The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

  “I should think it made a great deal of difference. Did Sir Edward, or did he not, profess to have taken part in a plan to have his daughter abducted by her cousin?”

  “So Charles said; he was livid.”

  “And so should you have been, Mother. Instead of the treatment you accorded the girl, in all humanity you should have helped her through such a trying evening. She was, after all, Susan’s friend.”

  Lady Latteridge’s nostrils flared. “You never saw Selby with her! They had a thousand little familiarities. She knew how he took his tea, what he thought of Pelham and Pitt, Halifax and Bedford, what his tutor’s name was, where he’d traveled on the continent. Susan knew nothing! All she could do was watch him with big sheep’s eyes and listen to him talk, enthralled. Miss Findlay was entirely at ease with him; Susan went red whenever he entered a room. Now I ask you, Pressington, which of the two was he the more likely to wish to marry—inane little Susan, or the self-possessed Miss Findlay?”

  “As I understand it, Mother, he had already expressed his intention of marrying Susan.”

  “But it wasn’t announced! And Susan would have done anything for Miss Findlay, even renounce Selby’s suit.”

  “You are being absurd. If she were that much in love with him, no influence of Miss Findlay’s would have swayed her. Miss Findlay and Selby had grown up together. If they had wanted to marry, I’m sure they would have done so.” Latteridge regarded his mother with a sorrowful shake of his head. “You saw bogeymen where none existed, Mother.”

  “None of that is to the point,” she snapped. “Miss Findlay had the nerve to attend a ball where everyone knew of her damaged reputation. What unmitigated gall! And the first thing she did when she entered the room was look to Susan to champion her. I saw it at once and put a stop to it! The daughter of an earl does not associate with a strumpet!”

  “A strumpet,” mused the earl, remembering the words Miss Findlay had used but a short time previously. “A poor girl abducted, possibly raped, and you call her a strumpet.” For a moment he stared out the window into the sun-baked street, oblivious to the passersby. All his life he had considered his mother cantankerous: frequently rude, always haughty, often irrational, occasionally malicious. He had found extenuating circumstances; somehow in this particular case, for whatever reason, he could not. To play God in someone’s life, to wantonly destroy it, was something he could not, would not, understand. “Louisa may see Miss Findlay whenever she pleases. If you attempt in any way to hinder her, I will send you back to Ackton Towers.”

  Lady Latteridge watched incredulously as, with a nod, he paced to the door and turned the knob. Her voice was shrill when she called, “You forget, Pressington, that once a lady’s reputation is shattered, she has nowhere to turn but to a life of degradation. I have not the least doubt that during these last eight years she has been the kept mistress of any number of men.”

  “Haven’t you, Mother?” The normally kindly eyes were filled with bitter reproach. “Is that what you would like to have seen become of Miss Findlay? I’m sorry to disappoint you. She lives next door with her Aunt Effington and takes lodgers because her father has disowned her. Do you know Miss Effington, Mother? I think you must. She has lived with her niece since you and her father and her cousin ruined her. I doubt anyone with even the smallest intention of attempting Miss Findlay’s virtue would get past Miss Effington.” Instead of leaving then as he had intended, the earl leaned against the panels of the door and held his mother’s eyes by sheer force of will.

  “Do you know what distresses me almost as much as what you did to Miss Findlay, Mother? It was your lack of faith in Susan. She was your own daughter and you didn’t believe in her merit enough to see that she had indeed won the heart of the man she loved. Under your watchful, disapproving eyes, small wonder that she appeared awkward compared to Miss Findlay. Far from being ‘empty-headed,’ Susan is an exquisitely accomplished, gracious, intelligent woman. Can you not see your actions for what they were? You were jealous that Miss Findlay appeared to outshine your daughter—surely a sin for which she could never be forgiven in your eyes. Don’t play the same tricks with Louisa, Mother. She, too, has infinite charm which you may be unable to perceive, but unfortunately, I doubt she will be as harassed by your disapprobation. Susan was more compliant, I imagine, feeling it your due. Louisa has seen too much, I fear, to feel the same.”

