“I believe Mr. Vernham has looked up that book he mentioned to you, Miss Sandburn. Shall I tell him that he may call in person with it?”
“Why, yes, that would be very kind of him, my lord,” she replied without a trace of confusion, though for the life of her, she could not remember haying discussed any books with the earl’s secretary. As her cousin mounted the steps, she impulsively held out her hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Latteridge clasped it firmly and said, “Not at all. Shall we say a book of Thomson’s poetry?”
“That I am to borrow?” And she quickly followed her cousin into the house.
* * * *
Latteridge’s study, relieved of its excess chairs and pipe racks, but retaining the bronzes, books, and prints, had a less cluttered air, but the earl surveyed it with little satisfaction. Bringing some order to it had not relieved it of the stale aura which clung like old pipe smoke. There remained no imprint of his own. He stood with his shoulders propped against the mantelpiece, one leg crossed over the other, the gray eyes languidly thoughtful. Somehow he could not interest himself in his study.
There was a discreet tap on the door, and he bade his secretary enter. “Ah, William. I wanted to let you know that I had the . . . ah . . . pleasure of encountering Miss Horton today. They have just arrived in York. Miss Sandburn accompanies them, and I told her you would want to bring around the book of Thomson’s poetry you had mentioned to her.”
“Did I mention any particular volume?” William asked, fascinated.
“I don’t believe so. She didn’t mention it.”
“Perhaps over a period of time I could take her several.”
“An admirable idea,” Latteridge agreed, as he drew a gold snuffbox from his pocket. “It occurs to me, William, that Miss Sandburn might welcome a friend outside Miss Horton’s circle. There could be some advantage to making her known to Miss Findlay, if that were possible.”
“Some advantage for whom?” William wondered, as he watched the earl absently take snuff
“For all involved, but most especially Miss Sandburn herself. When I came upon the two ladies, Miss Horton was exhorting her cousin to lend her her cloak, having been remiss in providing herself with sufficient cover. I don’t believe Miss Sandburn is accustomed to such conduct, and is in no position to protect herself from it. Perhaps Miss Findlay could provide some much-needed encouragement.” Latteridge fixed his secretary with a baleful eye. “I am not only thinking of myself, or of you, my dear fellow.”
William grinned. “I’m sure I never suggested such a thing, sir.”
The earl’s brother poked his head in at the door to say, “I’m off, Press. Shan’t be back for at least a week, I dare say.”
“We’re expecting Mother next Tuesday, Harry.”
“Shouldn’t think she’d miss me if I’m not back by then,” his brother retorted. “I’ve been angling for this invitation for days, Press. To Hall’s castle, you know. Really great sport there.”
“So I’ve heard,” Latteridge said dampingly, as his brother waved a hand and disappeared.
* * * *
On the first opportunity after Miss Effington’s recovery from her illness, Mr. Oldham, attorney to the great and near-great (by his own acclamation), visited aunt and niece in their living room. Although Mr. Oldham had already decided that Miss Effington would not fit into their household after they were married, he was excessively polite to the old lady.
He set down his teacup and said, “Your niece and I very nearly despaired of you, ma’am. And now here you sit in the pink of health again like the old days. Hardly to be credited in one your age, a most remarkable constitution you have. And a great deal is owing to the young doctor, of course. We gentlemen in the professions must stand by one another.” His laugh, fortunately not a frequent occurrence, was a high peal, very piercing to the ear.
Aunt Effie snorted, and her niece considered setting fire to the chair on which he sat. “My aunt does not sit up late,” she said, with a pointed glance at the case clock in the corner, “owing to her recent illness.”
“No, no, of course not. Don’t let me detain you, ma’am! I shall be content to keep your niece company.” This was a very encouraging sign from Miss Findlay, and one he had not been given any reason to expect, though he now clearly saw signs of her previous indications—the manner in which she had offered the chair, the way her eyes met his, her obvious appreciation of his kindness to her aunt. These older unmarried ladies were quick to grab at their few remaining chances, he decided with a complacent smile.
