The Lady Next Door (4 page)

“I trust your head is feeling better,” Latteridge drawled.

“Much. That Turkish stuff was just the ticket. I say, Press, you don’t mind if I bring a few of the fellows around again this evening, do you? Everyone’s pretty rolled-up 'til quarter day.”

“Do just as you please. I won’t be in this evening.

“Oh. Well, that’s fine, then, isn’t it?” Harry gave a nervous tap with his cane. “Was there something you wanted to see me about, Press?”

“Ah, yes. Do you have any acquaintance with our next-door neighbor?”

“The Major? For God's sake, Press, we’ve known him since we were in leading strings.”

“Other side, Harry. A Miss Findlay.”

Harry’s brow furrowed with an effort of thought. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen her. What does she look like?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. William says she’s handsome."

“I’d remember if I’d seen her, then, so I haven’t. Only been in town this last week, you know. Why are you interested?”

“Nothing important. The name isn’t familiar to you?”

“I knew an Arthur Findlay at school, but he’s ugly as sin, so I doubt they’d be related. Though you never know, do you? Look at Cassie Windbrook—a veritable beauty, with the proverbial beast for a brother. On the other hand, Geoffrey Summers is as fine as fivepence and his sister Julia is as plain as toast. At least she was the last time I saw her. That must be five years ago—come October—so she may have changed. It must be rather hard for her with no looks and no dowry to speak of, but James Balforth used to hang around her like a lost puppy, so perhaps she’ll not wither on the vine. Do you know who I heard has become an ape leader?”

“Harry, why don’t you rejoin your friends? I have an appointment and I would hate to keep you from enjoying yourself.” The earl stifled a yawn and rose to lay a kindly hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Harry, if you are going to play cards with your friend Harper, do keep a clear head.”

“He don’t cheat, Press,” Harry said stubbornly.

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but with all his companions thoroughly disguised, there’s hardly any need to, is there? Try it this once as an experiment.”

“I’d probably lose my shirt, and I wouldn’t have any fun.”

Latteridge sighed and pulled out his gold watch to check the time. “Never mind. I didn’t believe Father when I was your age, either. Enjoy yourself, Harry; Mother and Louisa come to town in a few weeks.”

As the earl strolled from the coffeehouse, his graceful figure and elegant dress distinguished even in such gentle company, Harry shrugged and rejoined his companions. He was not entirely sure that his brother was not right about Harper, and he had already written several notes to his friend which would make a considerable dent in his next allowance, were he not to make a recover. But on each new occasion, instead of the looked-for run of luck, he merely sunk deeper into debt; never enough at any one time to cause alarm, but the total was beginning to feel vastly uncomfortable. Just this once, he thought glumly, he might see if Press’s strategy would work. After all, the earl seldom rose from the tables a loser.

Sunton’s Coffeehouse was not Harry’s natural milieu, but he and Harper had come there with a specific goal in mind, viz., to see if they might meet Mr. Hall, and induce him to join them for the evening. Not that this was their ultimate goal. It was rumored that Mr. Hall at his family seat, Skelton Castle (adorned with turrets, buttressed terraces, and a stagnant moat) occasionally played host to a group named the Demoniacs, whose revels imitated, if in a rather mild way, the doings of the monks of Medmenham Abbey. Harry had the greatest curiosity as to their activities, and Harper had urged the very sound logic that if they were to meet him and entertain him, Mr. Hall might be pleased to include them among his roistering parsons and squires for a week or so. Certainly, it could do no harm to give the scheme a chance, particularly as the earl did not intend to be at home that evening.

Although he had not left word that he would be in to supper (and obviously his brother would have informed his staff that he would not be), Harry had no qualms in inviting his cronies home to take their mutton with him. The house in Micklegate, geared up as it now was with the owner in residence, was bound to provide sufficient sustenance for half a dozen young men whose dinners had been makeshift, but whose general inclination was for the punch bowl in any case. And indeed, Mr. Hall appeared perfectly satisfied with the roasted pigeons and peas, the cold ham, and the eggs in their shells. Because it had taken some time for this repast to be prepared for so many, the men had settled down with their cards and claret, and by the time they had worked their way through the goose-berry pie, they were feeling unusually merry.

