The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

  “I know where my room is!” she grumbled, but permitted her companion to lead her from the room and up the stairs, where she called from the head, “Come along, Louisa.”

  “I’ll be up in a moment, Mama.” Louisa made no attempt to move from where she stood until her mother had disappeared from view, and then she linked her arm with her brother’s. “She’s very annoyed with Sophia for succumbing to this illness, Press. She had great plans for Miss Everingham.”

  Latteridge regarded his sister’s twinkling eyes and said with suspect gravity, “Yes, I thought as much. Are you as eager as Mother to see me married, Louisa?”

  “Not to Sophia Everingham! In fact, not at all, unless you are so inclined, my dear.”

  “I went to visit a number of county families once Mother put the idea in my head,” he confessed as he seated her in the library. “A glass of wine?”

  "Thank you, no. Who did you visit?”

  “Haxby, Condicote, Winscombe, Tremaine, and Horton.”

  Louisa gave a gurgle of laughter. “Poor Press. Were you aux anges with Sarah Winscombe?”

  “I’d forgotten what you told me of her fan trick,” he retorted mournfully, “but it is Clare Horton you will have to contend with. She’s come to town.”

  “Oh, Press, how could you? Well, it will do her not the least good to flutter her devout eyes in Mama’s presence; Mama cannot abide her.”

  “You relieve me.” For a long moment he was silent, his eyes abstracted, as he regarded the elegantly wrought standish on his desk. “Louisa, does the name Marianne Findlay mean anything to you?”

  “Lord, yes.” The girl stared at him wonderingly for a moment. “Susan was so wretched over the whole affair. I was very young at the time, but she confided the entire story to me in her distress, and over the years she has recalled the name in her letters, always saying she could not discover what had become of her friend. I’m surprised you should ask; you were abroad when it all happened.”

  “She lives next door.”

  “Here? Have you met her? Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes, I wrote to Susan and had her answer a few days ago. Miss Findlay’s father has obviously abandoned her and she lives with an aunt, Miss Effington. In order to make ends meet, she takes lodgers. I’ve been riding with her.”

  “Have you?” This simple statement seemed of no little interest to Louisa, and her bright eyes scanned his handsome face searching for further enlightenment. “I remember her, you know. What would I have been—ten? She was very kind to me and once brought a little doll for my collection. Will you take me to see her?”

  “Certainly, but I would prefer Mother didn’t know of her presence unless it’s unavoidable. Our esteemed parent is unlikely to reverse her previous position, and I feel that Miss Findlay has suffered quite enough at her hands.”

  “Indeed yes.” Louisa rose and brushed out her crumpled skirts, not meeting his eyes. “Do you like her, Press?”

  “Yes, my dear, I do. Bear in mind, though, that in spite of her generous attitude toward Harry and me, she has suffered a great injustice from our family. And her aunt,” he said dryly, “never forgets for a moment.”

  * * * *

  Aunt Effie had been gratified when Dr. Thorne called. The romance, she felt, was progressing well, when one considered that Dr. Thorne was a busy medical practitioner and could not call every day. Feeling that she could not, with propriety, withdraw and leave the young people alone, she nonetheless dropped out of their conversation and pointedly busied herself with the fringe she was knotting. The intrusion of Mr. Vernham and Miss Sandburn was, in her opinion, superfluous and uncomfortable; there were not enough chairs. Their guests seemed unaware of any awkwardness, and Miss Effington had at last decided that the best approach was to hurry them off as soon as possible, when the Earl of Latteridge and Lady Louisa Derwent were announced. She fixed them with glowering eyes.

  Having a room full of standing guests was not Marianne’s idea of a proper way to entertain, but she had sent Roberts in search of chairs from the bedrooms, and she was enchanted to see Lady Louisa grown from a child into a young woman. “How kind of you to call, Lady Louisa! I think I would have known you on the street, but there is a vast change in eight years.”

  Louisa approached with outstretched hands and clasped Marianne’s warmly. “When Press told me you were living here, I could hardly believe my good fortune, Miss Findlay. I have not forgotten your goodness to me when I was but a child.”

