The Lady Next Door (5 page)

Instead of the footman, the butler entered with a glass of the wicked Turkish brew on a silver tray and set it silently on the table. Harry accepted it reluctantly, but the man did not withdraw as he had expected. With a groan he asked, “What is it, Woods?”

“After the earl and Mr. Vernham left, a note was brought around for Mr. Vernham, and when the footman was informed that he would not be here today, he went away and returned a short while later with a note for Lord Latteridge. I, of course, had to disappoint him again and he took the second note away, too.”

“So you feel that it may be a matter of moment? Who were the notes from?”

“It was Miss Findlay’s footman.”

Harry knew he had recently heard the name, but his fuzzy brain would not function properly. “Who is Miss Findlay?"

"The lady who lives next door, sir.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Findlay.” Harry set down his empty glass carefully and rubbed a hand over his brow, attempting to at least look as though he were considering the matter with some gravity. He could think of nothing but how wretchedly his head hurt. “What would you suggest, Woods?”

“If you will excuse my presumption, sir, I believe I would call on her to inquire if I might be of service."

“An excellent idea. You do that.”

For a moment the butler looked puzzled, then he said patiently, “What I meant, sir, was that you should call on her to see if you might be of service.”

“Me!” yelped poor Harry. “What service could I be to her? I can’t even see straight this morning.”

Replacing the empty glass on the tray, the butler murmured, “I believe that is what the earl would do if he were here,” before he silently exited.

Although Harry rather doubted that his brother would actually so bestir himself, there was the strange coincidence that only yesterday Press had mentioned the woman. And if he behaved civilly over this matter, the earl might well forgive him for the mess in the dining saloon, or at least not take him to task for it. Perhaps not even deduct the expense from his allowance. Yes, definitely it behooved him to see if aught was amiss next door. Having made the decision, still Harry did not move. He was in no condition to see anyone just now, and he knew from the previous day’s experience that if he merely sat still long enough, the wretched brew would have some effect, and he might face the prospect with some degree of gallantry, rather than desperate resignation.

Chapter Four

Mr. Oldham considered Miss Effington’s illness a propitious opportunity to work his way into Miss Findlay’s good graces. What could be better than to sympathize with her in her distress? Consequently, he left his office in Little Stonegate in charge of his chief clerk at dinnertime, but instead of adjourning to the ordinary where he usually took a meal, he walked purposefully to the market where he purchased a basketful of fresh fruit and a bouquet of flowers. He then summoned a sedan chair, as he was not of an athletic inclination, and directed the chairman to deposit him half a block from Miss Findlay’s house (because he did not like to have anyone think him lazy). After all, he retained the outward appearance of vigor which he had had a dozen years previously, never allowing himself to run to the stoutness of some of his acquaintances, notably Mr. Midford.

Long had it been Mr. Oldham’s policy to speak with enthusiasm if his clients introduced the subjects of hunting or riding. One must, of course, appear to share the prevailing appetite for such strenuous activities. But in fact, Mr. Oldham had never hunted in his life, and had not been on a horse for better than five years. He was quite content to hire a carriage when the need arose, and as his substance increased, he intended to purchase a house and keep a carriage of his own, as befitted a man of his eminence. As he was set down, he contemplated the intriguing notion that it might not be necessary to purchase a house at all.

Before Roberts let him into the house, he stared at it raptly for several minutes, determining that a portico would make the entrance a great deal more elegant. And it seemed entirely feasible to him, as the houses on either side were a story higher, that his might have an additional floor added as well, perhaps making it just a slight bit taller than either the Earl of Latteridge’s or Sir Reginald Barrett’s. Not that he would have anything gaudy done to the facade; he was a man who abhorred vulgarity. (And besides, there was very little one could do with a brick facade in any case.)

“I wish to see Miss Findlay,” he informed the footman as he stepped into the hall.

Roberts took his hat and greatcoat with some difficulty, since Mr. Oldham was reluctant to part with the basket of fruit or the flowers during this operation. “If you will wait here, Mr. Oldham, I’ll see if she’s free.”

“I’m sure she will wish to spare a moment as I’ve brought her aunt something to cheer her up, and I’ve come all the way here from my office to do so.”

