The Lady Next Door (22 page)

Latteridge might object to his lack of fortune, but if his sister set her heart on him, Clare thought the earl too attached to his sister to deny her marrying him. Not once did it occur to her that the earl might not look on her with favor for advancing such a match. In Clare’s mind, attaining the matrimonial state was all-important in itself, and she intended to play no small part in Louisa’s approaching nuptials.

Congratulating herself for having worked out so thorny a problem, Clare stood before the mirror for some time. Beauty, virtue, and intelligence were a combination even the Earl of Latteridge could not resist, she decided, molding her lips into a beguiling smile, and forcing a painfully abrasive laugh, which she thought altogether charming.

Chapter Sixteen

Marianne adjusted the green velvet hat on her hair and inserted several pins to hold it in place. The flaring coat over the voluminous folds of the skirt, together with the crisp bow of her neckerchief made the habit strikingly attractive, and feminine, despite its tailored cut. The outfit was no longer new; she had worn it on several occasions riding with Lord Latteridge, which perhaps was the reason she now felt edgy donning it to ride with Dr. Thorne. It was almost two weeks since she had last ridden with the earl, and in between only a note to thank her for her concern over Harry’s health. Nor had Latteridge and his sister come to call, as they had been in the habit of doing. William and Janet came, and Dr. Thorne came, though not as often, but the brother and sister stayed away. Under the circumstances, it was understandable, and yet it gave substance to Aunt Effie’s view . . .

The sound of the knocker drifted distinctly to her room and Marianne rapidly finished her toilette. It was unlike her to linger over dressing, and she gave herself an impatient shake before she walked to the drawing room. Poor Dr. Thorne looked in no better mood for a merry ride than she felt. His usually beaming face was spiritless, his eyes lackluster, but he approached her with a fond smile. “You look charming, Miss Findlay. Is this the habit you ordered the morning we met in Stonegate? Had I known, I would not have been so backward in suggesting a second ride.”

“Tsk, tsk. He’s becoming quite the gallant, isn’t he, Aunt Effie?” Marianne asked with mock surprise.

Her aunt frowned on such teasing. To her mind it was a good sign if the doctor’s eyes were clear enough to see another woman properly. “Just as he ought,” she sniffed.

“Which is only to say I’ve been remiss in the past,” he whispered, taking her arm. “I’ve left the horses right outside with the most impish-looking urchin. You won’t mind if we leave directly, will you?”

Marianne found the little mare, Melody, awaiting her, and she raised her brows questioningly at her escort.

“Latteridge insists I use his horses, and I thought you’d prefer the mare to some hired hack. They said at the stables that Lady Louisa wouldn’t be using her today.” His face was expressionless as he assisted her to mount.

“How is Lady Louisa?”

“I haven’t seen her since the day of Derwent’s accident.”

Watching him swing himself onto his horse she protested, “But surely you call there everyday to check on him.”

“Yes, but I always make it my first call, very early. I’ve seen his lordship several times, and the Dowager once, but usually it is Mr. Vernham who lets me in and takes me up to Derwent.”

“I see. And how is he doing?”

“Very well. The wound suppurated nicely and is tightly closed now. He didn’t have much fever, and now he’s beginning to walk about for short periods to build up his strength. A nice lad; I like him.”

“Yes, they’re a charming family.” With the exception of their mother, Marianne mentally amended.

Dr. Thorne regarded her closely, but said nothing. The day was cool and hazy with a light wind blowing which ruffled the horses’ manes and lifted Marianne’s auburn hair as they trotted along. She expressed no wish with regard to their direction, so they rode along Blossom Street toward Knavesmire. The races were long since over, but the view from the mount was a pleasant prospect, and after a canter they broke their silence.

“Do you go to the assembly this evening, Dr. Thorne?”

“I think not. Did I tell you I’ve received the microscope I ordered? I’m eager to make some preparations to view through it. I remember one particular lecture from Mr. Kelly on the structure of the vegetable. Does that amuse you, Miss Findlay?” he asked with a stern eye on her grinning face.

“Forgive me. I immediately pictured an apricot or a cucumber waving up at you while it displayed its ‘structure,’ and you, some medical voyeur jotting down notes on its various attractions.” Her suppressed laughter gurgled faintly in her throat, but she studiously controlled her twitching lips.

