The Lady Next Door (17 page)

“And is the bell system sorted out now?” Latteridge asked.

“I hope so. It’s a simple system for us, only the three rooms connected to the board. I’m sure Mr. Geddes would like to try a more expansive setup, but ours is not the house in which to do it, I think.” She regarded him questioningly.

A faint smile touched his lips and made his subsequent sigh not quite martyred enough. “We have his self-propelling turnspit, I suppose we might invest in a bellpull system as well. Can I meet this ingenious young man? Harry seems to feel he has a brilliant. career ahead of him."

Marianne stepped to the fireplace and pulled the lever before answering him. “Roberts can tell us if he’s in his rooms. I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet you. Having such a system is remarkably useful, you know. One needn’t have footmen stationed all over the house listening for the tinkling of bells from obscure little rooms.”

“Actually, we haven’t any obscure little rooms; they are all obscure large rooms,” he complained, taking a watch from his pocket. “Shall I see how quickly he answers?”

But Roberts was already entering the room, and Marianne threw the earl an “I told you so” look before addressing the footman. “Is Mr. Geddes at home?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Would you ask if he could join us here?”

When the footman had disappeared, Latteridge pointed out his other objection. “I have already had to find other work for the skipjack; he is to be Louisa’s page. What am I to do with a lot of useless footmen?”

“Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. We are so understaffed that the system simply makes things easier for our people. Forgive me for pressing the matter, my lord. I have no wish to see your footmen lose their employment.” Despite the stab of guilt Marianne suffered, she could not resist adding just one observation. “I should think, though, that footmen who simply wait about in the halls without any other duties would be bored to death.”

“We try to vary the men at their posts. Mornings polishing silver, or delivering messages, afternoons waiting in halls. That sort of thing.”

“I see. Well, we needn’t mention the bell system to Mr. Geddes. Perhaps you could find something kind to say about the turnspit.” Her voice was questioning, and once again she felt paralyzed under his intent gray eyes.

“The cook is more than satisfied with it, and delighted not to have a mischievous little boy underfoot.  I’m sure . . ."

He broke off when Roberts held the door for Mr. Geddes, his wig slightly askew as always and rather nonplussed to find so many people in the drawing room. Marianne beckoned him with a smile and presented the earl, who, to her astonishment, not only praised the turnspit, but inquired as to the possibility of Mr. Geddes devising a bellpull system for his house. The inventor waxed enthusiastic about the potential savings for such a large establishment, and the earl made no demur. There was even a hint that if the operation was successful in Micklegate, Ackton Towers might profit from a similar installation. Marianne watched bemusedly as the young man departed, intoxicated by the instant success of his scheme so that he seemed not to notice the curious glances of the other people in the room; it was unlikely that he remembered the presence of others at all.

Latteridge touched Marianne’s hand to regain her attention. “Will you ride with me tomorrow?”

"But . . . but Lady Louisa is here to ride her mare.”

“I’m sure we have sufficient horses to mount both of you. Will you ride with me?”

It was curiously difficult to think of any reason to refuse him. “Yes, thank you. I should like that.”

Chapter Thirteen

Although the earl had left his card at the Hortons’ house in Castlegate one morning while Clare and her mother were out shopping, he had not been again to call on them, and Clare was struggling with fits of jealousy because her cousin had several times been escorted on a walk by Mr. Vernham. She was also vaguely suspicious about the timing of the earl’s call, as she had herself caught a glimpse of him in Coney Street while they were out, and felt he might have known that they could not possibly have been back in Castlegate by eleven o’clock when the footman, interrogated, had said he made his visit. Nonetheless, the very fact that he had left his card gave her the opportunity, she felt, to pay a return visit, when his mother and sister were in town, of course. So she waylaid Janet on her return from her walk with Mr. Vernham, determined to find out precisely when the Dowager was to arrive.

“Why, they came to town yesterday,” Janet admitted.

“Did Mr. Vernham tell you so?”

“He said they were here and then I met Lady Louisa.”

“You met Lady Louisa?” Clare almost squeaked. “Where?”

“At Miss Findlay’s home.” Janet was not at all sure she wished to impart the information, but it was awkward to avoid her persistent cousin’s questions.

