The Lady Next Door (9 page)

Startled from his reverie, Harry protested, “I wasn’t! That is, I didn’t know I was, though she told me she had seen me years ago when I was a child. She knows Susan, Press.”

“Does she? You will have to tell me all about it, Harry, but not, I think, in the street. Let me rid myself of my dust first, will you? I’ll meet you in the library.”

Chapter Seven

If most of the rooms in the earl’s house in Micklegate reflected the Dowager’s taste, the library was a notable exception. The previous earl had made of this one room a sanctuary, and it had been a fast rule, albeit known only to himself and his countess, that, not only was she not to have anything to do with its decor, she was never to set foot in it. Consequently, the room abounded with leather chairs, an eclectic collection of books, several pipe racks, prints of questionable artistic merit, and bronzes of the third earl’s favorite horses. During his long sojourn on the continent, the earl’s only real regret was being divorced from the library in Micklegate. No room at Ackton Towers had ever acquired quite the same patina; only here was the illusion of independence, of peace, of harmony.

The present earl stood in the doorway, surveying his father’s private domain with a measure of understanding. The Dowager had not been an easy woman to live with . . . and time had not mellowed her disposition. And yet, Latteridge clearly recalled the night in Venice when his father, deep in his cups, had confessed to his having loved his bride. "The problem,” his father had said mournfully, “was that she did not love me. Her family forced her into the match. She didn’t want to marry an English milord, she didn’t want to live in England, and she has spent her entire energies attempting to prove that her immature judgments were correct. Lord knows I am as fond of Paris as ever she was, but each time I took her there, she made life unbearable on our return, so that I eventually refused to take her any more. Her haughty disdain of our aristocracy only made the haut ton swarm round her, believing that if she was even more high in the instep than they, she was someone to be courted."

His father had laughed reminiscently. “She publicly scorned their attempts to draw her down to their level, as she put it, but privately I think she found the efforts gratifying to her vanity. It’s unlikely she would have had so much attention in her native land.” With bleary eyes the third earl had studied his son sadly. “She has become a bitter woman, Pressington. Take my advice. Don’t marry a woman against her will. The weaker sex—ha! I have seldom seen a man so tenacious in holding to his prejudices, so single-minded in pursuing his goals. Strange, but I still have an affection for her, and sometimes, in spite of everything, I believe she has inadvertently developed a fondness for me. I must be devilishly drunk, Pressington. Get me to bed.”

The library was flooded with light from the courtyard beyond, and though impeccably clean, had the feel of a room shut up for years. Harry seemed incongruous, slumped back in a leather chair, his forehead puckered in thought, and his hand absently toying with his new walking stick. The earl strode to the doors opening onto the courtyard, and flung them open to admit the late afternoon breeze into the still room. Choosing a chair near Harry’s, he elegantly disposed himself in it, his long legs stretched out, and his hands lying unmoving on the arm rests. “Well, Harry, much as I dislike disturbing your meditations, I must admit I am all curiosity to hear how you happened to have become acquainted—or should I say reacquainted?—with our neighbor.”

“Yesterday Miss Findlay sent a note to William, but of course he wasn’t here, and then she sent one to you, but you were gone, too. Woods mentioned the matter to me and I thought I should perhaps see if there was some problem. Actually, I rather did it to please you,” Harry confessed.

"I am duly impressed, I promise you.”

“Yes well, it turns out her aunt is very sick and our gathering—my gathering—of the previous night had disturbed the old lady’s sleep. Not that Miss Findlay was complaining! She’s a trump, Press. Didn’t want to ask a favor of us, but the old aunt was in a pretty bad way. She’s better today.” Harry flushed. “I read to her for a while.”

Lord Latteridge regarded his younger brother with something akin to incredulity. “You have, perhaps, taken a fancy to the old lady?”

“She’s a regular tartar! But Miss Findlay was resting and the maid said she didn’t read very well, so . . . What else could I do?” Harry fingered the walking stick uncomfortably, but this brought inspiration. “And I’ve bought the most astonishing invention for the kitchens, Press! One of the lodgers at Miss Findlay’s is an inventor. Look at this stick! Have you ever seen the like of it?” Proudly he demonstrated the many handy devices contained in the one elongated item, explaining the correction made to the quizzing glass as he proceeded. “I can order one for you if you like. Five guineas! Mr. Geddes asked four, but Lord, I’m no nip-cheese. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that it’s worth a great deal more. There can’t be another gentleman in York with one half so clever.”

