Louisa regarded her incredulously but said nothing.
“Did I tell you that I heard from your sister a few days ago? Her letter was ten pages long, catching up on all those years, and Lord Selby added another two pages. And she has sent me the most beautiful shawl. May I show it to you?”
Though Louisa nodded, it was obvious that she barely heeded the rich Indian design when it was shown her and she soon excused herself, saying, “Thank you for hearing me out, Miss Findlay. It means a great deal to me, knowing that you understand.” And she placed a salute on Marianne’s cheek before hastening from the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Harry had been home for some time when Louisa returned, but he had long since made his way to his room, though not without being confronted by his brother. Latteridge was mildly surprised to find Harry returning from a walk, but he made no comment, especially when Harry informed him that Louisa had accompanied him.
“Did she not return with you?”
“No. We stopped in at Miss Findlay’s and she stayed there. I suppose she’ll be back directly.”
“Were there other guests at Miss Findlay’s?”
“Not a soul; even the aunt was out.”
“I see. Well, I’m pleased you’re feeling so well, Harry. I’ve put a novel in your room. If it’s something you’ve already read, I wouldn’t mind having a crack at it myself.”
The door of his library was left open while he studied some accounts, and on hearing the sounds of arrival, he went to stand in the doorway. "Might I see you a minute, Louisa?”
Her eyes, sparkling with anger, met his across the hall. “You certainly may!” With decided impatience she allowed the footman to take her shawl, but she did not wait to dispose of her bonnet, which she untied as she stomped into the library and tossed uncaringly (though it was one of her favorites) on a pillow-strewn sofa. “Really, Pressington, you astonish me!”
“Do I?” he asked almost uncertainly, as he firmly closed the door. This was a complete about-face from her dutiful acceptance of her restricted intercourse with Dr. Thorne, and he was not at all sure what to make of it. Learning of her visit to Miss Findlay, he could only assume that she had hoped to meet the doctor there and been disappointed. Perhaps he should have spoken with her previously, but he thought that she understood and was attempting to deal with her unhappiness alone. Her obvious anger was the last thing he had expected. “Do sit down, Louisa.”
“Thank you, no. I am entirely too agitated to sit still.” And to prove the truth of her statement, she paced briskly to the window and back before speaking, all the while drawing her gloves again and again through her fingers. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Pressington?”
It boded ill for any member of his family, save his mother, to call him Pressington, and he eyed her cautiously. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, for fear you should think I’ve been high-handed in this matter. I . . ."
“High-handed? Well, that’s a very mild epithet, I should say,” she stormed. “I myself would more likely term your behavior reprehensible. Have you no conception of the impression you’ve given?”
“I have tried to be as tactful and kind as possible.”
“Tactful? Kind? Nonsense! Such a show of attention, nay, even of intention . . . Every mark of affection and regard . . . What the devil can you be thinking of?”
“Now, Louisa,” he offered placatingly, not at all sure of his ground, “you know there is not the least objection personally.”
“I should hope not! A more refined, sensible, delightful person one could not hope to meet. Which is all the more reason I fail to understand your attitude.”
“The truth is, my dear, that I should never have allowed the situation to progress so far.”
“Is that all the excuse you mean to offer?” she demanded, irate.
“I’m afraid I was rather preoccupied,” he admitted ruefully.
“With what, I should like to know? If anyone can claim to know the proper conduct, it is you. No, Pressington, it won’t fadge.”
“Not every situation is covered by social rules.” He was thinking that there were no guidelines which could keep a young lady from gravitating to an attractive man when there was no possible objection to their having an acquaintance.
Louisa’s eyes became enormous and her hand flew to her mouth in a gesture of horror. “Dear God! Surely you never considered an illicit relationship!”
Now thoroughly out of his depth, the earl dropped onto a chair, unable to take his eyes from his sister’s shocked face. “Louisa, are you sure you feel perfectly well? I realize you are laboring under a severe emotional trial, and I was at fault not to talk with you sooner, but I am only trying to do things for the best. A lost social position is almost impossible to regain, and there is the matter of financial security.”
“You are considering a carte blanche! I would not have believed it of you. How can you possibly think she would accept? Have you no idea of how insulted she will be?” Louisa in her turn dropped onto the sofa, unfortunately on top of her bonnet, and sunk her head in her hands.
“She? Who the hell are we discussing, Louisa?”
His sister lifted incredulous eyes. “Surely you are not contemplating more than one mistress at a time!”
“I don’t think you need concern yourself with mistresses, my dear, mine or . . . anyone else’s.”
“Well, I think I do.” In a voice laden with sarcasm she asked, “Do you then subscribe to Mama’s view of the situation, Pressington?”
“I’m sure Mother knows nothing of this affair, Louisa. Pray don’t alarm yourself on that account.”
“Oh, Mama would be delighted.” There was an impotent despair to her voice. “Wasn’t Susan’s letter enough to convince you otherwise? Or did you simply wish to believe the worst for your own unsavory purposes?”
