The Lady Next Door (3 page)

“My dear sir, if your mission is to investigate mirrors, you had much better have spoken with my secretary. I haven’t the slightest idea where they may be had.”

“I didn’t come about glasses,” Sir Reginald replied shortly, as he followed the earl’s lead in seating himself. “It’s that damned woman next door, Miss Findlay. Do you know there was an explosion in her kitchen which broke half a dozen windows in my new house?”

“How unfortunate.”

The earl’s patent lack of sympathy, in fact his total lack of interest, drove Sir Reginald to more strident tones. “She was not the least concerned with causing me any inconvenience! She said she would send a glazier and told me to run along because she was busy.”

“Such magnificent disregard of your consequence is inexcusable. Have you considered having her drawn and quartered?”

“This is no joking matter, Latteridge! When I asked her what assurance she could give me that my house would not be subjected to future explosions, she told me I should sheath it with gold buttons!”

A lazy survey of his guests’ apparel (no less distinguished than it had been on his visit to Miss Findlay the previous day) inspired a certain approval of his unknown neighbor in Lord Latteridge. “My secretary informs me that the blast was caused by gunpowder accidentally left near the kitchen fire. I doubt such a freak circumstance could happen again, Sir Reginald.”

“But did you know,” his visitor asked spitefully, “that Miss Findlay takes lodgers?”

His host remained unmoved by such a dire revelation, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch. “You don’t say.”

“I do say. When I had my man of business deliver a list of damages to her, she had one of her lodgers down to see the reckoning.”

“Ah, I understand. He wouldn’t pay. You probably padded the sum too much.”

“That’s not the point! The fellow raised no objection; it was his gunpowder, foolishly left on a breakfast tray, for God’s sake. What is important is that my man of business cleverly ascertained that there are two lodgers there. Now I ask you, is that to be tolerated? This is Micklegate, a perfectly respectable street; nay, a great street. The Bathursts, the Courchiers, the Garforths, and the St. Quintons all have houses or are planning them here. What would they say to be living side by side with Miss Findlay and her lodgers? It is not to be tolerated. I have decided to get up a petition.”

“A subscription, you mean,” the earl suggested blandly. “When you attempt to raise money to help someone in financial difficulties, it is called a subscription.”

“I don’t intend to raise money for the woman!” Sir Reginald yelped. “That is the last thing on earth I would consider. I want her drummed out of the neighborhood. Clearly it is illegal to keep lodgers in a residential district.”

“I doubt it. Let’s have William in and ask his opinion.” Despite his companion’s protest, Latteridge rang the bell which rested on the marble mantelpiece and considered his secretary gravely when he entered. “Ah, William, we have a question to put to you. Do you think it would be legal for someone to let lodgings in this street?”

William Vernham was an excellent secretary: intelligent, efficient, and diplomatic. He also had a good understanding of his employer, and did not doubt for a moment the situation which was being considered. The earl’s hooded eyes might have given a lesser man no indication of his wishes on this occasion, but William had no misgivings. “No, sir, I should think it perfectly legal. There is, however, an attorney lodging with Miss Findlay and I would be happy to get his opinion if you wish.”

Ignoring the profanity which escaped his guest, the earl said, “I think that won’t be necessary, William. That will be all.”

Sir Reginald’s chagrin took a nasty turn. “She’s probably involved with one of her lodgers."

“I once,” mused the earl, “heard a man do public penance for defaming the character of a woman. A most unnerving experience, I would think.”

“So you are content to let matters rest as they are?”

“I find nothing distressing about our neighbor letting lodgings, Sir Reginald. I should think she had a great deal more to complain of in us than we do in her. Ever since he came, Harry has had rowdy friends in and out of here most of the night. And for the last half year or so, your house has been a-building with a consequent disturbance of the peace of this charming little street.” At the other’s scowl he relented slightly. “A fine building you have there. Designed by Carr, I take it?”

“Yes, he’s making quite a name for himself. Of course the exterior is dignified rather than showy, and I have a mind to call in someone who will decorate the interior a little more to my taste, but it’s a handsome place, ain’t it?”

“Indeed, and likely to be a great deal more convenient than this pile. Are there any races scheduled for the Knavesmire this afternoon?”