Afterwards, Harry could not recall who it was who had suggested that he could douse the candles in the candelabra with the boiled eggs, but a serious contest, complete with scorecard, ensued. No one seemed to mind much that the eggs smashed against the wall, whether or not they came anywhere near the flames. And when the eggs were exhausted, the contestants looked around for other objects which might serve the same purpose.

Harry was not so far gone that he would allow them to pitch the knives and forks, the candlesticks, or salt cellars, but Mr. Harper hit on the idea of pitching coins at them, and for well over an hour the game continued, accompanied, as might be expected, by whoops of delight and groans of disgust. The only advantage to such a pastime, Harry decided in a rather muddled way, was that it was good sport and kept them from settling back to the cards, and he had dipped far too deep to even contemplate holding a hand, let alone playing it. When his companions tired of their sport, they drank and sang glees until most of them vanished under the table. Harry felt sure, however, as he allowed himself, somewhere around dawn, to be led off to his room, that Mr. Hall had suggested something about Harper and himself joining the house party at Skelton Castle later in the month.

* * * *

For Marianne it had been the longest night of her life, bar one, and she watched the light grow in her aunt’s bedchamber with relief. Aunt Effie had spent a frighteningly restless night owing to her room being across the party wall from the dining saloon in the earl’s house. Even the sturdy old walls were not proof against the sounds of intoxicated revelry, and Marianne was at a loss to explain the continual thumps against the wall which her aunt, not usually superstitious, had interpreted, in her fever, as the insistent spirits attempting to reach her, and claim her for the next world. Not until dawn had she finally fallen into a real sleep; Marianne, too, allowed herself to doze in the armchair drawn up to her aunt’s bedside. The maid Beth peeped around the door when there was no answer to her knock and judiciously decided not to disturb her resting mistress.

But when Dr. Thorne came late in the morning, he was admitted to his patient’s room without hesitation. Awaking to find him taking her aunt’s pulse, Marianne hastily got to her feet, smoothing down the wrinkled gown as best she could. “Forgive me, Dr. Thorne. How is she?”

“No better,” he said grimly. “I had hoped the draught would be more useful. Did she have a bad night?”

“Yes. There was a great deal of noise from next door and she couldn’t get off to sleep."

“Shall I stop there and speak with Lord Latteridge? Miss Effington must have quiet in her condition.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Vernham over and explain the situation to him.” Marianne lifted a helpless hand. “After the explosion . . ."

The doctor rose from listening to Aunt Effie’s chest, a slight smile on his lips. “I would say her lungs are no worse than yesterday, and she has the proper fighting spirit, God knows. I could recommend a woman to sit with her in the nights if you wish.”

“Not just yet, Dr. Thorne. I would prefer to be here if she calls for me.” Marianne brushed a stray strand of auburn hair back from her forehead. “Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

“Thank you, no. I have a full schedule today. You’ll want to know that all the Whixleys are going on well now.” He closed his black bag and made a gallant bow. “When we have all our patients back on their feet, I hope you will accompany me on a stroll by the river. You’ll need the fresh air and I love to watch the sloops and barges. Someday I intend to have a sailing boat of my own. They can’t track you down on the river.”

She met his grin with a warm smile of her own, and failed to notice that her aunt had awakened and was watching them curiously. “I’ll hold you to your offer, Dr. Thorne. The promenade is a favorite of mine—watching the river through the grove of trees, seeing it disappear in the meadow grounds one way and under the bridge the other . . . Don’t let me keep you; I know you’re more than pressed today.”

If Aunt Effie had any thoughts on this interchange, she kept them to herself. Her throat was parched, her eyes burned, and her chest hurt, so she had little energy to consider anything but her own health. As Marianne watched the door close after the doctor, Aunt Effie shifted in her bed and said in a hoarse voice, “I want a glass of port.”