"And just who is Miss Findlay?”

“A neighbor of Lord Latteridge’s.”

Clare raised a haughty brow. "I have never heard of her. Is she an old lady?”

“No, though she is some years older than I.”

A horrid suspicion that the earl might be interested in someone else crossed Clare’s mind. “Was Lord Latteridge with his sister?”

“Yes.”

“And his mother?”

“No, just the two of them.”

“It is high time Mama and I called on Lady Latteridge if she has been in town two days. How remiss she will think us! You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn’t know,” Janet said softly.

It was obvious from Clare’s cold stare that she did not believe her cousin, and she had a good mind to urge Lady Horton to disallow Janet’s excursions with Mr. Vernham, but prudence restrained her. Lord Latteridge might take offense, and Clare wanted nothing less. Her mother, although sympathetic to her desire to visit Lady Louisa as soon as possible, protested fatigue, and promised to accompany her daughter the very next day. Janet was not invited to accompany them.

For the occasion, Clare had her hair dressed
à la Pompadour
, and wore a white satin gown with muslin puffs and muslin full-hanging sleeves, a white bead stomacher, and a white satin hat with feathers. Satisfied that she looked the picture of sophisticated innocence, she pinned a ruby-colored rose bud on her gown to add just the right touch of seductive appeal, for it was her firm conviction that although men admired freshness above all else, they liked the illusion of passion only slightly less. Lady Horton was almost as pleased with the results as Clare herself, and it was the greatest possible disappointment to both of them to find that Lord Latteridge was not at home with his mother and sister.

As Louisa had told her brother, Lady Latteridge did not like Clare Horton. That might, in fact, be a mild way to state her feelings toward the girl, whom Madame Lefevre had heard her refer to on one occasion as “that prissy hypocrite,” but the Dowager was conscious of the necessity of receiving at least one call from the Hortons, and felt she might as well endure it now as later. Given sufficient opportunity, she could easily wound the sensibilities of both mother and daughter so that they dared not enter her sanctum again, a plan she was considering when Clare, with a forced laugh (she had been practicing), brought the visit to a climax when it had hardly begun.

“My dear Lady Louisa, your brother has given me the most delightful report of your progress, and here I find you quite grown into a lady. I understand you met my cousin Janet yesterday at Miss Findlay’s house. And she never said a word about how fashionable you have become! I remember you as the veriest hoyden.” Here Clare paused to offer an arch lift of her brows before continuing her flattery, but to her horror, Lady Latteridge, ostensibly attending to Lady Horton’s diatribe on the merits of close proximity to a felon’s prison, interrupted her with a bark of awesome fury directed at her daughter.

“Miss Findlay? Miss Findlay? Which Miss Findlay, Louisa?”

The girl lifted her chin and fearlessly met her mother’s eyes. “Susan’s friend Marianne, Mama. She now resides in York.”

“And you dare to tell me that you have visited her?” snapped the Dowager.

Not wishing to quibble, Louisa said simply, “Yes.”

“Never! You are never to do so again! Do you hear me? I will not have you call on that loose woman!”

Clare was drinking in every syllable as though her life depended on it, but now Louisa answered coldly, “You know that is not the truth, Mother. It is owing to your twisted planning that Miss Findlay has suffered ignominy, and for absolutely no purpose at all. Press took me to see her, and I intend to call again.”

“I absolutely forbid you to do so,” Lady Latteridge roared.

“Discuss the matter with Press, Mama. He is my guardian and if he feels I should not call, I will not.”

“He could not have taken you there knowing the situation.”

“But he does. He has had a letter from Susan, explaining.”

“And what did she know? She was a child at the time! Oh, she wanted her Selby, but she would not look to her own interests.”

Louisa, very aware of the two Hortons listening with goggling eyes and fervent enthusiasm, put an end to the argument. “I won’t discuss the matter further, Mama. You must take it up with Pressington.”

Complete silence fell over the group. Clare was too immersed in the ramifications of the scene to offer a word of social chatter and her mother, having considered Lady Latteridge’s uncompromising anger, felt too inhibited to do so. Madame Lefevre smiled benignly on the stunned party and made no effort to restore peace.

