The Lady Next Door (11 page)

“Don’t scoff, Marianne. The doctor took you walking yesterday, didn’t he? And he’s been here every day for the last week or so.”

“Well, of course he has,” Marianne answered practically. “You’ve been sick.”

“I’m not any longer, and I shall get up this very minute.” A challenging determination settled over her features, and she pushed back the covers with only a slightly questioning glance at her niece.

Marianne laughed. “Very well, Aunt Effie. Let me help you with your dressing gown.”

A sly light gleamed in Miss Effington’s eyes. “I’ll have my clothes, if you please.”

“Oh, no, you won’t, my dear,” Marianne retorted.. “Tomorrow perhaps, if you are still feeling well, but today it will test your strength enough to simply sit up in the drawing room
en déshabille
. Come, slip into your gown."

With a disparaging sniff the old lady allowed herself to be wrapped in the flowery silk wrapper, its purple and yellow splotches making her face pale by comparison. "Where are my spectacles?”

"I'll bring them to you once we have you settled on the sofa, Aunt Effie.” Marianne paid not the least heed to her aunt’s grumblings, as she led her from the bedroom into the drawing room, and draped a shawl about her knees. When she returned a short time later, she had not one, but both pairs of spectacles with her, and she held them out for her aunt to make a choice.

"Those aren’t mine,” Aunt Effie muttered, pointing to one of the pairs with a slightly unsteady finger.

"They are, though. Mr. Geddes has fitted them with short temple pieces. I know you have never been able to tolerate turnpin temples, but you will find these quite comfortable, if you will but try them. The circles press against your head to hold the frames in place; Mr. Geddes saw some just like them in a spectacle-maker’s shop in Coney Street, and he adapted yours for you. And look what he’s done, Aunt Effie. This silver chain attached to the rings . . . Here, I’ll show you.” Marianne put the steel-framed spectacles on to demonstrate how they stayed in place, and then let them fall to hang around her neck by the silver chain. “This way you needn’t be forever misplacing them, my dear. Isn’t that clever?”

“Why did he do it?”

Marianne lifted the spectacles from around her neck and handed them to her aunt. “Because he wished to do something for you when you were sick.”

“Humph. He wished to do something for you, more like. He’s too young for you, Marianne; I shouldn’t encourage him if I were you.”

“For God’s sake, Aunt Effie,” Marianne said with undisguised exasperation, “I told you you’d hit on Mr. Geddes next. No one is interested in me, and I have no intention of tossing my cap at anyone, either.”

"Now, now, don’t take offense! I’m not saying you’ve been the least forward with any of them, and you know I should like to see you married, but you must first decide which you are to have. Mr. Geddes is too young, Mr. Oldham is a bore, Harry Derwent is ineligible, so I think you should concentrate on Dr. Thorne.”

“I cannot believe you’re serious, Aunt Effie!”

Her aunt carefully adjusted the spectacles at the bridge of her long nose, noting with some surprise that they fitted exceedingly well and stayed in place as the ones without temple pieces never would, and eyed the indignant young woman with calculated impatience. “Play no airs off on me, Marianne. How do you think a woman in your position gets a husband? By sitting back and watching life pass her by? There may be those, possessed of fortune and birth and looks, who appear to do so, but let me tell you, it is never the case. Every successful courtship is carefully planned, if not by the woman involved, then by some other guiding hand. And we are not speaking of the Almighty! He has quite enough to do without bothering himself with the likes of you. No, my girl, matchmaking is a very temporal matter, and treating the good doctor like a brother is a wretched strategy!”

Marianne lowered herself into the chair opposite her aunt and said gently, “I thought you didn’t like Dr. Thorne.”

“I have no objection to him as a husband for you. If his practice of medicine is not always to my taste, still I keep an open mind.” She ignored her niece’s snort. “He will doubtless achieve a measure of success because he is a personable fellow and . . . and because he was not altogether clumsy in his treatment of my case.”

“Oho, I see. You are so grateful to him for curing you that you thought to offer me as a reward.”

“Men do not like pert, saucy women,” her aunt proclaimed with a majestic wave of her hand. “If you intend to captivate him, you will have to cultivate a more pliant nature.”

