The Lady Next Door (21 page)

Latteridge’s lips were pressed tightly together but he said only, “Well, I’m glad you’re here now so we can have you taken care of, but it was not wise to travel such a distance in your condition. Please rest, Harry. William should be back with the doctor soon.”

Harry obediently closed his eyes, satisfied that if he should die, the earl would know exactly what had happened. He did not know whether or not he was fatally wounded, but he thought not, despite the loss of blood and the pain of the wound. If something vital had been pierced he felt sure he would already be dead, rather hollow comfort in his weakened state, but sufficient to temporarily ease his mind. Despite his disillusionment and the wretchedness of feeling a fool, Harry did not want to die.

The room was silent for a few minutes, the earl studying his brother’s pale face and Louisa silently praying for Harry's recovery, but soon there were footsteps in the hall and William held the door for Dr. Thorne. The doctor went directly to the injured man without a glance about the room. As he laid aside the bandage, he let out an involuntary whistle.

“A sword wound?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes. He had a duel this morning,” Latteridge informed him softly, “and he’s been on the road in a carriage for several hours.”

Terrified lest she faint, Louisa was yet too concerned to resist coming forward to see what caused the drawn expressions of the three men standing over Harry. Rather than a simple stab wound, there was a long gash, as though the sword had been drawn upward on being removed, and although the two edges of the cut had been drawn together and held there haphazardly with sticking plaster, the wound still oozed blood sluggishly.

Dr. Thorne had flung open his bag and withdrawn the necessary items to stitch up the wound, muttering angrily, “Damn fools. Why didn’t they have a doctor to him immediately? Bring me some water and clean cloths. Get the rest of the brandy down him.”

While William executed his first order, the earl complied with his second, and still Louisa watched, ready to do what she could, confident as only one in love could be, that Dr. Thorne could mend her poor broken brother, if anyone could. He cast one critical glance at her, determined that she was not going to collapse under the strain, and said, “Thread the needle; my fingers are too sticky,” before turning back to gently explore the wound with his fingers. In order to deserve the faith reposed in her, Louisa, without a tremor, threaded the needle with silk thread and held it ready for him. He reached for it with a brief smile. “Good girl.”

“This will hurt him, Lord Latteridge. Better hold down his shoulders, and Lady Louisa can hold his hand.”

The operation was painful to watch, even more so to undergo, but Harry clenched his teeth and clasped Louisa’s hand until she thought he would crush her bones to splinters. Even in his sympathy for Harry, the earl was struck with admiration for Louisa’s calm efficiency. While Dr. Thorne worked quickly to seal the wound, perspiration stood out on his forehead and Louisa withdrew his own handkerchief from his pocket with her free hand and mopped his brow. He never glanced at her, but there was that unspoken message which passed between them, and Latteridge felt again the despair which each new example of their devotion inspired in him. Obviously, it was far too late to keep Louisa from being hurt, and he had no one but himself to blame. If he had not been drawn to Miss Findlay’s house, and taken his sister with him, there would not have been an opportunity for their affection to develop.

With the cloths and water William brought, the doctor cleaned the wound and its surrounds, giving Harry’s shoulder a gentle pat. “You’ll do, young man. You’re a very fortunate fellow. Quite incredible, really, that nothing vital has been badly damaged, but for all the length of the wound, the penetration was not great.” As he spoke, the earl assisted him to remove Harry’s coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and the doctor sprinkled powder on the wound and neatly bandaged it. “Once they’ve gotten you to your bed, you’re to stay totally immobile; I want no strain to reopen the wound. I’ll come around in the morning to check on you.” He beamed his contagious smile on Harry who whispered, “Thank you, sir,” picked up his bag and motioned that he would like a word with Latteridge in the hall. Before he walked from the room, his eyes met Louisa’s, and he accepted his handkerchief, but instead of congratulating her on her courage, a matter unnecessary for him to put in words, he said, “My microscope arrived this morning.”

“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 finding 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.