There was a spluttering sound from the sofa. “My niece does not sit alone without me! When I leave, she leaves—and I am leaving now!” The old lady struggled with her shawl, which had become entangled on the carved medallion atop the sofa back, and lurched to her feet. “Come, Marianne. Mr. Oldham will excuse us.”
Mr. Oldham regarded Marianne’s apologetic smile as the most encouraging sign yet.
Chapter Ten
William Vernham was coolly received by Lady Horton and her daughter. He made it known that his visit was to Miss Sandburn and signified no reflected glory from his employer on either of the ladies of the family. Finding the Thomson volume had presented no problem, compared with delivering it. Lady Horton and her daughter were seated in the back parlor, and made no immediate attempt to have Miss Sandburn sent for. Instead, they took turns questioning him.
“Does the earl intend to spend the entire season in York?” asked Lady Horton.
“He has not indicated his intentions, ma’am.”
“Well, you must know if he plans to travel outside the county,” Clare insisted.
“Not necessarily. Lord Latteridge does not, of course, consult me on when and where he chooses to go.”
“I have heard it said,” Lady Horton mused archly, “that the earls of Latteridge are the wealthiest nobility in England. Of course there are the settlements on each of the children, and on the Dowager now, but still . . . There must be any number of families who would welcome a connection with him.”
William made no comment.
“I don’t believe Lord Latteridge mentioned what day his mother and sister were to arrive,” Clare remarked. “I should like to call on them as soon as may be.”
“I understand they will be here shortly.”
Such laconic replies with their lack of sought-after information eventually discouraged Lady Horton and her daughter, so that Janet was reluctantly summoned and shortly appeared. Her simple amber sack dress may have borne little resemblance to the rich and modish gowns of the Hortons, but William was as charmed by it as by her warm welcome.
“Mr. Vernham. How kind of you to call, and to have remembered the volume we discussed. And here I had completely forgotten it.” Her laughing eyes met his briefly, before she turned to Lady Horton. “Are you familiar with Mr. Thomson’s work, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe I am,” was the cold reply.
“This one I am not acquainted with, but his Castle of Indolence is an allegory written in the stanza and style of Spenser.” Janet belabored the technicalities of Mr. Thomson’s writing until Clare fled the room and Lady Horton withdrew to her embroidery. Her eyes full of innocent distress, she turned to William and said, “I hope I am not boring you, Mr. Vernham.”
“Not at all, Miss Sandburn. I should like to point out to you some differences in style between this volume and Castle of Indolence, before you read it, so that you may particularly notice them.” He made a pretense of noting Lady Horton’s wearied countenance for the first time. “But we are distracting my lady from her work. Perhaps you would care to walk with me while we talk? The weather is glorious, and we might benefit from the exercise.” William turned a charming smile on Lady Horton who, for all her apparent disinterest, had heard every word. “Would that meet with your approval, Lady Horton? My walking with Miss Sandburn?”
Lady Horton was torn. It seemed unlikely she would glean any information about Latteridge from th
eir dull discussion of poetry, and yet she was reluctant to see her niece the first of the two young ladies asked to walk out. On the other hand, it would not do to offend the earl by seeming to object to his secretary’s companionship for Janet. To deny Mr. Vernham’s request would be tantamount to impugning his character; there was no harm in a midday stroll in York. “Very well,” she said grudgingly, “but have her back in good time.”
The two escaped the house like truant schoolchildren, breathing an amused chuckle as the front door closed behind them. William tucked the book under his arm and asked, “Shall we walk toward Micklegate? There is a lady there, a Miss Findlay, whom I thought to introduce to you, if you would care to meet her. I let her know I might bring you, if I could spirit you away from Castlegate.”
Janet was slightly disappointed that she would not have a chance to spend the time alone with him, but agreed. “Does she share your passion for Thomson’s poetry?”