“I do not intend to captivate him.”

Miss Effington narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “You like him, don’t you?”

"Of course."

“And you respect his professional abilities, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“He is not an unattractive gentleman—well-dressed and courteous, sensible with engaging manners and a quick understanding. Perhaps a little too lively for my taste, but certainly not for yours, I would have thought. In short an excellent match for you.”

Marianne cast her eyes heavenward. “He has no intention of marrying me, Aunt Effie.”

“To be sure, but that can be changed. What do you think we are discussing? Precisely how to alter his casual friendship into a warmer regard.”

“But, my dear, I don’t want to marry him.”

“Nonsense! We have already established that he is a perfectly suitable parti. You cannot afford to be too nice in your choice, my girl. The advantages of matrimony are far too numerous and obvious to bear repeating. You are already past the age when you can expect men to consider you as a potential mate, so you must take measures to clear their vision.” She allowed the spectacles to fall about her neck on the silver chain and regarded them with satisfaction. “I can slip them right under my handkerchief and no one will notice them at all. Thank heaven he made the chain long enough!”

Marianne was willing enough to have the discussion sidetracked. “I shall tell Mr. Geddes that you appreciate his thoughtfulness. Would you like me to have him fix the other pair as well?”

“Since when do I have a second pair?” Miss Effington asked sharply.

“I found it convenient to have them made some time ago, considering the frequent occurrence of their being mislaid. We should have less of that problem now, but the spare pair will come in handy if those should be broken.”

“Don’t ask Mr. Geddes to do it. That would only make you beholden to him. You must concentrate on Dr. Thorne. Men like women to be dependent, Marianne, though luckily Dr. Thorne is likely to see the advantages of a capable woman, he being a doctor. Still, you must flatter his intelligence and superior strength; nothing is so sure to fire his interest in you.”

"How am I supposed to do that?” Marianne asked with suspicious sweetness.

"Don't be dense! Ask him about his work and let him know how impressed you are by his skill. Tell him how clever you think him. I’ve seen dozens of ladies do just that.”

“Simpering misses, Aunt Effie?”

Her aunt eyed her placidly. “They all have husbands now.”

“Unanswerable,” Marianne returned with deceptive meekness, as she allowed a long, heartfelt sigh to escape her. “Poor Dr. Thorne.”

“Bah! He needs a wife. It must be intolerably lowering to the spirits to spend the greater part of one’s days with sick people. He will rejoice to come home to a healthy, attractive woman who admires him. You aren’t getting any younger, Marianne. Another year or two and even Dr. Thorne would hesitate, knowing that you are well into your childbearing years. That aspect is important to men.”

Marianne smiled mischievously. “Tell me about it, Aunt Effie.”

“Graceless girl. Bring me my work box. And you should sew some new lace on your morning gown. You don’t want Dr. Thorne to think you a pauper.”

Chapter Nine

Sir Joseph Horton and his family made a stately progress from Cromwell to their town house in York, which was situated in Castlegate. Some might have been chilled by residing so close to the old castle which housed a spacious prison for forty felons, but the Hortons were of a disposition, all three, to relish the proximity of retribution on the heads of poor devils who had transgressed God’s (or at least man’s) laws. They felt somehow that their situation justified their own unusual beliefs and were wont, when visitors called, to point out the circumstance. Few of their visitors were impressed.

In her heart of hearts, Clare Horton acknowledged that this was the season when she must capture a title for herself. At twenty, and entering her third year on the social scene in York (her parents refused adamantly to carry her off to the iniquities of London), she was in a position where she felt she must achieve her goal before the spring came and those marvelously wealthy, titled gentlemen withdrew to London. Lord Latteridge’s visit to Cromwell had encouraged her immensely, for she knew she had looked her best that day, and her best was beautiful indeed.

Clare was positive that nowhere in the wilds of Yorkshire was there another lady to compare with her loveliness, her natural graces, her sterling character. Her limited understanding she was not aware of, but had she been, she would have found it no handicap, as gentlemen notoriously shied away from intelligent women. Nor was she aware that her two previous seasons and her growing desperation had wiped away any traces of charming innocence and inexperience which might once have clung to her from the very nature of youth. But if she was lacking in any quality (which she would never have contemplated believing), she was most certainly not deficient in determination and perseverance.