To the stolid Roberts it seemed a stupid thing to have done, when the man would have returned home in a few hours in any case, and might have spared himself the extra journey, and the extra expense. Roberts was well-aware that the new lodger took a chair each evening, and in the morning as often as he could find one. And Miss had her hands full with her aunt so sick; she didn’t need to waste time with the prosy attorney. Nevertheless, Roberts informed Miss Findlay of her visitor and perfectly concurred with her exasperated sigh.

“Show him into the drawing room. I’ll be with him in a moment.”

Marianne set the little brass bell where her aunt could easily reach it if she awoke, and straightened the mobcap which hid a good deal of her auburn tresses. Trust Mr. Oldham to take her away from important matters to listen to his pompous platitudes. When she had met him in the hallway the previous evening he had mumbled such phrases as “the burdens laid on the downtrodden,” “the true strength of Christian fortitude,” and “the hallowed sanctity of perseverance,” none of which had made the least sense, but he had seemed inordinately proud of his easy rhetoric.

On entering the room, she found him eyeing the furniture speculatively, his arms still full of the flowers and fruit. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Oldham?”

“Ah my dear lady, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve brought a few little things for your esteemed aunt. I hope she does rather better today.”

“Much the same as yesterday, Mr. Oldham, but she is sleeping now. How kind of you to think of her.” Marianne set the basket of fruit on a scarred side table which she had intended to restore this week, and placed the flowers in a small urn saying, “I’ll give them some water later. You really shouldn’t have made a special trip here, Mr. Oldham; I realize what a busy man you are.”

“Not too busy to inquire after your aunt, and see that you are not dissipating your strength. Your aunt would not wish you to overtire yourself. ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Milton, you know.”

Marianne knew it very well, and wondered what it had to say to the present circumstance. As always when someone called, she seated herself on the stained spot of the sofa. Probably she should offer her visitor refreshment, but she had no intention of doing so; it would only encourage him to stay. “Have you read a great deal of Milton, Mr. Oldham?”

“More than most, I dare say. I am a firm believer in our own English classics. The Trojans and Greeks are all very well, but for my money give me Sir Thomas More, Sir Philip Sidney, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, and a dozen others. I have long held the opinion that the most intelligent men are those who are able to recognize the works of genius of their own time. To be able to sift through the welter of brochures, articles, books, and poems and come up with the golden egg, so to speak. A book may prove of temporary interest, or for a moment beguile the reader, but will it stand the Test of Time?”

He paused dramatically to emphasize his point, wagging an admonitory finger. “Will anyone a hundred years from today read the works of Henry Fielding or James Thomson? I think not. But those of Thomas Gray and Robert Blair—ah, there is the work of intellect, of mental and artistic genius. Of course, Blair is dead now, but I promise you, I recognized his worth even when I was at university."

Marianne was struck dumb by his theory, and Mr. Oldham preened himself on the impression he had made. This was, perhaps, as good a time as any to further his prospects, so he suddenly dropped his pedantic air, hurriedly shifted from his chair to the sofa beside her, and grasped her hand with a most sympathetic and kindly air. “Forgive me for being the tutor when you are in distress, my dear. Your interest alone could have prompted me to digress at such a time, when your aunt lies so deplorably ill but a few feet from us. I want you to know that if anything happens to her—God forbid!—you may count on my support. I will stand your friend through the vale of sorrow to the shores of composure . . . and further. Has she a will? I would be happy to draw one up for her—gratis.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Oldham,” Marianne replied smoothly, withdrawing her hand from his moist clasp. “Aunt Effie already has a will, and I’m persuaded matters will not come to that extreme.”

There was a tap at the door and as Marianne bade Roberts enter, Mr. Oldham abruptly started to his feet. The footman announced in suitably impressive tones, “Harold Derwent has called, madam. Shall I show him in?”

While Mr. Oldham’s eyes widened incredulously, those of his hostess narrowed in perplexity. “I . . . Yes, certainly, Roberts.”