Eventually Louisa herself attempted to breach the gap with a few questions as to race and assembly dates, but the responses she received from the Hortons were hushed and incomplete, as though they were afraid to break in on the Dowager’s magnificent wrath. Shortly they excused themselves, and Louisa slipped from the room with them in order to avoid a further confrontation with her mother.

* * * *

During the acrimonious dispute, Lord Latteridge was himself riding with the object of Lady Latteridge’s scorn, though his mother had no inkling that this was the case. Louisa had made no objection to his taking the mare for Marianne, had in fact pressed him to do so whenever he chose. The riders made their way along the Ouse until it joined with the Foss, the aroma of late summer wafting over the water and the last of the fields being harvested. In a farmyard to their right, a young man fed a sow and her litter, while the dairy-maid sat in an improvised shade milking the cows. Beyond, two children carried mugs of home-brewed beer to the haymakers, as the farmer surveyed their work from the back of a plodding nag, a puppy scurrying at its heels. The sun glared down on the peaceful scene, only the swish of scythes and the occasional murmur of voices floating on the still air. Though Marianne had received her new riding habit, she had not worn it, owing to the heat of the day; it was almost too hot to ride comfortably.

Their way took them from the river, and after awhile they entered the cool of a small wood. Even under the wide-brimmed bonnet, Latteridge could see that her face was flushed with the heat, so he suggested that they dismount and rest for a while by the stream, sparkling where arrows of sunlight pierced the trees and danced chaotically on the ripples of water. The spot was enchanting, but secluded, and Marianne studied his face for a moment before nodding.

With the aid of his hand, she swung herself off the mare, and while he tethered the horses to a tree, she walked to the bank of the stream. Her face still prickled with the heat, so she reached down to dip her handkerchief in the rushing water. The wide skirts of her habit hampered her and she felt a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Allow me.” Taking the tiny linen square from her, he shook his head wonderingly as he dipped and wrung it out. "It is a source of amazement to me that ladies find the least usefulness in such a tiny bit of cloth.”

When she had seated herself on a flat stone, he returned the handkerchief and settled himself beside her, his knees drawn up, and his hat discarded, watching the stream as she patted at her flushed cheeks. “I’m not ordinarily so affected by the heat,” she said apologetically, slipping the damp handkerchief up her sleeve.

“You probably don’t get outdoors enough.”

“Of course I do. Aunt Effie and I walk about town frequently.”

“Which precludes a brisk pace, and truly fresh air. York is better than London, I grant you, but one has to get out of town altogether to enjoy smoke-free air. Think about it, Miss Findlay—butcher shops with their refuse, rotting vegetables in the market, sea coal fires on every hearth, litter from horses, cows, sheep, goats, dogs . . ."

“I don’t want to think about it,” Marianne protested, laughing. “I live in town and try to make the best of it.”

“But you were raised in the country and are accustomed to a more congenial air.”

"There are off-setting virtues to town life: its convenience, its diversions, the access to company.”

“Have you many friends in York?”

Marianne withdrew the handkerchief and patted once again at her cheeks. “Not so very many, I suppose. The Whixleys—you wouldn’t know them—and Dr. Thorne, and a few others. We’ve only been here a bit over a year, you see, and have spent most of our time getting the house in order . . . to take lodgers,” she finished, almost defiantly.

“Do you go to the theater and the assemblies?”

His curious gaze disconcerted her and she traced the embroidered “M” on the handkerchief. “The theater, yes; the assemblies, no.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you suppose?” she asked rather sharply, exasperated.

“I haven't the faintest idea. Tell me.”

He was lounging there so comfortably that she wished to shock him out of his lazy mockery. “Because I’m a social outcast, Lord Latteridge.”

Undaunted, he opened his drooping eyes wider to determine to what extent she really believed what she had said. “Are you? What constitutes a ‘social outcast’ in your eyes, Miss Findlay?”

“For a lady, a damaged reputation. Mine is irretrievably damaged.”

“And yet you didn’t seem to think so when you attended Lady Wandesley’s ball.”