“I haven’t any idea,” he admitted. “She’s a neighbor of Lord Latteridge’s, and a delightful woman, with a sharp-tongued aunt and two eccentric lodgers.” William regarded her quizzingly. “Perhaps not the sort of household into which you would wish to be introduced?”
“Quite the contrary,” Janet replied. “You intrigue me.” And though this was perfectly true, she determined to school her thoughts more closely, as they had a tendency to bound away from her when she was with him. And that was foolishness. He was a kind gentleman who recognized her discomfort in the Horton household, who had taken special care to talk with her when the earl had visited Cromwell, and now again was thoughtfully providing her with an outing to meet his friend—a lady. She must guard herself against even the smallest expectation or hope bred out of her misery at the Hortons. In fourteen months, she would be free, and until then, surely she could be patient.
Unaware of her thoughts, William proceeded to draw her out on her youth, and allowed her to question him on his travels, pleased with her evident enjoyment of his anecdotes and disturbed by the contrast between her present situation and the life she had known. “This is Miss Findlay’s, and I live next door with the earl.”
He tapped the polished knocker and Roberts showed them directly into the drawing room, where Marianne and her aunt awaited them, a newly renovated chair providing the necessary seating. A faint odor of furniture wax clung to the air.
Janet found herself easily accepted by Miss Findlay, and keenly regarded by Miss Effington, the moment she disclosed the parish near Bury St. Edmund where her father had been rector. The old lady actually dug her spectacles from the folds of her neck handkerchief and put them on. “Your village cannot have been a dozen miles from Long Mellford where I was raised. Do you know Willow Hall?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. The Conway family live there now, and they are great friends of our squire, Mr. Drummond. Mrs. Drummond took me there once, to go over the house and ground when the family was not in residence.”
"That was my father’s house,” Miss Effington said, her voice unsteady. “Is it . . . Is everything in good order there?”
“Indeed it is. Mrs. Drummond and I thought it the finest house we saw, and we visited Mellford Hall and Kentwell Hall as well. The Conways take great pride in maintaining such a noble old building, and the grounds are delightful, especially in the summer.” Janet dug in her memory for some special impression of the visit which might be meaningful to Miss Effington. “I remember standing in the schoolroom looking out the latticed windows at a most magnificent willow tree, all lacy in the afternoon sunlight.”
Under that willow tree, Miss Effington had made her farewell to John Deighton, and there was a suspicion of moisture about her eyes as she murmured, “How lovely to think it is still there, that neither time nor tempest has brought it down. You wouldn’t know any of the neighbors, of course."
“I fear not, ma’am. We met the rector at the village church, and he showed us over the rectory, but I don’t believe he had been there very many years."
Marianne was watching her aunt’s face, and knew that she wished to ask about her gentleman-farmer, but realized it was useless. Instead, the old lady said, “My parents are buried in the churchyard there.”
Although the conversation drifted onto different topics, Marianne could see that her aunt’s mind was still in Long Mellford, and she took Janet aside just before she left. “I hope you will come again, Miss Sandburn, anytime. Would it be rude of me to inquire if you correspond with your squire’s wife?”
“Of course not,” Janet replied, surprised. “I do, regularly.”
“My aunt has lost touch with a former friend near Long Mellford, a Mr. John Deighton. I wonder . . ."
If Marianne hesitated to ask, Janet did not hesitate to offer. “I will be writing Mrs. Drummond soon, and I shall ask if she will inquire of him from Mrs. Conway. How nice if we could supply her with some news.”
“Well,” Marianne laughed, “she would snap my nose off if she thought I’d asked, but I know she’s curious as to how he goes on. Thank you.”
As William and Janet walked back to Castlegate, she said, “I thought Miss Effington a dear. Why did you say she was sharp-tongued?”
“She usually is. You disarmed her by coming from Suffolk. What did you think of Miss Findlay?”
The question was innocent enough, but Janet read significance into it and tried to answer carefully. “I liked her. She’s warm and frank and very good-natured.”
“Yes,” William mused, “and a handsome woman, with no lack of spirit or intelligence.” He grinned at Janet. “Shall I tell you what she said to Sir Reginald Barrett?”
