The Lady Next Door (15 page)

Their good-natured teasing lasted the whole of the ride, and when Marianne dismounted at the earl’s stables, her cheeks were flushed with the exercise and enjoyment. As a groom led the little bay off she remarked, “What a lovely mare. Is she Lady Louisa’s?”

“Yes, ma’am, though her ladyship’s only had the animal a few months.” When Marianne turned back to Dr. Thorne, she found that Lord Latteridge had entered the stable and was regarding her with interest. “We wished to thank you, sir, for providing such splendid horses.”

"You enjoyed the ride?”

“Immensely.”

"That's excellent. Shall I bring the same mare when I call for you tomorrow?”

This was her opportunity to cancel their ride, if she chose, but she did not choose to do so. “Yes, if you would, my lord.” She covertly studied his face as he spoke with Dr. Thorne, attempting in vain to analyze why the clear gray eyes and the deep, drawling voice so intrigued her. His casual attire was similar to Dr. Thorne’s, and though his height was greater, there was nothing so strikingly different about the figures they presented, that one should have such an effect on her and the other none at all, especially when she was so entirely at ease with Dr. Thorne and so unnervingly disturbed by his lordship. Perhaps her aunt was right, that she was conscious of the earl’s status, or fearful of his opinion. Neither seemed a logical explanation for her reaction, since such considerations had not previously concerned her in the least. Marianne found herself shaking hands with Lord Latteridge before she had completely dispersed these thoughts, and refused to allow the decided twinkle in his eyes to discompose her. On the other hand, she could not have recounted later what Dr. Thorne discussed on their walk to her house.

* * * *

The earl looked up from the letter he had just finished reading, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “I won’t be needing you this morning, William, if you have business of your own you’d like to attend to.”

“Perhaps I’ll call on Miss Sandburn and bring her to Miss Findlay’s. They appeared to enjoy one another’s company.”

“Miss Findlay, I hope, will not be at home this morning,” his employer remarked. “If her aunt has not convinced her otherwise, which I cannot be sure will not be the case, I am to take her riding.”

“You’ve met Miss Effington then?” There was a suspicion of amusement about the secretary’s deferential face.

“A redoubtable woman. When I politely enquired as to her health, she informed me that she had never been better, and that the whole matter had been a tempest in a teapot. I was also informed that the variety of peaches which we sent could not compare with those grown at her old home in Suffolk, but that possibly the pears were a similar variety, as they were passable. And of course she thanked me for my concern.”

“Of course.” William shook his head wonderingly. “All the same, I think I shall take Miss Sandburn there this morning if I can dislodge her from Castlegate. She’s made a vast impression on the old lady by having seen the house in which she grew up.”

“I wish you luck.” Latteridge tapped the letter he had just set aside. “Susan explains the whole situation, William, and it’s a most regrettable and, I would think for Miss Findlay, a most unforgivable, incident. Apparently she is Sir Edward Findlay’s only child, and he had his heart set on a match with her cousin Percy Petrie, so that his estates could be kept in the family. Susan describes this fellow as,” he lifted the letter once more and sought the proper place, “‘a foppish, impertinent, good-for-nothing.’ Although she accedes to his generally being considered handsome, she herself has always found him to be 'surly, vulgar, and disagreeable.’ I wonder why that description sounds so familiar.”

A clear picture of Sir Reginald Barrett rose in his mind, but William said only, “I wouldn’t know, sir."

“Yes, well, never mind. It is Susan’s understanding that Sir Edward Findlay arranged for his nephew to abduct his daughter, since she had expressed her unwillingness to have her cousin."

“Dear God.”

“Just so. Miss Findlay was put into her father’s coach after an evening at Ranelagh, only to find that her Aunt Effington, her chaperone, was excluded and Mr. Petrie to accompany her. Susan has no way of knowing what happened then, except that Miss Findlay obviously was not driven home as she should have been, and her father spent the evening at various gambling hells spreading the word of how clever he had been.”

“What a despicable devil. He should have been thrown in gaol.”