  Now at last he opened the door, aware that his mother had no intention of acknowledging what he had said, but one further matter occurred to him. “Did you actually keep a letter of Susan’s from going to Miss Findlay, and destroy one from Miss Findlay to her?”

  His mother’s eyes dropped before his, but she did not answer, and he carefully closed the door behind him, only to find Louisa wide-eyed in the hall. “Come, we’ll discuss this in the library.”

  * * * *

  As though the meltingly hot day had been a last gasp of summer, the weather turned cooler, the haze of heat became the sharply clear air of autumn, and the shortening days took on a timeless quality which made them, if not precious, at least treasured by certain of those assembled in York for the company. Lady Latteridge’s uneasiness over her son’s disgust with her was meliorated by being nominated to succeed Mrs. Whittaker as Queen of the Assemblies, a position she regarded as fitting, and from which she could rule polite society for the month’s span, not perhaps as powerfully as she had in the old days in London, but quite enough to keep her own family in line, surely. She was not the least interested in William Vernham’s continued attentions to Janet Sandburn, since she considered both of them quite beneath her notice. Nor would she have paid the least attention to Clare Horton, had she not been aware that the young lady managed to pass on the information she had received about Miss Findlay to Sir Reginald and others of her set, a circumstance which, perversely, Lady Latteridge considered as vindicating her own views.

  The Dowager prided herself on her network of information-gatherers, and she was aware each time her daughter Louisa visited Miss Findlay’s house, and it was seldom less than three times a week. Although she realized that these visits in themselves constituted a strengthening of respectability for the woman, they were not the cause of her greatest anxiety on that front. It also came to her ears that the earl frequently rode out with Miss Findlay, and had once even been persuaded to dine there with his sister. Lady Latteridge congratulated herself, however, as each assembly came and went, that Miss Findlay did not appear, though it would have given her even greater satisfaction to have snubbed her once again. She was not as yet convinced that her son would make any move against such a repetition of her former mischief.

  What the Dowager was not aware of, was the company into which her son and daughter went when they entered Miss Findlay’s house. It had not occurred to her to inquire as to who else called there regularly and even if it had, she would not have drawn the least suspicion from the list of other visitors: Janet Sandburn, William Vernham, Dr. Thorne, various members of the Whixley family, the two lodgers. Exhortations from the Hortons had not deterred Janet from her growing friendship with Miss Effington and her niece; threats of discontinuing her allowance, since it had not arrived, were useless. If the earl and his sister visited the Micklegate house, Janet told them placidly, she saw no reason why she should not, pointing out that any rumors about Miss Findlay were obviously unfounded. And since Clare had her moments of glory at each assembly, where her beauty attracted the unsuspecting to her side, she was too preoccupied with capitalizing on her advantage to pay much heed to her undistinguished cousin. After all, who but Mr. Vernham stood up with Janet? Only a few doddering clerics and uninteresting (untitled) gentlemen. Clare was intent on snaring the earl, to be sure, but she reasoned that her best plan of action was displaying how incredibly in demand she was. Had she not, at the last assembly, been engaged for every set? Even Lady Louisa could not claim such a triumph.

  And it was perfectly true that Louisa had sat out two dances. Not, as
Clare believed, because her hand had not been solicited for them, but because she chose to do so. Lady Latteridge, magnificently attending to her duties as Queen of-the Assemblies, yet paid a great deal of attention to Louisa’s dancing partners. She did not, however, bother to ascertain with whom she adjourned to the Refreshment Room for hearte cakes and orange chips. While the flute, hautbois and viola da gamba resounded in a minuet or the York Maggot, she promenaded about the Egyptian-style hall with its crimson damask seats just as though it were her own ballroom at Ackton Towers. The rooms were crowded, not with the entire four or five hundred subscribers, but still intoxicatingly full of the aristocracy and gentry of the county, and Lady Latteridge ascribed the healthy attendance to her own role as hostess.