“No, I should think not.”

“And the turnspit. Just wait 'til you see it, Press! You wind it up like a clock, and it turns for hours on its own! Mr. Geddes will have it ready in a few days, but I can take you next door to see the one they have there, if you like.”

Latteridge did not appear as pleased as Harry had thought he would. “What about the boy?”

“What boy?”

“The one who is hired by Lady Day as a skipjack. What are we to do with him?”

Harry. gave the matter serious consideration, rubbing the head of the walking stick as though for wisdom. “I have it! He can be Louisa’s page!”

“What in hell is Louisa to do with a page?”

“He can run errands for her and accompany her when she goes out shopping—carry her packages and such. She’d love it, Press. Suit him out in a livery and Mother wouldn’t have the slightest objection, I dare say. It would give Louisa consequence, don’t you see?”

“Hardly Louisa’s most fervent desire,” Latteridge retorted.

“No, but it is my mother’s, and Louisa would probably prefer a page to a footman forever tagging along after her.”

“Harry, sometimes you amaze me with your perspicacity. I am all admiration.”

Confused, Harry asked, “Does that mean you’re pleased or cross?”

“Pleased, my dear brother. The plan will suit very well.”

“And shall I take you to see the turnspit?”

“No, I think not. Miss Findlay cannot wish people tromping through her house when her aunt is sick. I shall have to contain my curiosity until your Mr. Geddes brings ours.”

Harry met his brother’s laughing eyes. “I really am sorry about the dining saloon. Will you deduct the expense of redoing it from my allowance?”

“After you have rendered us such a signal service as providing a self-propelling turnspit? I wouldn’t dream of it. Though Mother will be annoyed, I should dearly love to see the room done over.”

“That reminds me, Press.” Harry’s forehead puckered once again and his eyes narrowed with thought. “There is some misunderstanding between Miss Findlay and Mother. I told her—Miss Findlay—that Mama quarrels with everyone and she shouldn’t take it to heart if Mother snubbed her or something, but somehow I don’t think that was all there was to it. She said Mother wouldn’t approve of my calling on her. Oh, yes, and that Mother hadn’t wanted her to be Susan’s friend anymore. Apparently she and Susan were friends, because Miss Findlay had met me when I was a boy, and that could only have been in London, don’t you think? If she had lived near Ackton Towers I’m sure I would remember her. She’s quite striking-looking.”

“So it was Mother, and not you,” the earl mused. “William also felt there was something amiss. Could you not find out more about the problem, Harry?”

“Well, the old lady, the aunt, rambled on about filial obedience and parental authority, and it must have had something to do with Susan, because she said Susan was charming and well-behaved. Susan! Just goes to show you how observant old people are. And then Miss Findlay talked about biographies and feuds and her aunt resenting Mother’s treatment of her, Miss Findlay I mean. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, Press, but I don’t think she wanted to talk about it further.”

"How old is Miss Findlay?”

“For God’s sake, Press, I couldn’t ask her that! She’s not young. Susan’s age, perhaps, or a little younger.”

“A veritable ancient,” Latteridge laughed. “Did you have some fruit or soup sent over for the aunt?”

“Damn! I forgot. I ate most of the fruit Mr. Oldham brought her.”

“You restore my faith in you, Harry. It’s customary to send something to a neighbor when there’s sickness in the house. I’ll have William attend to it. Do you expect to visit Miss Findlay again?”

“Of course I do. You don’t think I’d worry about Mother not approving, do you?” Harry was indignant.

“Miss Findlay’s aunt is her chaperone. While she’s ill the young lady is in an awkward position with regard to male visitors.”

“For God’s sake, Press, there are two men living in the house!”

“True,” the earl said thoughtfully. “I merely offer you a word of caution, Harry, for Miss Findlay’s sake.”

“I doubt she cares a fig for such stuff.” Harry rose and made for the door, stopping only to say, “She’s not some helpless miss, Press. If you knew her, you’d understand.”

When his brother had left the room, Latteridge sat for some time contemplating the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, then shrugged off his thoughts and sat down at his desk to compose a letter to his sister Susan. His curiosity, more than the fact that such a missive was long overdue, prompted him; much better to have the facts from his sister than the fiction from his mother.