“Do you, love?” Marianne asked sympathetically. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

When she had urged her aunt to drink the unpalatable rice water, she allowed her a sip of port to wash it down. The old woman then lay back exhausted, her face pale but for two bright spots on her cheeks. Marianne regarded the closed eyes sadly and asked, “Shall I read to you, Aunt Effie?”

“No, thank you, dear. I think I shall sleep now.”

Marianne waited until her breathing became regular, and then went to her writing desk and drew forth a sheet of plain parchment. The ready-sharpened quills stood at hand, and she quickly addressed a simple request to Mr. Vernham before shaking the sand over the sheet. Hopefully she would have time to change before he called.

But Roberts returned to inform her that Mr. Vernham would be out of York until the next day. Marianne had not considered that possibility, and she was for some time unable to decide whether to write to the Earl of Latteridge himself, but her aunt’s pale face eventually decided her. It would not do to ask him to call, of course, so she attempted, in the most delicate of phrases, to express her concern for her aunt’s health and the debilitating effect of the previous night’s tumult. She had a strong desire to underline the “humble and obedient servant” phrase, but forced herself to fold the note and ring once again for Roberts.

As she waited for a reply, or lack of one, she rested her head in her hand, and thought how ironic it was that she should have to apply to a Derwent for a favor. Marianne did not think herself overly endowed with the kind of pride which foolishly rose to support one’s self-conceit. If one had sufficient self-respect, that sort of pride was mere vanity. Yet even Marianne could not quite envision herself penning such a request to the Dowager Lady Latteridge, and it was only slightly less uncomfortable to do so to her son, albeit unknown to Marianne. Ah well, she thought with the return of her penchant for seeing the ludicrous, if his lordship took offense, she could always don sackcloth and ashes and beg his pardon on her knees. One should grant the nobility their due deference.

Nonetheless, she bade Roberts enter with some misgivings.

“Apparently both his lordship and Mr. Vernham have gone to Pontefract, and will not return until tomorrow afternoon,” he informed her as he returned the note. “I thought you would not wish me to leave this.”

“Quite right, Roberts. Thank you.” When he had left her, she set the note aside with some relief. Surely if the earl was away from home, they could expect a peaceful night and tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow she would perhaps contact Mr. Vernham.

* * * *

Harry’s head ached abominably when he awoke early in the afternoon, and as soon as he had hauled himself out of bed, he noticed with trepidation the sheet in his brother’s handwriting on the dressing table:

Harry, was it necessary to destroy the dining saloon? I have taken William with me to Pontefract on business. We will return tomorrow afternoon. L

Harry replaced the note with a sinking feeling as he recalled their activities of the previous night. Whether Press’s comment was an over- or understatement, he would not be able to determine until he had seen the room, but it was characteristic of his brother to make no further comment.

When Harry’s man had shaved him and powdered his hair, assisted him into a red silk coat with enormous cuffs, and secured his cravat, Harry made his painful way to the ground floor where a footman immediately leaped forward to open the door of the breakfast parlor. Unable to face the thought of so much as a slice of toast, Harry shook his head, causing it to spin regrettably, and approached the dining saloon. Within, he found all in tidiness, except for the wall against which they had pitched at the candles. Here, there were the stains of spattered eggs, grease drippings from the candles, and smoky and scorched spots where candles had rested burning against the wall. On the huge mahogany table were piled a vast array of coins, no one having thought, in the intoxication of the moment, to retrieve his money.

Indicating the coins with a feeble gesture, Harry said, “Distribute it among the servants who waited on us last night and cleaned up this morning. Did everyone go home last night, or are some of them still in the house?”

“They were all seen home, sir,” the footman answered, his face impassive.

“I’m grateful. Bring me something for my head, will you, Davis?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Harry slumped into a chair, neglecting even to spread the skirts of his coat, and stared miserably at the once-fine wallpaper. The damage had not been confined to a small area, as two sets of candles had eventually served as targets for so many eager participants. Luckily, the carpet did not extend to the walls, and only the oak floor had received its share of debris, which had already been cleared away. But look at it how you would, the room would have to be repapered, probably in its entirety, since it was old enough not to find a likely match. And the Dowager due in a few weeks