  Aware that her mother would have objected to her giving Dr. Thorne more than one dance in such a distinguished assemblage, Louisa chose instead to honor him with her company when she wished to take refreshment. Beyond the entrance hail, black to the top of the doorway from the flambeaux, there was a round room on the right for hazard, quadrille, basset, faro, and whist. Opposite was the Refreshment Room where in addition to tea, coffee, and chocolate, one could obtain arrack, mountain wine, and French claret, as well as the little cakes. Louisa had developed the habit of sitting out one set at each assembly, usually with a friend, and when she was sure that her mother had seen her, she would smile at Dr. Thorne, and he and another young man would arrive to take them off for something to eat and drink. It was a small subterfuge, and the part of the evening to which she most looked forward, aside from the one prudent dance she allowed him.

  At first Dr. Thorne had thought of himself as looking out for the girl’s welfare. He was, after all, knowledgeable about York and its residents, and he had thought to offer his own small contribution to Louisa’s guidance. Though his feelings had changed considerably over the weeks, he would not acknowledge the fact to himself. It was ludicrous for a doctor, no matter how gently born, to consider anything more than friendship for an earl’s sister. And Lady Louisa, he told himself sternly, depended on his familiar face in the ever-changing pattern of new ones. They were both friends of Miss Findlay, had met there in fact on any number of occasions, and Lady Louisa depended on him to provide some substance in the nebulous world of society. Dr. Thorne watched with determined satisfaction as she danced with her peers, but he never failed to come forward when she sat out a dance. There was no harm, after all, in seeing that she had a cup of chocolate and a hearte cake to refresh her from her exercise; it was practically his medical duty!

  If Lady Latteridge was not aware of this situation, the earl watched it with mounting concern. Personally, he liked Dr. Thorne, and he would perfectly understand Louisa’s friendship with him, just as he did Miss Findlay’s. One could not ask for a more likeable fellow, with his elegant dress, his cheerful cherub face, his very real interest in other people, expressed not only as a doctor but as a gentleman. There was no vice in him: he didn’t drink or gamble beyond that for companionship’s sake. But Louisa, he thought sadly, could have no conception of where such an attachment might lead her. At eighteen, she knew only a life of pampered indulgence, despite their mother’s rigorous demands. And in her position, she could expect to lead a fairly similar existence for the rest of her life. Oh, there would be the responsibilities of marriage, children, a household—hardly negligible responsibilities, but ones which would be carried out in a scene similar to that in which she had been raised, where there was sufficient, even an excess, of money, the highest of social positions, none of the cares of a struggling existence. Set against that the life of a doctor’s wife . . . Latteridge belatedly began to consider how best to gently unravel the growing ties.

  * * * *

  “You’re a fool, Marianne,” Aunt Effie proclaimed as she gave an exasperated tug at the knot she had just made.

  Startled, Marianne pricked her finger with an embroidery needle. “No doubt, Aunt Effie, but you might elucidate.”

  “Can’t you see what’s happening before your very eyes? I told you you should make a push for Dr. Thorne. Now he’s heartsick over Lady Louisa. Not that that will do him the least good, of course, but he’ll be in no mood to offer for you for a long time, if ever.”

  Marianne had hoped, futilely as it turned out, that her aunt would not notice the couple’s growing attachment. If Aunt Effie had noticed, it was unlikely that the others who came to call were any less observant. Powerless to put any barrier between Dr. Thorne and the girl, Marianne watched unhappily as the hopeless attraction developed. She was sure that Dr. Thorne realized the impossibility of the situation; she was not as sure that Lady Louisa, in the first grip of love, understood that their positions were too different to allow of a successful conclusion to their glorious meeting of souls. And that is what it appeared to be: Even the most casual observer could not fail to sense the kinship of spirit between them. After the first few meetings they understood one another as though they had been close friends all their lives, a look sufficing for unspoken words, a sharing of sentiments on any matter of substance, an accidental touch, the goal of passing a teacup or biscuit plate.

  On those occasions when the couple met at Marianne’s house, she had watched Dr. Thorne attempt to join in the general conversation, and be successful for a while. Then he seemed inexorably drawn to Lady Louisa, and always they would end up a little apart from the group, deep in conversation, and not even sure how the change had happened. Marianne ached for them and the inevitable separation which must occur, but she was having problems of her own which distracted her attention. Well, one problem, really. The Earl of Latteridge. The sight of him tended to play strange tricks with her emotions, and had, practically from the first time she met him. She was far too old and had for far too many years, been in control of her social behavior to succumb to such interior chaos. With Lady Louisa’s example before her, she desperately strove to appear outwardly calm and unaffected, that no one would guess her secret failing as everyone could guess that of the girl and the doctor. At least, and the thought was bracing, her aunt had not ascertained her own dilemma.