  “I remember the time you stomped into the back parlor wearing Lady Susan’s finest hat and announced you were the Princess of Ackton Towers, and nothing would do but for us to address you as ‘Your Highness’ for the whole of the afternoon.” Marianne laughed. “Let me introduce you to my aunt and our friends.”

  Though Miss Effington was disarmed by Lady Louisa’s youthful spirits and almost shy acceptance of the introduction, the old lady was ever-mindful that this was yet another Derwent of whom to be wary, and her greeting was gruff. And not even Marianne’s admonitory shake of the head could make her more than civil to Lord Latteridge, who accepted her brusqueness with equanimity. As Roberts brought in more chairs, Lady Louisa was seated beside Janet, with Dr. Thorne standing at her side. Latteridge was making polite conversation with Miss Horton’s cousin, and Louisa fell into a discussion with the cheerful medical man.

  “How did you choose to practice in York, Dr. Thorne?” she asked, ever inquisitive as to people’s motives.

  “I was raised near Good. London is fascinating but overrun with the products of their medical training, who are forever scratching at one another to get ahead in their profession. York has more need of practitioners and there’s not such rugged competition.” His grin lit the cherub face with self-mockery. “I enjoy being prominent as well as the next man, and it is a great deal easier to do here than in London.”

  “When I was in London as a child I loved the continual racket—everyone ringing bells and hawking ribbons and hot pies, fresh spring water and quack medicines. I bought a charm from an old crone who promised that it would make me the most beautiful woman in the world if I wore it around my neck for five years.” She giggled. “It fell apart after five days!”

  “Nonetheless, it seems to have worked,” he teased, meeting the gray eyes with appreciation, but instantly turning the subject. "Have you been to the theater or the Assembly Rooms?”

  “Not yet; we’ve only just arrived. Years ago I went to see a pantomime at the theater here, but everyone took to singing ‘God Save the King,’ and we missed the farce entirely. I was frightfully disappointed.”

  Dr. Thorne grinned at her. “That’s nothing. When I was in London at St. George’s, we made a party to go to the Haymarket Theater one evening, being the going-away party for a young surgeon who had joined the navy, Mr. Thomas Denman. Unfortunately, we had all drunk deep at the Devil Tavern beforehand, and the tragedy was most appalling, where an uncle killed his niece in the very first act. One gentleman of our party cried stoutly for the watch, when the uncle hired a highwayman to kill the niece’s gentleman friend, and in leaning over the box, my friend’s wig slipped onto the stage. The audience glared on us, but the fellow merely wrapped the curtain about his head and went to sleep. Alas, when he woke he took someone’s cane to fetch the wig, his head being chilly, you see, but as luck would have it, he accidentally caught the ghost’s robe and it fell off. The little actress who played the ghost was dressed only in a shift and the common folk and gentry made quite a whooping.”

  “You’re quizzing me,” Louisa protested, her eyes dancing.

  “Not a bit. The highwayman was furious, and crossed the stage to shake his fist at my friend, who rose to make a leg and apologize to the actress, but being foxed, he pitched right onto the stage and the highwayman caught him on the seat of his breeches and tossed him into the orchestra where he broke a cello and a fiddle. Another friend, St. Clair, haloos and jumps onto the stage to fight the highwayman, giving him suc
h a blow that he crashed into the scenery and brought the moon down—it being only a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Then everything became confusion."

  “I don’t wonder,” Louisa murmured.

  “Blumenfield popped onto the stage to comfort the actress and she scratched him; the audience set upon us, though the gentry rose in our defense, having to do battle not only with the actors, but the carpenters and workmen of the theater. The fellow who started it all retrieved his wig and fought back with the broken cello, but we were all eventually landed in the gutter outside the theater.”

  Dr. Thorne finished his tale to the delight of the whole company (not least Miss Effington), who had all turned their attention to him when Lady Louisa had succumbed to giggles. "And did your friend get to the navy after all the excitement?” she inquired in an unsteady voice.

  "Lord, yes. After all the gruesome sights we saw, that was but a bit of letting go.'

  “What sort of things did you see?”

  Dr. Thorne shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other; he could not very well tell her of the grisly amputations and the long hours of dissections. “Working in the hospitals is rather harrowing.”