"There are those,” he retorted with haughty dignity, “who do not find the microscope a source of amusement. Some, even, who consider it to be an invention which will lead those of a scientific turn of mind to ever more enlightening discoveries which will be of infinite usefulness to mankind.”

“I’m sure I hope it shall. Where I grew up there was a surgeon-apothecary with an enormous sign on his office: B.C.B. Smythe. Freddy and I used to call him Blister, Clyster, and Bleed Smythe. They were his only remedies for an illness, save the purple powder from one of his enormous jars which he replenished with alarming frequency. When we watched him mix it, through the window we would go through a litany of ‘First the red jar, then the blue, next the yellow for a glorious brew; A pinch of myrrh old Smythe will add; if that can’t cure you, you’re done for, my lad.”’

“Positively sacrilegious,” he grunted, his eyes twinkling, “and the meter is wretched.”

“Well, we were very young. When we got older Smythe died. Freddy always said it was from doctoring himself with the purple brew."

“And no respecter of the dead, either, I see. Poor Smythe. A man of science treated as though he were the merest quack. Weren’t you ashamed of yourself, Miss Findlay?”

"Not the least. Mr. Smythe was a cranky old bachelor who thought children were a pestilence upon the earth, and he treated us accordingly. It is no easier for a child to separate the profession from the man, than it is for an adult to separate the man from his profession. He was a mean man, therefore doctors were mean. Fortunately his successor was a great favorite of ours, a recently married man whose wife was expecting, and he carried comfits in his pockets when he made calls. We were thus taught that there were nice doctors and mean doctors, as men, and that their medical skills were a thing apart. Now adults see the situation quite the other way around. First a man is a doctor, or an attorney, or a shopkeeper. That’s what he is. By definition he is not a complete gentleman, no matter how gently born, since the definition of a gentleman is leisure. You know, Dr. Thorne, I consider that attitude as absurd as our childish belief that doctors were mean just because Mr. Smythe was.”

They had drawn in their horses and sat ostensibly regarding the scenery. “There is a certain amount of wisdom behind it,” he said cautiously. “Not in being blind to the person behind the profession, but in realizing the demands that such a life puts on a man. In the first place, he enters a profession or a trade out of necessity, to earn a living. Oh, there are those who dabble out of interest, and those who would do so even if they were well-off, but they are a small minority, and recognized as such. So having a career in itself indicates two things: a man will be frequently occupied with his work and he has little money other than what he earns at his trade.”

“And do you believe, Dr. Thorne, that a man’s most eminent virtue is how much money he possesses?”

“You know I don’t. But it is important, vastly important. It determines the way in which he lives, how large a house he resides in, how many amenities he can allow himself, how much leisure time he has for amusements. And you must admit that those things are important. You take a young lady who has all her life enjoyed every luxury; you do not suddenly allow her to exist in humble circumstances.” He was, of course, referring to Lady Louisa, but he turned to face his companion. “I may be wrong, but I think that is what has happened to you, Marianne, and it’s not pleasant, is it?”

“No,” she admitted, “but it’s not entirely disagreeable either.”

“Well, you can’t expect someone who has the welfare of a young lady at heart to choose a situation that is not 'entirely disagreeable,’ can you? Or one who is sincerely attached to her to wish to lower her to an ignominious financial and social position? There is a substantial difference between objecting to a mésalliance, and promoting a worldly and advantageous match. I am perfectly in accord with the theory of equals marrying. There are difficulties enough without adding to them.”

“And is no consideration to be given to the wishes of the young ladies involved?” she asked gently.

“You know that’s unfair, Marianne.” Purposely he used her name again because he needed the closeness and familiarity it symbolized, needed a friend to understand the realities of his position. “As often as not, young ladies do not comprehend the extent of the deprivations they would suffer. One’s emotions are flexible, even chaotic, when young. My sister fell in love half a dozen times between the ages of sixteen and twenty. She didn’t regret later that no one had encouraged her in her passion for the footman! It is not cruelty, but kindness, to lead such a one away from a mistaken object. Time heals such wounds, especially for the young."

“Not always,” Marianne retorted, remembering her aunt’s story.

“Usually.” He met her eyes with a sad smile. "You know it does.”