  Marianne forced a rueful smile. “Well, Aunt Effie, if Dr. Thorne has deserted me, shall I set my cap at Mr. Geddes?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” Her glare, coming to rest as it did on her niece’s bent head, was wasted. She watched the nimble fingers set another stitch and snip the little golden thread. There was nothing amiss with the action, nothing unusual in the posture, and yet Aunt Effie felt unaccountably disturbed. Surely the girl wasn’t letting her head be turned by Lord Latteridge’s visits! And yet it would be no wonder if she were, poor thing. Despite Aunt Effie’s implacable hatred of the Dowager, and her assumption that all the Derwents must, of necessity, share their mother’s guilt, she was not immune to the charm of the earl and his brother and sister.

  On the occasion when Latteridge and Lady Louisa had agreed to dine, Miss Effington had enjoyed herself so much, she had literally forgotten who they were. Dr. Thorne had dined that night, also, and unconsciously Aunt Effie had thought what a fine couple he and Lady Louisa made and, perhaps because she had had more claret than usual, she had also paired her niece and the earl. But in the morning, with a clear head, she had dismissed the ridiculous notion as a senile fancy, and had carefully scrutinized Marianne’s behavior for any sign of an ill-advised attachment. There was no more chance of a match between the two than there was between the doctor and the earl’s sister, of course. And it was with a great deal of relief that Miss Effington found Marianne as outwardly possessed as ever, with no sign of having lost her heart to the fascinatingly indolent earl.

  On the other hand, it was obvious that, in his own casual way, Latteridge was fond of her niece. If Aunt Effie had not known for certain that he was aware of Marianne's ruined social position, she would have attached a great deal of significance to his attentions to the young lady. His calls, his taking her riding, his dining with them—all would be interpreted in quite another ligh
t if there were a chance of his forming a connection with her. But there was not, and Miss Effington regarded his continued gallantries as a dangerous effort to offset his mother’s cruel behavior. Dangerous indeed, Miss Effington decided, as she studied her niece’s averted face. For the first time she was fearful that what she had suspected after the dinner party might indeed be true—that Marianne had grown altogether too fond of the earl.

  In an effort to share her perspective with her niece, and to offer her some sort of consolation, Aunt Effie cleared her throat and said gruffly, “You know, Marianne, I’ve come to have a certain regard for Lord Latteridge. That's to say, I don’t hold his mother’s grotesque behavior against him anymore. Just look at the effort he’s made to compensate for her failings. Even now that she’s in town, he honors us with his calls and brings his sister. Of course that can never make up for what you’ve lost, but it shows the proper sentiment, don’t you think?”

  Marianne’s heart sank, but she managed to smile at her aunt. “I do believe I’d best send for Dr. Thorne, Aunt Effie. Surely you can’t be well, to take such a forgiving attitude toward a Derwent.”

  “I don’t think I’m an unreasonable woman,” Aunt Effie said quite untruthfully. “He’s done what he can, and I give credit where it’s due. Unfortunately, there is nothing further to be gained by his visits, rather the opposite. He cannot have failed to observe Lady Louisa’s unfortunate tendre. I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of him anymore."

  The possibility had occurred to Marianne, but she was not sure she was ready to face it. She had come to depend on those visits and rides in a way she would not have believed possible even a few months before. Just now she had been reliving their last, and most unsettling, ride. By unspoken consent they had ridden again to the glade by the stream, not so lush now as a few weeks previously, but with the pungent smells and glowing colors of autumn. When he had handed her down from the little mare Melody, he had retained possession of her hand, as though unconsciously, while they walked to the stream, and she made no effort to release it. They stood side by side, watching the rippling water, and he told her about Ackton Towers and the lake there with a brook meandering off across the meadows and through the park. He carefully described, too, the house and outbuildings, as though he wished her to picture them and the life that went on there.