“Please do.” Although she felt disheartened at his dwelling on Miss Findlay, she could not resist laughing at the story of the gold buttons. “I don’t suppose he was pleased.”
“Far from it.” His expression became serious. “He has said some insinuating things about her to Lord Latteridge in his pique. They have no foundation, of course, but in his own fertile mind, and I trust he has not imparted his scurrilous tales to anyone else. I would not have taken you there if I thought there was a shred of truth in them.”
"Anyone can see Miss Findlay leads a perfectly blameless life,” Janet responded indignantly.
“Sir Reginald is offended that she takes lodgers. Micklegate is not, to his mind, the proper place for aught but family town houses of irreproachable dignity. When Harry Derwent, Lord Latteridge’s brother, called on her during her aunt’s illness, Sir Reginald put an unsavory connotation on the visits.”
“I see.” While she appreciated the unhappy position in which this put Miss Findlay, Janet saw clearly that it did Miss Findlay no good to have gentleman callers, and if Mr. Vernham wished to visit, it was wise for him to have a female companion. She bit her lip and said with determination, “I shall call on her frequently.”
Startled, William broke his leisurely stride. “You mustn’t think I told you this to incite your compassion, Miss Sandburn! Miss Findlay doesn’t even know of Sir Reginald’s slurs, and I doubt she would pay him any heed. But I thought you should know the situation; perhaps I should have told you before I took you.”
“Nonsense. My parents were very firm about not listening to malicious gossip, Mr. Vernham. I like Miss Findlay and, when I can get away from Castlegate, I shall visit her.”
“Let me be your escort,” he begged, a light dancing in his eyes. “Lady Horton may not have a footman or maid to spare for accompanying you, and it would give me the greatest pleasure.”
Disturbed by the smile he bestowed on her, Janet dropped her eyes from his. “Thank you. I shall look forward to seeing Miss Findlay again.”
“And me?” William asked gravely.
Janet allowed herself to glance at him, and smile. “Of course, Mr. Vernham.”
* * * *
Marianne and her aunt were forced to suffer a visit from Mr. Oldham every evening at teatime. These visits were short, as Miss Effington could not tolerate him, and soon insisted that they were
retiring, but on this evening after Miss Sandburn’s call, Aunt Effie was deep in reminiscences of Willow Hall, and Mr. Oldham’s droning attorney’s voice soon lulled her to sleep, dreaming pleasantly of those long-gone days of her courtship. No better opportunity was likely to present itself, and Mr. Oldham prided himself on always acting at the first knock of opportunity—not waiting for the second or third pounding, which any fool could recognize. He was instantly at Marianne’s side reaching for her hand.
“Sit down, Mr. Oldham," she said sharply, refusing to yield so much as a finger to his clasp.
“But we have matters of great moment to discuss, my dear Miss Findlay,” he protested in an urgent whisper. Although he desisted in his attempt to gain her hand, he did not move from her side.
“I cannot imagine what they might be.”
“Can you not?” He raised a coy eyebrow.
“Sit down, if you please.”
Mr. Oldham had heard that women were exceptionally nervous when being offered for (he had no personal experience), and he grudgingly took his chair, balancing himself on the edge of it, so that by leaning forward, he might be as close to her as possible. “I believe you are aware of my position in York, of my industry in adding to my personal substance, of my genteel background. Perhaps you are unaware,” here his features contorted into something resembling a smirk, “of my admiration of yourself, though I have, in my own humble way, attempted to indicate the depth of my emotions. You are, in every way, a suitable wife for a man such as I—attractive, well-bred, capable of running a household, aware of the value of money, as well-read as most women of your station, and, even if this house is your only dowry, I am not such a small man as to quibble at its meagerness.”
Marianne regarded him with astonishment, rapidly turning to annoyance, which she attempted to hide from his fatuous gaze only out of inherent politeness. “You honor me with such a proposal, Mr. Oldham, but I . . ."
The Lady Next Door Page 10