“Susan’s letter?” It was the only clue Latteridge could draw from the irate, almost incoherent speech, since Louisa’s voice came trembling through her fingers. He had had a letter that day, a relieved note from his sister after his own, assuring her that Harry was recovering nicely. But he was sure Louisa had not seen it, and in any case, he had not confided the situation regarding Dr. Thorne to Susan. Besides, they seemed to have drifted from the original subject to his own affairs, a matter highly improper for him to discuss with his sister. There was certainly something he was missing, but he thought to calm his sister before attempting to ascertain precisely what it was. “I promise you I have never so much as considered the possibility of your having an illicit affair with anyone, Louisa.”
He was totally unprepared for her response to this delicately worded attempt to pacify her. One moment she was seated in the greatest dejection on the sofa as though she would never move again; the next she was before him delivering a stinging blow to his cheek, and he barely had time to catch her hands before she could swing again. “My poor love, I had no idea you were so distraught! I wish you had come to me. Did you think I had pursued this separation from Dr. Thorne because I wanted to hurt you? I can hardly bear to see you suffer so. But I can only believe that, given both of your circumstances, it is for the best. You are very young, Louisa.”
“We were not discussing Dr. Thorne,” she said stiffly, her attempt to release her hands unsuccessful.
“Weren’t we?”
“Of course not! We were discussing Miss Findlay.”
The earl did a hasty mental recapitulation of the conversation and groaned. “Why didn’t you say so, Louisa?”
“Well, I did,” she replied indignantly.
Cautiously he released her hands. “No, my love, you came in furious and started to berate me. I thought you were annoyed with me for my intervention in your attachment.”
“Oh. But you said . . ."
“Please, Louisa, spare me. Nothing I have said in the course of our discussion has had the slightest thing to do with Miss Findlay. Bear that most firmly in mind, I beg you.”
&
nbsp; “Well,” she muttered mutinously, “that does not excuse you for the way you’ve behaved.”
Latteridge was all patience. "This time I would appreciate your lifting our discussion from the realms of obscurity. In what way have I behaved toward Miss Findlay that you object to?”
“I did tell you before, but I will be happy to repeat myself. You have given her every indication of affection and respect. You have called on her and taken her riding and even dined with them. Perhaps you thought me too preoccupied to notice, or perhaps you thought your actions did not speak so loudly because you did not have her here in return. But you have given me every reason to believe that you intend to marry her!”
“I do.”
Louisa’s face, which had been crumpled with hurt and distress, instantly became a picture of hopeful wonder. “But . . . but she said . . ."
Her brother raised a questioning brow. “What did she say, my dear?”
“When I gave some intimation of what I suspected, she said I had misread the situation, that you were only trying to rectify the damage Mama had caused, but that she had convinced you that she could manage. You haven’t spoken with her, have you?”
“No. I’ve written to her father. Though I imagine I won’t have a reply, it seemed the proper way to act. She doesn’t need his consent, of course. And what with Harry’s illness and . . .“ He hesitated.
“And trying to keep me away from Dr. Thorne,” she finished for him, “you have not called on her in ages. How terribly unfair to her.”
“I am trying to be fair to you, Louisa. Miss Findlay would understand that.”
Louisa sighed and walked to the sofa where she retrieved the crushed bonnet and stood unhappily regarding it. “She might, if you explained it to her. What she does understand is my attachment to Dr. Thorne because I have just confided in her. I’m sorry, Press.”
Shaken, the earl watched helplessly as his sister fled the room.
* * * *
Janet Sandburn had just received an offer from William Vernham and she was trying very hard to force words from a throat painfully tight with joyous emotion.
“I have spoken with your uncle, and although the idea obviously did not send him into transports, he has agreed that I may address you.” William smiled on her radiant face. “Lord Latteridge will propose me to stand for the next election where he has any influence; in the meantime we could take a small house in York and I would continue to be his secretary. Will you make me the happiest of men, my love, and agree to be my bride?”
They were sitting alone in Lady Horton’s drawing room, where Sir Joseph had told his inquisitive wife, in no uncertain terms, that they were to be left undisturbed. Actually, despite his coldness to William, he was more than pleased with the match. A parson’s daughter could not do better than an earl’s secretary, and he had found Janet stubbornly unbending when he had attempted to appropriate the majority of her annual allowance as he had the year before. The thirty pounds which he considered his due were, she informed him patiently, the equivalent of a curate’s yearly income, and she did not believe that her upkeep could cost him so much. She had suggested again that he apply to her father’s executors for such a sum, but Sir Joseph had no intention of showing his parsimonious streak to the men who thought he housed his wife’s niece out of the goodness of his heart. He would be delighted to see Mr. Vernham take her off his hands. Who would have thought the chit had any spirit in her?
While Lady Horton fumed with impatience to hear the result of the interview, Janet sat smiling on her beau. "There is nothing I should like more than to marry you, William. How generous of his lordship to offer to assist you in finding a parliamentary seat.”
William grinned. “He said I deserved it after putting up with him all these years. Shall you mind living in London? If I have a seat, it will be necessary.”
“I think I shall like London . . . with you.”