  “Yes,” Louisa said thoughtfully, “I can see that it would be.” She could also see that several eyes were on her, alarmed that she would pursue her line of questioning, so she pulled the discussion back to the York Theater, determined that in the future, she would question Dr. Thorne further when she was not in a position to upset a group of people by his, hopefully frank, answers.

  Meanwhile, the earl had managed to gain Miss Findlay’s attention, noting that the new bellpull with its center of enameled roses, apparently was complete. “Is the system working?”

  Marianne bit her lip to stifle the chuckle which bubbled in her. “Well, after a fashion, my lord. We were to test it last evening, and sure enough, when I pulled it Roberts appeared. Unfortunately, Mr. Geddes had planned to test it at just the same moment and Beth answered his call. But there was a crossover of wires to the bell board, so that it was Mr. Oldham’s bell which showed, and when Beth went in response, without knocking of course, she found him . .. ah . . . quite unprepared for her entrance.” Marianne’s eyes danced wickedly. “I’m afraid Mr. Oldham may not stay here long.”

  “Very embarrassing, I’m sure,” he agreed solemnly. “And such a pity, with the dual enticements of a baronet and an earl next door.”

  “He is sadly torn,” she admitted, thinking of Mr. Oldham’s blustering fury, tempered by his profuse protestations that he did not hold her to blame. Beth had stood giggling in the lower hall, whispering to Roberts that Mr. Oldham wore pads on his calves to give his spindly legs the proper appearance in his elegant clocked stockings, and Mr. Geddes, all apologies, had attempted to placate his neighbor by interesting him in one of his clever walking sticks. Aunt Effie muttered of newfangled contraptions, and Mr. Oldham, through it all, attempted to maintain his dignity so that Miss Findlay would recognize what a worthy man he was, though he had the most dire suspicions that the maid would inform her employer about his calf pads. All in all, it had been a very entertaining evening.

  “And is the bell system sorted out now?” Latteridge asked.

  “I hope so. It’s a simple system for us, only the three rooms connected to the board. I’m sure Mr. Geddes would like to try a more expansive setup, but ours is not the house in which to do it, I think.” She regarded him questioningly.

  A faint smile touched his lips and made his subsequent sigh not quite martyred enough. “We have his self-propelling turnspit, I suppose we might invest in a bellpull system as well. Can I meet this ingenious young man? Harry seems to feel he has a brilliant. career ahead of him."

  Marianne stepped to the fireplace and pulled the lever before answering him. “Roberts can tell us if he’s in his rooms. I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet you. Having such a system is remarkably useful, you know. One needn’t have footmen stationed all over the house listening for the tinkling of bells from obscure little rooms.”

  “Actually, we haven’t any obscure little rooms; they are all obscure large rooms,” he complained, taking a watch from his pocket. “Shall I see how quickly he answers?”

  But Roberts was already entering the room, and Marianne threw the earl an “I told you so” look before addressing the footman. “Is Mr. Geddes at home?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Would you ask if he could join us here?”

  When the footman had disappeared, Latteridge pointed out his other objection. “I have already had to find other work for the skipjack; he is to be Louisa’s page. What am I to do with a lot of useless footmen?”

  “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. We are so understaffed that the system simply makes things easier for our people. Forgive me for pressing the matter, my lord. I have no wish to see your footmen lose their employment.” Despite the stab of guilt Marianne suffered, she could not resist adding just one observation. “I should think, though, that footmen who simply wait about in the halls without any other duties would be bored to death.”

  “We try to vary the men at their posts. Mornings polishing silver, or delivering messages, afternoons waiting in halls. That sort of thing.”

  “I see. Well, we needn’t mention the bell system to Mr. Geddes. Perhaps you could find something kind to say about the turnspit.” Her voice was questioning, and once again she felt paralyzed under his intent gray eyes.

  “The cook is more than satisfied with it, and delighted not to have a mischievous little boy underfoot. I’m sure . . ."