 Having successfully diverted, his caller from further animadversions on the lodging-keeper, the earl patiently waited out the length of Sir Reginald’s astute observations on the various matches and watched him depart with unconcealed relief. When William Vernham returned from seeing the visitor out, he presented himself in the library where he found Latteridge contemplating a paperweight. The earl lifted humorous gray eyes. “It wasn’t a patch after all, William, but his offended dignity. Our neighbor laughed at his gold buttons. What’s she like, Miss . . ."

“Findlay. A handsome woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and obviously gently born in spite of her present circumstances. I’ve met her only a few times when I’ve been in York on business for you. She lives there with a maiden aunt and two lodgers, one of whom is but recently moved in. The house was a shambles when she inherited it and she is little by little restoring it to its former glory. Miss Effington, her aunt, has a sharp tongue, but I find I like the old lady. Apparently Sir Reginald tried to buy the house from Miss Findlay, to tear down with the other one, but she wouldn’t sell because he refused to compensate her for the renovations she had already made. Not that she blames him, but I don’t think she could afford to see the money wasted. I doubt he offered her very much.”

“He wouldn’t. Findlay. It’s not an unusual name. Does she come from Yorkshire?”

William considered the question for a moment before replying. “I couldn’t say. She never makes any mention of her past except . . ."

His hesitation awakened the earl’s flagging interest. “Some mystery, William?”

“I’m not sure,” the young man admitted. “She seemed . . . distressed that you were in residence. Or it may have been when I said your mother and sister were coming to stay here.”

“And you didn’t pursue the matter?” the earl asked, surprised.

“I tried. She said she had never met you, but then she turned the discussion.”.

“I see. Did you mention that Harry was here?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps that would explain it. The boy appears to have been up to the devil of a lot of mischief while we were abroad. Has he ever come here with you?”

“Never. He may have come on his own.”

“I’ll speak with him. Not now, though. His head is about as clear as cotton wool this morning. Was I that ramshackle at his age, William?”

His secretary grinned. “Worse, my lord.”

* * * *

Marianne pulled the faded draperies across the window saying gently, “I have sent for Dr. Thorne, Aunt Effie.”

“There is not the least need,” her aunt retorted as she plucked agitatedly at the bedclothes. “It’s the merest fever and you know I have a great detestation of being coddled.” She glowered on her niece whose cool hand rested for a moment against her forehead. “You know I have promised Mrs. Whixley to visit her this afternoon.”

“I’ll have a note sent around, Aunt Effie. You mustn’t stir from bed until Dr. Thorne has come. You wouldn’t want to have the Whixleys all down with a fever, now would you?”

Miss Effington sniffed at the possibility that she could communicate her illness to her friend, but she was, in fact, too feverish to rise from her bed despite her protests. “It’s all Roberts’s fault for letting us run out of rhubarb.”

"Then you must blame me, my dear, for I kept him too busy preparing for Mr. Oldham’s arrival to remind him about the rhubarb. Rest now and I’ll show Dr. Thorne in to you when he comes.”

“How you can place any faith in that young man is incomprehensible, Marianne. Do you know he told me I would do well to eat less and not drink more than a glass or two of port a day? Mr. Garrowby in London— now there was a doctor!—said I would build my blood by drinking no less than a pint a day.”

“Dr. Thorne believes overindulgence causes all manner of evils, especially gout. You wouldn’t want to have your legs all wrapped up, would you?”

Although the thought horrified her, Aunt Effie stoutly mumbled, “Little he knows. Is there no older man in this town who’s qualified?”

“Mrs. Whixley recommended him, if you will but recall, and I am inclined to think him very capable. There’s the door now. Aunt Effie, do try to be civil.” Marianne plumped the pillows and tucked in a wisp of her aunt’s luxuriant white hair before slipping through the door into the hallway where Dr. Thorne was being relieved of his cloak and bicorne hat.

The doctor did look absurdly young, as though he should be attending declamations, rather than calling on patients. His own black hair was tied back with a black ribbon, and .his round face was totally devoid of the solemnity one might have expected a doctor to gain through years of attending hopeless cases and viewing gruesome sights. Nor did he dress in the sober fashion one thought of in regard to the medical profession. The burgundy coat was trimmed with silver lace, and the ruffles of his shirt peeked out in front and at his wrists, so that he might have been any one of the fashionable gentlemen about town who frequented the coffeehouses and the assembly rooms. He beamed a smile on Marianne as he retrieved his black bag from the floor.