“Yes.” But not, I think, in this case, she wanted to add, but refrained. It would do no good to cast doubt on his good intentions. Nor would it prove of the slightest efficacy to point out that he was no more likely than  Lady Louisa to find himself heart-whole in time, for this was no simple physical attraction to be superseded by someone newer and more appealing. “I’m very sorry . . . Stephen."

“Thank you.” He smiled and reached across to press her hand. “I don’t feel any anger in the matter, you know. I could scarcely have been treated with greater kindness and tact by his lordship. My resolution was not strong enough, being perpetually in her company, until he helped me firm it. I am greatly to blame for permitting such a hobble. And I have never felt any blindness to my personal self on his part, either. His vision is remarkably clear and he would, I think, always value the person behind the profession. You cannot have failed to remark his easy association with his secretary. His authority comes from his principles, not from his position, and there’s no lack of humanity in him. He’s quite as distressed for my feelings as you are, my dear.” Dr. Thorne looked away from her, out over the harvested fields, and said, “I’m sorry all this, and his brother’s accident, have kept him from visiting you."

Marianne flushed. Were her emotions so clear to the doctor? “He has been very accommodating to us. I only wish there were more we could have done for Derwent in his illness.”

Accepting this as her decision not to confide in him, Dr. Thorne said cheerfully, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry myself over that. Each time I enter the sick room I find more books, games, packs of cards, drawing materials, and the like. He’s no longer in much pain, and his time is fully occupied with one of the members of the household reading to him or playing at piquet. Shall we head back? I would hate to incur Miss Effington’s wrath at having you late to dinner.”

“Will you dine with us? Aunt Effie specially ordered a roast leg of lamb and a bread pudding, in hopes that I might convince you.”

“I’d enjoy nothing better.” As they set their horses in motion, he pursued his previous intention and proclaimed, “Now I shall tell you more about my microscope. I don’t think you have the right idea of it at all.”

* * * *

Louisa tapped hesitantly on the door, and to her surprise Harry opened it himself. He was fully clothed in buff breeches and a brown coat, his walking stick clutched firmly in his hand, looking very much as though he intended to go visiting. The determined light in his eyes did nothing to diminish this impression.

“Are you . . . going out?” she asked, attempting to keep the concern from her voice.

"I am. God, Louisa, I’m sick to death of sitting around this room. Not that I don’t appreciate everyone’s efforts to entertain me! But if I don’t get out, I think I’ll lose my mind.”

“Yes, I can see that and your color is very good today. What did Dr. Thorne say?”

“He told me it would not be necessary for him to come again as I’m perfectly healed and only want strength to be right up to snuff. So you see, it’s practically the doctor’s orders.”

“Harry, may I go with you?” she asked with unwonted eagerness. “I’ve been out riding with Press while you’ve been ill, of course, but I haven’t had much opportunity to simply walk about.”

Since he had intended adjourning to his favorite coffeehouse, this was not the most welcome suggestion, but Harry realized that he was under no small obligation to his sister for the time she had spent with him. “Why not? Run along and get a bonnet and shawl; I’ll wait for you in the hall. Is Press about?” he asked somewhat diffidently.

“No, he’s taken Mother to visit Lady Ayford. I excused myself.”

"No wonder.”

When the two had let themselves out into Micklegate, Louisa turned to the right but Harry frowned. “I thought we might walk toward Coney Street.”

“Dear Harry, are you intent on exhausting yourself? You must build up your strength gradually. I had thought we might walk toward Micklegate Bar, and then call on Miss Findlay on our return.” Louisa held her breath while he considered the wisdom of her suggestion.

“Oh, very well. But tomorrow I intend to go to Coney Street, alone,” he muttered with a touch of bravado.

She released her breath with a smile. “Thank you, Harry.”

No one had said anything to her about Dr. Thorne, not in so many words. Her mother, she felt sure, had no idea of her attachment to him, nor of course did Harry. But Press knew, and his actions were clear enough. First, he had no longer suggested that they visit Miss Findlay, and when she had broached the subject herself, he had, with a sympathetic smile, said, “You are spending too much time sitting with Harry, Louisa, and what you need is a ride, rather than sitting about Miss Findlay’s drawing room.” She had considered arguing with him; after a few days she had felt like pleading with him. But she had done neither, because there was also the fact that she never saw Dr. Thorne when he paid his visits to his patient. And when Harry had insisted that they should not miss the assembly on his account, they had gone—and Dr. Thorne was not there.