  He broke off when Roberts held the door for Mr. Geddes, his wig slightly askew as always and rather nonplussed to find so many people in the drawing room. Marianne beckoned him with a smile and presented the earl, who, to her astonishment, not only praised the turnspit, but inquired as to the possibility of Mr. Geddes devising a bellpull system for his house. The inventor waxed enthusiastic about the potential savings for such a large establishment, and the earl made no demur. There was even a hint that if the operation was successful in Micklegate, Ackton Towers might profit from a similar installation. Marianne watched bemusedly as the young man departed, intoxicated by the instant success of his scheme so that he seemed not to notice the curious glances of the other people in the room; it was unlikely that he remembered the presence of others at all.

  Latteridge touched Marianne’s hand to regain her attention. “Will you ride with me tomorrow?”

  "But . . . but Lady Louisa is here to ride her mare.”

  “I’m sure we have sufficient horses to mount both of you. Will you ride with me?”

  It was curiously difficult to think of any reason to refuse him. “Yes, thank you. I should like that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although the earl had left his card at the Hortons’ house in Castlegate one morning while Clare and her mother were out shopping, he had not been again to call on them, and Clare was struggling with fits of jealousy because her cousin had several times been escorted on a walk by Mr. Vernham. She was also vaguely suspicious about the timing of the earl’s call, as she had herself caught a glimpse of him in Coney Street while they were out, and felt he might have known that they could not possibly have been back in Castlegate by eleven o’clock when the footman, interrogated, had said he made his visit. Nonetheless, the very fact that he had left his card gave her the opportunity, she felt, to pay a return visit, when his mother and sister were in town, of course. So she waylaid Janet on her return from her walk with Mr. Vernham, determined to find out precisely when the Dowager was to arrive.

  “Why, they came to town yesterday,” Janet admitted.

  “Did Mr. Vernham tell you so?”

  “He said they were here and then I met Lady Louisa.”

  “You met Lady Louisa?” Clare almost squeaked. “Where?”

  “At Miss Findlay’s home.” Janet was not at all sure she wished to impart the information, but it was awkward to avoid her persistent co
usin’s questions.

  "And just who is Miss Findlay?”

  “A neighbor of Lord Latteridge’s.”

  Clare raised a haughty brow. "I have never heard of her. Is she an old lady?”

  “No, though she is some years older than I.”

  A horrid suspicion that the earl might be interested in someone else crossed Clare’s mind. “Was Lord Latteridge with his sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his mother?”

  “No, just the two of them.”

  “It is high time Mama and I called on Lady Latteridge if she has been in town two days. How remiss she will think us! You should have told me sooner.”

  “I didn’t know,” Janet said softly.

  It was obvious from Clare’s cold stare that she did not believe her cousin, and she had a good mind to urge Lady Horton to disallow Janet’s excursions with Mr. Vernham, but prudence restrained her. Lord Latteridge might take offense, and Clare wanted nothing less. Her mother, although sympathetic to her desire to visit Lady Louisa as soon as possible, protested fatigue, and promised to accompany her daughter the very next day. Janet was not invited to accompany them.

  For the occasion, Clare had her hair dressed à la Pompadour, and wore a white satin gown with muslin puffs and muslin full-hanging sleeves, a white bead stomacher, and a white satin hat with feathers. Satisfied that she looked the picture of sophisticated innocence, she pinned a ruby-colored rose bud on her gown to add just the right touch of seductive appeal, for it was her firm conviction that although men admired freshness above all else, they liked the illusion of passion only slightly less. Lady Horton was almost as pleased with the results as Clare herself, and it was the greatest possible disappointment to both of them to find that Lord Latteridge was not at home with his mother and sister.

  As Louisa had told her brother, Lady Latteridge did not like Clare Horton. That might, in fact, be a mild way to state her feelings toward the girl, whom Madame Lefevre had heard her refer to on one occasion as “that prissy hypocrite,” but the Dowager was conscious of the necessity of receiving at least one call from the Hortons, and felt she might as well endure it now as later. Given sufficient opportunity, she could easily wound the sensibilities of both mother and daughter so that they dared not enter her sanctum again, a plan she was considering when Clare, with a forced laugh (she had been practicing), brought the visit to a climax when it had hardly begun.