The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

  “How wonderful! I hope I shall have an opportunity to see it one day.”

  A momentary flicker of doubt passed over his face. “I hope so, too.”

  In the hall he set his bag on a small table and accepted the earl’s grateful hand. “I don’t think there’s anything to fear except fever, my lord. But he’s a healthy young man and I feel reasonably sure we’ll see him through this. I’ll send around some Peruvian bark.”

  “We’ll do everything in our power to see he follows your instructions. Thank you for coming so promptly, Dr. Thorne.” Latteridge met the younger man’s eyes gravely. “I suppose Louisa will wish to sit with him often until he’s recovered.”

  The doctor did not flinch from the penetrating gaze. He had known that the time must come when the earl would hint him away from Lady Louisa, that he could not continue forever to meet her as they had been. “She’ll make an excellent nurse for him, but don’t let her tire herself. Miss Findlay was almost in worse shape than her aunt by the time Miss Effington recovered.”

  “I’ll see that she takes plenty of exercise and eats regularly,” the earl promised.

  “Good.” Dr. Thorne’s melancholy face belied his hearty tone. “I’ll be off. Just send a message if you need me.”

  “We will.” To soften the unspoken but clear rejection of Dr. Thorne’s attentions to his sister, Latteridge urged, “I hope you’ll make more use of the stables. You have only to send word around that you’d like some mounts.”

  “Thank you.” The young man picked up his bag, nodded a farewell and, when the footman had opened the door for him, strolled out into the street. Henceforth he would have to avoid Lady Louisa, even though he would be making frequent calls to her house. What madness had possessed him to ignore their relative stations and lose control of his emotions? It didn’t matter so much for himself; he could learn to live with the wrenching disappointment because he would have to and he had his work in which to immerse himself. But the girl. No conceit existed in Dr. Thorne; to him it was a simple fact that Lady Louisa was in the same case as he. He should never have allowed such a thing to happen, and yet even now it seemed inevitable, unavoidable. For a moment he stood numbly in the street, then advanced to Miss Findlay’s door and wielded the brass knocker.

  * * * *

  Although several gentlemen had been so kind as to call, and some of them had brought flowers, Clare Horton was only vaguely pleased. Her mother had begun, in a very broad way, to give hints that she expected Clare to attach someone this autumn, whether it be the earl or another of exalted rank made little difference to her. Lady Horton found the Dowager Countess of Latteridge unnerving and her son, although possessed of every worldly consideration, little more to her liking. If there was no fault of air, or grace, or address, there lurked always that suspicious twinkle which Lady Horton could not altogether appreciate. She had the most uncomfortable feeling that he was amused by her, a lowering thought.

  Clare, on the other hand, was determined that she would have the earl, and she was beginning to feel that her waiting game was not perhaps sufficient to draw his eye. Oh, he stood up with her once at each assembly, as he did a dozen other young ladies, but he had not called or sent flowers, had not invited her for a drive, or included her in any entertainment at the house in Micklegate, though she had been at pains to learn that these last festivities were inaugurated by his mother and did not bear witness to his own desires. It was hard on her, who had spent such trying efforts to cultivate a tinkling laugh, to have so little opportunity to exhibit her new skill to advantage.

  When Clare began to practice on the spinet, Lady Horton hastily gathered her workbox and retired, for there was nothing she liked less than Clare’s precise, mechanical performance on that instrument. Clare did not even notice the desertion, her thoughts directed not on the music, but on a scheme to win the earl’s attention. It would behoove her, she decided, to find a husband for Lady Louisa. After all, Latteridge was acting as escort to his sister and took his duties seriously. If she were to shift that burden to some worthy gentleman, not only would he have more time to consider his own unfortunate wifeless state, but he would doubtless be eternally grateful to her for her care and selfless attention to the interests of his family. And it was obvious that Lady Louisa was making no progress, on her own. It might prove worthwhile for Clare to give her a few hints on how to handle gentlemen; the girl’s approach was almost matronly! Far from turning out to be the flirtatious, unruly lady Clare had expected, she found Lady Louisa almost casual in her dealings with gentlemen, and nothing could be more fatal! Yes, decidedly she would point her in the right direction.