The young man who entered, although he looked a little pale, was a striking figure, possessed of the usual Derwent height and the characteristic gray eyes, high cheekbones, and an astonishingly determined chin. His powdered hair, however, instead of inveighing him with the dignity he strove for, served only to bring a twinkle to Marianne’s eyes, and she exclaimed unthinkingly, “My God, how you’ve grown!”

“Miss Findlay? Have we met before?” he asked, confusion written plain on his countenance. “Forgive my poor memory."

“There is no call for you to remember. You were but a boy in those days and never properly introduced.” She extended her hand to him. “I knew Lady Susan many years ago."

“You don’t say!” he replied cheerfully, convinced now that the interview could not go too badly amiss. “Made me an uncle three times over, has sister Susan, and brats they are, every one of them. Well, perhaps not the youngest. Little Carrie was just beginning to walk when last I saw her, but she has the most devilish smile!”

“Has she?” Marianne remembered the presence of a third person, and turned to her lodger. “May I present Mr. Oldham, an attorney who has rooms on the first floor? He has been so good as to come and inquire after my aunt’s health.”

“An honor!” Mr. Oldham declared with a low bow. Harry’s polite, “Servant, sir,” positively made him glow, but never did the attorney lose sight of the fact that there were but three places to sit in the room, and he had every intention of claiming the seat on the sofa with Miss Findlay:

Marianne had other ideas. “Won’t you sit here by me?” she said to Derwent. “Are you at school?”

“Lord, no!” Harry shuddered. “Came down in the spring and I hope never to see the halls of academia again. Deuced dull material they want you to stuff your head full of and I ain’t inclined for the books.”

If Mr. Oldham took exception to this view, he gave no sign. Instead he offered ingratiatingly, “No doubt you are a man of action—more interested in the field than the library.”

“Right ho! Press, my brother, you know, gave me a hunter who can lead the field with his eyes closed. Never saw such heart in an animal. There may be faster, but there are none gamer.” His eye fell on the basket of fruit and he was reminded that he had had no breakfast. Politeness forbade him to ask, but Marianne saw the direction of his gaze and the longing look he bestowed. Not so far removed after all from the boy who had nipped into the drawing room to steal tarts.

“Help yourself. Aunt Effie is not well enough just yet to enjoy them.”

Mr. Oldham did not know whether to be chagrined that his gift was useless to the sick aunt, or proud that Derwent should seem to appreciate it so. First the young man crunched his way through an apple, and then through a bunch of grapes. Mr. Oldham took the liberty of dominating the ensuing conversation—since the fellow’s mouth was full, a dissertation on York’s desirable location with regard to its being as well-furnished with provisions of every kind, and cheap!—as any city in England. “Defoe said so in his writings, you know. And it is as true now as it was then. The river so navigable, and so near the sea. Craft of eighty tons can come up to the very city.”

“Fancy that!” Harry mumbled between the grapes and a juicy peach, but he regarded Mr. Oldham with less respect for his erudition than astonishment at his long-windedness.

“I imagine Mr. Oldham must needs return to his office,” Marianne suggested, rising. “You have been exceedingly thoughtful to come, but I must not hold you back from your business.”

Forced to take the hint, Mr. Oldham stood, pulled out his watch and remarked the time. Distracted by how late it was, he murmured, “I’ll never be there on time, and you may be sure there won’t be a chair to be had!”

“How vexing,” Marianne sympathized. “It was perhaps imprudent of you to let your generosity so overcome your responsibilities. I pray you won’t do so on another occasion."

When she had seen him out, her eyes met Harry’s and they shared a mischievous grin. “I should think he would more likely make someone take to their bed than rise from it,” he laughed.

“Especially Aunt Effie,” she agreed. “Would you excuse me for a moment while I check on her? I won’t be a minute.”

Marianne did not bother to go into the hall, but through the door which led directly into her aunt’s bedchamber, which had originally been the breakfast room of the house. Curious, Harry followed her to the door and watched as she bent over the pale old lady, brushed back the damp hair from her forehead, and rubbed her temples with lavender water. The patient did not awaken but her hands moved restlessly about the coverlet, her breathing labored. Marianne placed a kiss on her forehead and whispered words of comfort before straightening to see her visitor at the doorway.