“His part is little worse than Mother’s,” the earl sighed. “Susan does not know how Miss Findlay—Marianne, she calls her—accomplished it, but the very next evening she was at Lady Wandesley’s ball, with her aunts Petrie and Effington as chaperones. The very fact that her abductor’s mother was with her should have stilled the gossip created by her father, of course, and it was a prodigiously sensible move on her part, I dare say, but Mother . . ."  He clenched a quill so tightly that it snapped, and he laid it calmly on the desk top carefully aligned with two others. “You must understand, William, that my sister was about to become betrothed to Frederick Holmes, Lord Selby, and that my mother was very desirous that the match take place.”

“For any particular reason?”

“The best, William,” Latteridge murmured with an edge of sarcasm. “Not only was he titled, rich, and with considerable address, but his mother, too, was French.”

“I see.”

“Yes. Well, it seems Miss Findlay had known Lord Selby all her life, and they were very great friends. Susan thinks Mother feared that Selby was in love with Miss Findlay; that’s the only explanation she can find for Mother’s actions. When Miss Findlay arrived at the ball, Selby was with Susan but he made to go to her. Everyone was aware that they knew one another, and everyone was waiting to see how he would react when she entered. Mother forbade him to go to her; swore she would not allow his marriage to Susan if he consorted with . . . Well, you can imagine what she would have said. Susan, being Miss Findlay’s friend, was defiant, but very much in love with Selby, and Mother reiterated her stand that they would not marry if either of them had anything more to do with Miss Findlay. So Susan and Selby stayed with Mother . . . and Miss Findlay was ruined.”

“Was there no one else to come to her aid?” William asked incredulously.

"Mother held a powerful position in London in those days. We are speaking of eight years ago, William, when my father and I were on the continent and Mother, for her own amusement, swayed society at will. I don’t know whether Miss Findlay could have braved the evening, but her Aunt Petrie, whom Susan calls a 'quivering jelly,’ became hysterical at the intended snub and the whole party left, never to make another attempt to reenter society. Susan, against Mother’s express orders, sent a note to her friend the next day, but never heard from her.”

“It must have taken a supreme amount of courage for Miss Findlay to appear at that ball.”

“Only to have her worst fears realized,” Latteridge sighed. “Susan is ashamed of her own part in the matter, and after her marriage she attempted to get in touch with Miss Findlay again, but she and her Aunt Effington had removed from their rented house in London, and Susan was not able to trace them.”

“They haven’t been in York that long.”

“No, I suppose they’ve been somewhere else in the meantime.” Latteridge rose and walked to the windows which looked onto the courtyard. “Susan said Selby has heard that Sir Edward intends to disinherit his daughter and leave everything to Mr. Petrie.”

“He outdoes your mother for vindictiveness,” William murmured so low that the earl barely heard him, but it was merely an echo of his own thoughts and he nodded.

“Little wonder Miss Findlay and her aunt are alarmed that my mother is coming to town. Do you know how Miss Findlay came to own her house, William?”

“Only that she inherited it.”

“Hmm. Susan says her mother had been dead since she was a child. Some other relation left it to her, I suppose. Well, I must be off. Give my regards to Miss Sandburn.”

* * * *

Miss Effington’s reception of her niece’s caller was not nearly as cordial as it had been the previous day for Dr. Thorne, but on this occasion, Marianne was ready in the drawing room, of necessity dressed in the same blue riding habit. When Latteridge accepted the offered chair, Aunt Effie defended the room’s chaotic condition in a rather belligerent tone. “We are having a bellpull system installed. A very simple concept, and yet I dare say even the larger country homes are still dependent upon a table bell.”

“Ah, the young man who designed the self-propelling turnspit and the ingenious walking stick,” he murmured.

“Mr. Geddes,” Aunt Effie said grandly, “is a superbly clever young man. He does not fritter away his time over a bottle and a pack of cards, as any number of gentlemen of my acquaintance are wont to do.”

Since it was evident that she longed to lump him with this category, Latteridge assumed a suitably grave countenance and uttered the one word, “Admirable.”

“Your brother was quite taken with some of Mr. Geddes’s inventions,” Marianne offered by way of softening her aunt’s acerbity.

“Yes, we have just acquired one of the turnspits, and Harry would not dream of going anywhere without his new walking stick.”

Afraid that her aunt would find some further area of contention, Marianne rose. “We shouldn’t keep the horses standing, Aunt Effie.”