  But there was still the matter of which gentleman to aim toward Lady Louisa. He should, of course, come from the same stable of admirers which she herself would consider, and she found herself strangely loath to willingly allow even one to escape, just on the odd chance that the earl could not be brought to the sticking point. There were, however, she admitted to herself, several gentlemen with whom she had had a singular lack of success in her two previous seasons in York. Surely they were the ones on whom to draw. She had just pushed back the spinet stool preparatory to making a list when her cousin entered the room.

  “Back from your excursion so soon, cousin? Are you tiring of the notorious Miss Findlay’s company these days?”

  Used to Clare’s biting tongue, Janet ignored the sarcasm and calmly retrieved a book she had left on the marquetry table before answering. “Everyone was a little low today. Dr. Thorne called and informed us that Harry Derwent has suffered a severe accident. It must be very upsetting to his family.”

  “So Lord Latteridge and his sister were not there?” Clare asked eagerly.

  “No, I don’t expect they’ll be out and about much for a while. Dr. Thorne seemed to think it would be several weeks before his brother was out of bed.”

  “Surely they’ll still attend evening functions! They can be of no use to the poor fellow when he’s asleep.”

  “Perhaps. Dr. Thorne is optimistic in his prognosis.” When William had not called as arranged, Janet had gone alone to Miss Findlay’s, quietly confident that he would not have failed to call without reason. And hearing Dr. Thorne’s tale had explained, as had the note she found awaiting her on her return, the urgency of his remaining at the earl’s home. “If you will excuse me, I should just like to write a little note to Lady Louisa.”

  "There’s no need for you to do so,” Clare informed her grandly. “I shall send a note to Lady Latteridge expressing our deep shock and sympathy, and offering any assistance we may be able to provide.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” With a quiet smile, Janet left the room and went directly to her writing table to send Lady Louisa a short, encouraging note of her own.

  Clare allowed herself some time to consider this new development. At first she had been pleased simply because Latteridge was not at Miss Findlay’s, but if the accident was going to keep him out of society, she was very annoyed about it. It would ruin her new plan to find Louisa a husband, and it would give her no opportunity to exhibit her virtues to the earl. What a nuisance! She was personally unacquainted with Harry Derwent, but she meditated on the possibilities of appearing as a ministering angel to him all the same. Unlikely role as it was, it would surely set her up in Latteridge’s eyes. Clare could envision herself in her charming white dress with her cool hand on the young man’s forehead; unfortunately she could not imagine anyone in the Micklegate house allowing her to get so far as the sick room in the first place. There were quite enough family members and servants to see to Derwent, and she could not claim any special connection which would advance her cause. No, she must simply hope that he would recover quickly, with the aid of the broth, possets, and fruit she would have sent around immediately.

  Content that this was the best plan, she made a list of those items she wished sent, then composed a morbid epistle to Lady Latteridge, and at last set herself once again to the task of fin
ding Louisa a beau. Since she had herself relegated Sir Reginald to the realms of “rich, but not nobility,” she reluctantly decided that Lady Louisa would not want him either. Unfortunate, because he would doubtless want her. No, the list must be exclusive in the extreme, as exclusive as the company in York allowed. Probably they intended taking Louisa to London in the spring, where the choice would be wider, but Clare was determined to see her engaged, through her own efforts, before Christmas, New Year at the very latest. Lord Twickenham was well-heeled but at fifty-odd years, perhaps a little old for the girl. Rockhampton would come into a title if his older brother died, of course, but one could not depend on that; certainly there was not the least chance that his brother would marry. With a frown, Clare considered Lords Sedbury and Whitfield, both engaged, but rackety fellows who would not necessarily make it to the altar. One or the other of them might be induced to take an interest in the girl, but Lady Louisa was likely to be aware of their previous entanglements. The company in York began to appear meager to Clare, as she swiftly discarded Lords Draycott and Lovell, since they were currently in her own train.