Miss Horton was, as any lady of refinement must be, knocked up by the short journey from her home to York. Addressing her cousin Janet Sandburn with her accustomed roughness, she ordered, “Have my apricot silk gown ironed while I have a rest, Janet. If the servants are too busy settling in, take care of the matter yourself.” When her dresser murmured that she would have the matter attended to, Clare said sharply, “You are to see that the rest of my clothes are properly put away, Perkins. It’s not asking too much of Janet to see to one simple matter for me. Lord knows she’s lazy enough, forever sneaking off to read a book when she could make herself useful. "Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ Run along, Janet.” Clare, distracted by the reference to hands, regarded her own long, smooth fingers with infinite pleasure as her cousin, without a word, closed the door behind herself.

Lady Horton’s sister had married beneath herself, a country parson with a paltry living, not to be compared with Sir Joseph’s situation. One might have thought that the Hortons would have viewed the marriage more charitably, considering the magnitude of their own religious convictions, but such was not the case. Janet Sandburn was the only child of that union, and, since her parents, being dead, could no longer feel the opprobrium as yet insufficiently vented by Sir Joseph and his lady, their daughter was the beneficiary of their continuing rancor. Of course, they would not have considered abandoning the young lady to her fate, being good Christians themselves, so they had taken her in on sufferance.

Janet had been raised in an atmosphere of loving country hospitality, where scarce a day passed by when the parsonage was not visited by several neighbors, or the family was not invited to dine at the local squire's or some other comfortable home. The shock of having first one, and then the other, of her parents die of a fever raging in the village, had not diminished before she found herself yanked from the only home she knew, to the barren wasteland of Cromwell. For some months, she had been too numb to realize the true extent of her loss, and when she did, her situation seemed hopeless. There was some money, to be sure, but it would not come to her until she married, or came of age, and Sir Joseph, as her guardian, had informed her that he would apply to the executors of her father’s estate for recompense for her room and board during the period she resided with his family. He had, in fact, insisted that until the matter was settled, Janet was to contribute thirty of the forty, pounds she received per year from the executors to offset her maintenance.

During the first year, Janet had lived with this arrangement, but she had no intention of doing so for a second. Unfortunately, Sir Joseph, as her guardian, was sent the money and, short of resorting to legal action, Janet was unsure how she was to carry out her resolution. Another fourteen months remained until she came of age, and counting the days was no solution, though she thanked God each night that she had made it through another day and asked for strength to face the next one. She spoke only when spoken to, and then, only if she was sure that she could control her tongue. The only ray of light she had enjoyed in the entire stay at Cromwell was the.. Earl of Latteridge’s visit. And not the earl himself, but his secretary had provided her with the first laugh she had experienced in over a year. The removal of the household to York held for Janet only one benefit, and that was that she might catch a glimpse of William Vernham in the charming old walled city.

Lost in her thoughts, Janet was startled by Perkins’s voice. “I’ll take care of the dress, Miss Sandburn. There will be several of them to touch up.”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Perkins. Perhaps I had best see to it.”

"No, miss,” the girl said firmly. “‘Tain’t fitting. There’s plenty of time before Miss Horton will be a-needing of it.”

“Thank you, Perkins. I’ll be in my room; please don’t hesitate to call for me if you need my help.”

Janet smiled and hastened to her room, realizing that part of Clare’s irritation with her stemmed from the fact that Clare’s own season in York the previous year had been cut short by the death of Janet’s parents. Clare was wont to point this out to her cousin on any given occasion as the reason several young gentlemen had not been given the opportunity to declare themselves. Lady Horton had insisted on their return to Cromwell in mourning, fearful that her acquaintances would consider her disrespectful if she failed to observe this tradition, but inwardly quite as annoyed as her daughter at the necessity. Sir Joseph had been indifferent; after all, he had the liberty of going shooting every day in his own domain, instead of sitting in smoky coffee houses; and reluctantly attending the York assemblies with a daughter who was proving inordinately difficult to get off his hands.