asked, as her cousin swept gracefully toward the door.

  “And spoil the effect of my gown? Nonsense. It is still summer, after all.”

  And indeed the sun was shining brightly, so that their walk to the river was hot and dusty, but the breeze coming from the river made the promenade cooler. At first Clare did not seem to notice, as they stopped frequently to exchange a few words with acquaintances, but when they had left one group behind, she eyed Janet’s green cloak enviously. “I feel quite chilled,” she remarked pointedly.

  “Yes, I think you would have been wise to bring a shawl. Shall we return to Castlegate?”

  Clare stamped an impatient foot. “I needn’t be cold if you would lend me your cloak.”

  Fortunately, Janet was
spared the necessity of answering her when they were overtaken by Lord Latteridge, who too late realized his mistake, having been deep in thought.

  “Miss Horton and Miss Sandburn! I had no idea you were in York already. When did you arrive?”

  “Only today, my lord,” Clare replied with a demure curtsy. “How fortuitous that we should meet so soon.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Have your mother and Lady Louisa arrived? I shall have to call on them."

  “They come next week.” Latteridge turned to Miss Sandburn. “Is this your first visit to York, ma’am?”

  Janet nodded. “It’s by far the largest city I’ve ever seen, and lovely with the old walls and posterns and gates. I understand the Minster is exceptional.”

  “Oh, it’s vast but a great deal overrated,” Clare interpolated. “Wouldn’t you say so, Lord Latteridge?”

  “Not at all. I consider it York’s finest achievement.” He noticed Clare’s shiver and remarked, “The wind is rather biting this afternoon. May I see you ladies home?”

  “Perhaps so far as Mrs. Whittaker’s in Clifford Street,” Clare suggested archly. “I must pay my respects to this month’s Queen of the Assemblies. She will want to know that I’ve arrived in town.”

  Though Latteridge strongly doubted the truth of her assertion, he politely said nothing. In fact, he found little opportunity to say anything during their walk, as Miss Horton assumed he would be interested in her plans for the coming weeks of her stay, and he was content enough to be warned. Miss Sandburn likewise was silent, but he watched her avid interest in the people and places they passed, her dark eyes alive with curiosity. When they reached Mrs. Whittaker’s imposing residence, he declined Clare’s invitation to join them, protesting that he was engaged elsewhere, but before taking leave of them he turned to Janet.