  Discouraged, Clare was about to abandon her project when she hit on Lord Bowland. True, Lady Horton had told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to allow him to dangle after her since he hadn’t two pennies to rub together. Apparently, though, it was not common knowledge, since Clare had observed no other chaperone shun his advances to her charge. If the Bowland lack of fortune was a closely-guarded secret, which Sir Joseph or Lady Horton had nosed out on their own, the young man might prove the perfect match for Lady Louisa. She would come well-dowered enough for the both of them, Bowland’s mortgaged estates notwithstanding. Now Lord Bowland might not be handsome, but he had a pleasing countenance and fine eyes, was good-natured and amiable, and overall, a very lively fellow. If he was looking for a fortune, he gave no evidence of it, distributing his time and attentions equally among the rich and moderately-rich, and Clare knew that he had stood up with Lady Louisa at the very last assembly.

  Latteridge might object to his lack of fortune, but if his sister set her heart on him, Clare thought the earl too attached to his sister to deny her marrying him. Not once did it occur to her that the earl might not look on her with favor for advancing such a match. In Clare’s mind, attaining the matrimonial state was all-important in itself, and she intended to play no small part in Louisa’s approaching nuptials.

  Congratulating herself for having worked out so thorny a problem, Clare stood before the mirror for some time. Beauty, virtue, and intelligence were a combination even the Earl of Latteridge could not resist, she decided, molding her lips into a beguiling smile, and forcing a painfully abrasive laugh, which she thought altogether charming.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marianne adjusted the green velvet hat on her hair and inserted several pins to hold it in place. The flaring coat over the voluminous folds of the skirt, together with the crisp bow of her neckerchief made the habit strikingly attractive, and feminine, despite its tailored cut. The outfit was no longer new; she had worn it on several occasions riding with Lord Latteridge, which perhaps was the reason she now felt edgy donning it to ride with Dr. Thorne. It was almost two weeks since she had last ridden with the earl, and in between only a note to thank her for her concern over Harry’s health. Nor had Latteridge and his sister come to call, as they had been in the habit of doing. William and Janet came, and Dr. Thorne came, though not as often, but the brother and sister stayed away. Under the circumstances, it was understandable, and yet it gave substance to Aunt Effie’s view . . .

  The sound of the knocker drifted distinctly to her room and Marianne rapidly finished her toilette. It was unlike her to linger over dressing, and she gave herself an impatient shake before she walked to the drawing room. Poor Dr. Thorne looked in no better mood for a merry ride than she felt. His usually beaming face was spiritless, his eyes lackluster, but he approached her with a fond smile. “You look charming, Miss Findlay. Is this the habit you ordered the morning we met in Stonegate? Had I known, I would not have been so backward in suggesting a second ride.”

  “Tsk, tsk. He’s becoming quite the gallant, isn’t he, Aunt Effie?” Marianne asked with mock surprise.

  Her aunt frowned on such teasing. To her mind it was a good sign if the doctor’s eyes were clear enough to see another woman properly. “Just as he ought,” she sniffed.

  “Which is only to say I’ve been remiss in the past,” he whispered, taking her arm. “I’ve left the horses right outside with the most impish-looking urchin. You won’t mind if we leave directly, will you?”

  Marianne found the little mare, Melody, awaiting her, and she raised her brows questioningly at her escort.

  “Latteridge insists I use his horses, and I thought you’d prefer the mare to some hired hack. They said at the stables that Lady Louisa wouldn’t be using her today.” His face was expressionless as he assisted her to mount.

  “How is Lady Louisa?”

  “I haven’t seen her since the day of Derwent’s accident.”

  Watching him swing himself onto his horse she protested, “But surely you call there everyday to check on him.”