* * * *

Miss Effington became more irascible as she grew stronger. Several times Marianne left the room for a short while, only to return and find her aunt attempting to walk about the room with a walking stick cajoled from Mr. Geddes. Both lodgers made it a point to inquire after the old lady; Mr. Geddes because he was concerned, and Mr. Oldham because he thought Miss Findlay would expect it of him. Mr. Oldham had no desire to see the old lady in person, for she had an alarming way of speaking her mind when he was kindly instructing her on some medical superstition put to route by modem science. Once she had sputtered, “Balderdash! Where is the difference between putting a roasted onion in your ear for the earache, and a doctor dosing you with snail tea for chest complaints? Rhubarb, Mr. Oldham. Rhubarb and ass’s milk are the only proven medicines. You may take all your possets and panadas and elixirs and dump them into the river.”

When her aunt had been feeling better for some days, Marianne agreed to accompany Dr. Thorne on the promised promenade along the river. Her tabby sack gown, the only suitable dress she had for the occasion, had been recently refurbished with a triple fall of lace at the elbows, and a new handkerchief secured by the breast knot. Over this she donned a blue swansdown cape with a charming hood that framed her face, and allowed the auburn ringlets to appear unhampered. Although the sun was bright, there was a brisk wind blowing, and Marianne breathed deeply of the late summer fragrance, smiling at her companion.

“I can’t tell you how delightful it is to be out-of-doors again! Most days we used to walk at least to Micklegate Bar, if not a great deal farther. We have some dahlias and asters in the garden, but I love seeing the phlox and gladiolus as we walk along, and smelling the nicotiana in the evenings.” She paused and then asked, “Are most of your patients better now?”

“On the mend, every one of them, but I have a few new cases—gout mostly. Town is beginning to fill up for the season. Once the entertaining is under way in earnest, I have any number of calls for sprained ankles, fatigue and overindulgence. And there’s the occasional actor hit by a well-directed orange from the pits,” he told her cheerfully.

They passed the Barber-Surgeon’s Gild Hall on the Ouse Bridge and turned onto the promenade on the river banks. The high wind whipped the water into caps, and the sloops and barges tossed about like cockleshells. More protection for the boats was available once past the center arch of the bridge ahead, but several small crafts struggled upstream with difficulty. As Marianne and Dr. Thorne watched, a sudden gust of wind rose from a new quarter, causing Marianne to draw the hood more closely about her head. When a rope snapped on an unwieldy timber barge closest to shore, the boom swung violently about, knocking two sailors into the water. The one remaining sailor was unable to come to their assistance, as the boom whipped about crazily, the sail ripping and the boat drifting toward shore.

Although the two sailors were not far from the bank, one had suffered an injury when the boom struck him, and the other thrashed violently in the water calling for help, apparently unable to swim. A scattering of well-dressed gentlefolk, fewer than usual perhaps because of the high wind, watched fascinated as the sailors struggled; only Marianne and Dr. Thorne moved forward to offer assistance. After handing Marianne his coat, the doctor waded into the water waist deep and called encouragement to the closest sailor, but the second man was being carried downstream by the choppy, strong current of the river. Even as Marianne turned toward the gaping spectators for help, she saw a gentleman emerge from the grove of trees, take in the situation at a glance, and hasten toward them. For a brief moment she thought it was Derwent, but she was soon disabused of the notion, for the man was older, taller, and more elegantly efficient in his stride.

With only a pause to rid himself of his boots and coat, he dove into the river and swam toward the hapless sailor drifting downstream. Marianne turned her attention to Dr. Thorne, who was trying to get the first sailor onto the bank, though his leg was obviously useless and probably broken. She held out her hands and caught his, while the doctor boosted him up onto safe ground. There was a murmur from the watching audience, but whether of relief or disappointment Marianne did not choose to consider. When he was comfortably settled on the grass, Dr. Thorne bent over him to see to the wounded leg, and Marianne again turned her attention to the other sailor. To her relief, she saw that the gentleman had him clasped firmly and was swimming with powerful strokes toward the shore. As they came within reach of the bank, she offered a hand to the dazed sailor, saying, “Now don’t pull me in. That won’t do either of us the least good. You’re quite safe now.” She paid no heed to the fact that each dripping man only served to further soak her cloak, but handed first the sailor and then the gentleman out of the water, calmly smiling encouragement and thanks in turn.