“I hope you won’t be gone long,” the old lady quavered, picking up her embroidery with an observably feeble hand.

Such a fine display of acting won Marianne’s amusement and the earl’s admiration, but neither made any attempt to reassure her as to how soon they would return. In the street, a groom stood patiently holding the reins, and Latteridge assisted Marianne onto her horse with a minimum of fuss. There was no discussion of where they should head; the earl did not ask her preference, and she did not offer it.

When they had passed from the built-up area into a quiet country lane, Latteridge left off his comfortable social chatter to turn to her with a more serious countenance. “I had a letter from my sister Susan this morning.”

“How is she?”

“Fine. They all are—Lord Selby and the children, too. I had written her because Harry and William both seemed to think there was some . . . problem between my family and yours. I didn’t know of it.”

"It was a very long time ago,” Marianne said softly, as she watched a hawk glide through the shimmering blue sky above.

“Susan is still distraught about it. She said she wrote to you afterward but never heard from you.”

Marianne swung back to face him, a tiny frown between her eyes. “I never had her letter, but I did write to her, telling her that . . . well, that I understood. It was enough, knowing that they wished to help.”

“Selby considered himself honor-bound by his word to Mother; Susan, knowing her a great deal better, did not. I suppose Mother contrived to interfere with the delivery of both your letters. She has a great deal to answer for.”

"Pray don’t concern yourself over the matter, Lord Latteridge. I tried to make your brother realize that I feel the past best forgotten. Not that it will be particularly comfortable when Lady Latteridge arrives in York,” she sighed. “Ironic, is it not, that we should so long after be such close neighbors?”

“How do you come to have the house in Micklegate?” He shrugged away the question. “That is none of my business, of course.”

But Marianne chose to answer. “My Aunt Petrie died a year and a half ago and left it to me. Her son was livid, of course, but it’s such a negligible property and he has such a glowing prospect of my father’s estates . . .” A rueful smile appeared. “Aunt Petrie was my father’s half-sister and her father had bought it as a speculation—because it was next door to the Earl of Latteridge’s York house! And I must say, the prestige of such a location was a decided factor in my lodger, Mr. Oldham, choosing to live there. So you see, it has proved worthy of its object, if not quite in the way he expected.”

“Are you in communication with your father?”

“No. That is, I write him twice a year and the letters don’t come back, but I never hear from him. Don’t tell Aunt Effie that I write. She wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” he retorted. “You realize that he probably tears them up, if he is so lost to all feeling as to have treated you the way he did.”

“Probably. That doesn’t matter so much, though. Even if he doesn’t read them, he knows that I’ve written. And although he thinks he hates me for ruining all his plans, there are those times from long ago which I can’t believe he can forget so easily—trotting along beside my first pony, clinging to me when my mother died, presenting me with my first dress without leading strings.” Marianne smiled sadly. “I will not perpetuate a family feud, Lord Latteridge. Not in my family or yours. So by all means convey my deepest affection to Lady Susan and Lord Selby, and by no means mention the matter to your mother.”

He was watching her with troubled eyes and did not speak for some time. When his horse shied at a leveret dashing across the lane, he quickly brought the animal under control and reached a hand for her bridle, but the mare was unmoved by such activity and merely tossed her head. Finally, he said, “You must resent what Mother did.”

“Certainly I do. Aside from my father’s part in the affair, I consider her conduct the most odious I’ve ever encountered.” But there was no heat to her words, and she made a negligent gesture with her hand. “My lord, if I allowed such things to eat away at me, I would be destroyed, consumed by anger and despair. Wherein is the usefulness of that?” A little chuckle escaped her. “Absurdities have become a special
divertissement
of mine, the aberration I have developed from the whole misadventure. Aunt Effie doesn’t understand that either, not completely, but she makes a wonderful companion with her biting tongue and blunt approach to life. She may not laugh at the absurdities she sees, but she certainly remarks them.”

“And your cousin Petrie doesn’t bother you?”

“Why should he? He can inherit from my father without all the bother of marrying me. I think, though,” she mused, “that if he were to marry someone else, my father might be given a jolt. Still, Percy has never shown any inclination to marry, and he now has his father’s estate, so I doubt if that worries him.”