“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.
“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? Tr
y 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 t
he 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.
The Lady Next Door Page 3