  “Yes, but I always make it my first call, very early. I’ve seen his lordship several times, and the Dowager once, but usually it is Mr. Vernham who lets me in and takes me up to Derwent.”

  “I see. And how is he doing?”

  “Very well. The wound suppurated nicely and is tightly closed now. He didn’t have much fever, and now he’s beginning to walk about for short periods to build up his strength. A nice lad; I like him.”

  “Yes, they’re a charming family.” With the exception of their mother, Marianne mentally amended.

  Dr. Thorne regarded her closely, but said nothing. The day was cool and hazy with a light wind blowing which ruffled the horses’ manes and lifted Marianne’s auburn hair as they trotted along. She expressed no wish with regard to their direction, so they rode along Blossom Street toward Knavesmire. The races were long since over, but the view from the mount was a pleasant prospect, and after a canter they broke their silence.

  “Do you go to the assembly this evening, Dr. Thorne?”

  “I think not. Did I tell you I’ve received the microscope I ordered? I’m eager to make some preparations to view through it. I remember one particular lecture from Mr. Kelly on the structure of the vegetable. Does that amuse you, Miss Findlay?” he asked with a stern eye on her grinning face.

  “Forgive me. I immediately pictured an apricot or a cucumber waving up at you while it displayed its ‘structure,’ and you, some medical voyeur jotting down notes on its various attractions.” Her suppressed laughter gurgled faintly in her throat, but she studiously controlled her twitching lips.

  "There are those,” he retorted with haughty dignity, “who do not find the microscope a source of amusement. Some, even, who consider it to be an invention which will lead those of a scientific turn of mind to ever more enlightening discoveries which will be of infinite usefulness to mankind.”

  “I’m sure I hope it shall. Where I grew up there was a surgeon-apothecary with an enormous sign on his office: B.C.B. Smythe. Freddy and I used to call him Blister, Clyster, and Bleed Smythe. They were his only remedies for an illness, save the purple powder from one of his enormous jars which he replenished with alarming frequency. When we watched him mix it, through the window we would go through a litany of ‘First the red jar, then the blue, next the yellow for a glorious brew; A pinch of myrrh old Smythe will add; if that can’t cure you, you’re done for, my lad.”’

  “Positively sacrilegious,” he grunted, his eyes twinkling, “and the meter is wretched.”

  “Well, we were very young. When we got older Smythe died. Freddy always said it was from doctoring himself with the purple brew."

  “And no respecter of the dead, either, I see. Poor Smythe. A man of science treated as though he were the merest quack. Weren’t you ashamed of yourself, Miss Findlay
?”

  "Not the least. Mr. Smythe was a cranky old bachelor who thought children were a pestilence upon the earth, and he treated us accordingly. It is no easier for a child to separate the profession from the man, than it is for an adult to separate the man from his profession. He was a mean man, therefore doctors were mean. Fortunately his successor was a great favorite of ours, a recently married man whose wife was expecting, and he carried comfits in his pockets when he made calls. We were thus taught that there were nice doctors and mean doctors, as men, and that their medical skills were a thing apart. Now adults see the situation quite the other way around. First a man is a doctor, or an attorney, or a shopkeeper. That’s what he is. By definition he is not a complete gentleman, no matter how gently born, since the definition of a gentleman is leisure. You know, Dr. Thorne, I consider that attitude as absurd as our childish belief that doctors were mean just because Mr. Smythe was.”

  They had drawn in their horses and sat ostensibly regarding the scenery. “There is a certain amount of wisdom behind it,” he said cautiously. “Not in being blind to the person behind the profession, but in realizing the demands that such a life puts on a man. In the first place, he enters a profession or a trade out of necessity, to earn a living. Oh, there are those who dabble out of interest, and those who would do so even if they were well-off, but they are a small minority, and recognized as such. So having a career in itself indicates two things: a man will be frequently occupied with his work and he has little money other than what he earns at his trade.”

  “And do you believe, Dr. Thorne, that a man’s most eminent virtue is how much money he possesses?”