William was about to take her in his arms, something he had longed to do for weeks, when there was a discreet knock at the door. With a sigh, Janet called, “Come.”
The footman who appeared knew, as did all the servants in the house, precisely what was going forward in the drawing room, but when a caller had come asking for Miss Sandburn, Clare, passing by at the time and in a fury that her cousin should receive an offer before she did herself, insisted that he inform her immediately. Thus his demeanor was rather apologetic when he announced Mr. Deighton.
“Mr. Deighton?” There was a slightly familiar ring to the name, but for a moment Janet could not place it, being far too preoccupied at the time to recall a name briefly heard and quickly acted upon.
Years of training gave William the advantage. “Miss Effington’s friend from Suffolk, wasn’t it? You were going to inquire of him.”
“And he’s here? Dear me.” She glanced questioningly at her fiancé, and he nodded with only the slightest hint of amused exasperation. “Please have Mr. Deighton come here to me.”
* * * *
Miss Effington had returned and was sitting alone with her niece when William Vernham was announced. The older woman was in the habit of leaving her spectacles in place during such visits, so she wouldn’t miss any facial expression of importance, and it was entirely owing to this circumstance that she immediately recognized the older man who accompanied William. Her hands began to tremble so badly that she had to clutch them together and press them against her palpitating bosom.
Alarmed at her aunt’s distressing appearance, Marianne thought to go to her, but before she could act, the robust stranger had, in three long strides, reached the stunned woman and taken hold of her hands. “I’m not a ghost, Aurelia. Forgive me for arriving unannounced; I only thought to surprise you.”
Miss Effington rallied to grumble in a weak imitation of her usual manner, “You might have let a body know, John. How do you come to be in York?”
“I came to find you,” he explained succinctly.
Marianne felt a slightly more lengthy explanation might be necessary. “I had Miss Sandburn inquire after Mr. Deighton of her friends in Suffolk, Aunt Effie; she had had no reply.”
Mr. Deighton looked momentarily taken aback and regarded Miss Effington with steady eyes. “Then you didn’t inquire for me yourself?”
“The girl didn’t know anyone in Long Mellford, John. There was no use asking her.” She touched a tentative finger to his cheek. “I’ve tried to picture you growing old, but you’ve hardly aged. I would have recognized you anywhere.”
“Setting aside the spectacles, you’ve not done so poorly yourself,” he rejoined.
Aunt Effie’s hand went automatically to remove them but he gave a “tsk” of disapproval and her hand fell to her lap. She forced herself to ask, “How is Lavinia, John?”
“She died four years ago, dear soul. The children are all grown and off to their own pursuits, except Jack. He and his wife live with me now, helping with the estate.”
“The estate?” There was a quaver in her voice.
“I’ve prospered, Aurelia.” It sounded more like a confession than a boast. “Over the years we acquired a number of small farms and eventually built a house as large as Willow Hall. Never so fine, of course, but one has to do the proper thing, and there were seven children, though two died young. I never could bear to have the farmhouse torn down. That’s where I want to take you, not to the big house. Jack has it filled with charming brats and a lovely wife. We’d do much better in the farmhouse, alone. I love them all dearly but the noise is colossal, and the farmhouse is a great deal more elegant than it used to be.”
Marianne, stunned by the turn the reunion was taking, allowed William to draw her from the room. The last thing she heard was Mr. Deighton, his voice husky and reverted to country dialect, asking, “Wilt tha ha’ me now, Aurelia?”
Unaware that the two young people had left (since she had barely recalled their presence before they did), Miss Effington glanced about and then met his questioning eyes. "I . . . I’
m not the same person I was, John. I’ve become a cross old woman, difficult to live with, and I was even sick a few weeks back. You don’t want to burden yourself with someone who will make your declining years a torture.”
He rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin and said with great seriousness, “No, I wouldn’t like that at all. You would have to make an effort, Aurelia, for me. Have you no spark left of that affection we shared?”
“It has never died,” she declared almost fiercely. “Through the years my memory has kept it fanned to a warming glow. I’ve remembered those times we spent together and so longed to sit and talk with you again.”
“And now you shall, for the rest of your life. Almost everything is settled on the children, but I’ll make arrangements for your comfort, should I die before you. The children will be surprised and perhaps not altogether pleased, for their mother was a good woman, Aurelia, and they won’t understand the necessity of my marrying again, but they’re a good lot when all is said and done.” A hearty grin appeared on his weathered face. “And I still hold some sway in my own family, as you’ll find if you accept my offer.”
Miss Effington placed her hand in the large one he held out to her. “It should be too late, John, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted from life, and I won’t refuse, now that it’s offered to me. I will have to make arrangements for Marianne, though, someone to live with her.”
“Do you want her to come with us?”
“No, I don’t think she would agree to that. I’ll have to discuss it with her.” Her eyes came to rest on his beloved face after a swift survey of the under-furnished room. "We've come down in the world. But long before that, I knew what a wretched mistake I had made. How I envied Lavinia, making a life with you, sharing your joys and sorrows, receiving your warmth and your . . . love. You must have made her very happy.”
The Lady Next Door Page 19