“What’s this I hear of your aunt being in queer stirrups, Miss Findlay? I wouldn’t have expected her to tolerate being ill.”

“She doesn’t tolerate it very well, Dr. Thorne,” Marianne returned mournfully. “I hope you will make allowances for her. She’s had a fever since last evening, but she made sure it would go away through dosing herself with brimstone, cream of tartar, and treacle. If anything, she’s worse this morning.”

“I’m not surprised! Let’s have a look at her.”

Despite Miss Effington’s fierce scowl, Dr. Thorne smilingly approached and took her pulse as he matter-of-factly informed her, “I have half the Whixleys down with the influenza, ma’am. Have you been there recently? I should not be at all surprised if you suffer from the same. Have you been able to take any food?”

While Miss Effington grudgingly answered his questions, her niece withdrew to the window, and watched as the doctor examined his impatient patient. He was unfailingly polite despite Aunt Effie’s uncooperativeness, and once or twice hazarded a rueful glance at Marianne. Eventually he pressed the old woman’s hand and said, “Sleep as much as you can, Miss Effington, and don’t take any purgatives or other home brews without my concurrence. You’re going to feel downright awful for several days, and don’t assume that any lessening of your fever is a sign that you may rise from your bed! I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.”

“By tomorrow I shall be hale and hearty again,” Aunt Effie snapped, but there was no real conviction in her querulous voice, and she allowed Marianne to tuck the bedclothes about her chin without demur.

Her niece took Dr. Thorne into the drawing room and offered him a dish of tea, which he gladly accepted. He sank rather wearily into the lone chair.

“Does she have the influenza, Dr. Thorne?”

“Yes, I should say so, but I don’t like the sound of her chest, Miss Findlay. I very much fear she has developed an inflammation of the lungs as well.” He studied her intently to see if she understood the gravity of his pronouncement. “Even in older folks it is not always fatal, you understand, but there is a definite risk. She must keep to her bed and stay as quiet as possible. Feed her custards and rice water if she can take them, and don’t let her physick herself. You’re in for a rough time,” he said sympathetically.

Marianne nodded. “And the Whixleys?”

“Mrs. Ida, Miss Kate, and Master John all have the influenza, too, but I apprehend no danger there. Mrs. James is likely to wear herself out caring for them but she’s taking on some additional help for the time being. There seems to be a case of influenza in every tenth house.”

“Poor Dr. Thorne. You must be run off your feet.”

“Just take care you don’t come down with it yourself, young lady. And the easiest way to do that is to ruin your own health nursing your aunt and fretting.” The maid Beth brought in refreshments, and Dr. Thorne gladly accepted a cup of tea. “I’ll send around a draught for Miss Effington with instructions on its administration. If her condition worsens, you mustn’t hesitate to send for me."

“Thank you, Doctor.” With an effort, Marianne thrust aside her worry and set herself to entertain Dr. Thorne for the few minutes he allowed himself to stay with her. The lines of tiredness which she had been unable to perceive in the dim light of the hall were clearly etched on his face, though the blue eyes retained their vitality, and he laughed readily at her description of her encounter with Sir Reginald.

“I don’t see,” he said as he departed, “how your aunt can fail to recover with such a tonic as yourself here, Miss Findlay.”

Chapter Three

After spending the early afternoon at the races and Hilyard’s bookshop at The Sign of the Bible, the earl had a modestly late dinner at four, and repaired to Sunton’s Coffeehouse in Coney Street for all the latest news, which largely consisted of the unending discussion of Byng and Minorca, the queen of Hungary, and a little gossip about the Countess of Pomfret. Since his younger brother had not the least interest in politics or social scandal, Latteridge was more than a little amused when Harry entered Sunton’s on the arm of his friend Harper, and proceeded to give ear to the incessant babble about him, with only a careless nod at his brother. Harry’s attempt to appear knowledgeable about my Lord Granville’s speech with the Austrian Minister Coloredo was quite enough to charm the earl for the rest of the day, but he had recalled his intent to question the lad about their neighbor and beckoned to him, a summons which Harry reluctantly obeyed.