With a cheery wave he was gone, leaving Marianne to marvel at his ready compliance with her wishes. But then, she should hardly wonder at that. Save the Dowager Lady Latteridge, every member of the family whom she had met was possessed of the most amiable temperament and the most obliging of manners. Lady Susan had not been the author of her downfall; even at the time Marianne had read in her eyes the painful necessity of complying with her mother’s strictures. True, it had surprised Marianne that no communication had been forthcoming later, but it was hardly to be wondered at in the circumstances. An episode fraught with disaster for Marianne could only have proved an embarrassment to Lady Susan, and one which she might well have thought her friend Marianne could never forgive her. The little brass bell rang, and Marianne hastened to her aunt.
* * * *
Mr. Geddes, whose inventive genius ran toward the practical rather than the esoteric, was returning to Micklegate with his most recent device when he encountered a friend who carelessly asked, “Well, Arthur, and what have you been up to?”
Long since had the explosion been erased from Mr. Geddes’s mind in the enthusiasm he had developed for his convenient new walking stick. Mr. Longworth was not the least surprised to have the inventor demonstrate the cleverly concealed sword, flask, snuff box, quizzing glass, and watch worked into the one slightly long stick, but Harry Derwent, descending from the stoop of Miss Findlay’s house, was amazed, and drew closer to watch the demonstration. In the amber nob was concealed the liquid, below which in turn slid out a snuff box filled with Martinique, a miniature timepiece, the bit of magnifying glass, and then a snap catch could be released to draw off the lower end of the stick to reveal a narrow-bladed sword, whose usefulness might have proved doubtful, considering the oddities in its grip, but which nonetheless would serve as a perfectly good deterrent, according to Mr. Geddes.
“I say, would you mind my having a look at it?” Harry asked as Mr. Longworth, not as intrigued as he, excused himself with many protestations of a pressing engagement.
Since Mr. Geddes had not the least objection, Harry exposed once again each of the hidden accessories and tested the blade with a practiced thumb. “Where can I get one of these? Oh, pardon me, sir, I’ve not introduced myself. Harold Derwent, your servant.”
The inventor did not recognize the name but cordially offered his own and proceeded to explain, “I didn’t buy it; I made it. Seems to me that if one can have a sword in a stick, one can have any number of other useful gadgets. Saves remembering to push a bunch of little bits of things in your pockets.” He frowned over the stick for a moment. “I wish I could find a way to keep a handkerchief in it.”
Harry could sympathize with such a view, but he was too engrossed in what he saw as the one drawback to reply. “The glass wouldn’t be of much use where it is, you know. You’d have to hold the stick at a very awkward angle to look at people through it.”
“Look at people?” Mr. Geddes asked. “I had in mind to use it for studying small print in shops, don’t you know. Prices of things and such.” He watched thoughtfully as Harry demonstrated the odd angle required to view an approaching milkmaid, her pails empty and jangling on the yoke. “What I’d have to do is put it on a swivel.”
“Could you do that? Could you make me one?”
Nothing pleased Mr. Geddes more than someone appreciating one of his devices, but he said warningly, “It would be dear. The supplies for this one cost me almost three guineas. I’d have to charge, say, four.”
“Five,” Harry said with cheerful determination. “But could I have it soon?”
“Well, if you want this one, I could put a swivel on it for you now. I’m bound to have one in my rooms but you’d best come along and see if that makes it look ungainly.”
So Harry found himself reentering the house in Micklegate, though there was no sight of Miss Findlay, and climbing to the rooms on the first floor where the inventor used his dining parlor as a workshop. Untidy boxes of wheels, cogs, screws, and miscellany were scattered over every table and chair in the room, but Mr. Geddes swept aside the strange leather tent on one chair to offer his guest a seat. While he worked, Harry curiously surveyed the various half-finished experiments on which Mr. Geddes was currently working. One in particular drew his attention. “That looks like a turnspit.”
Mr. Geddes glanced up from his work and proudly eyed the contraption. “It is. I’ve devised a way to run it with clockwork. That eliminates a skipjack or a dog, since it only has to be wound up. The most difficult problem is in finding the right spring for a particular size jack. They’ve let me experiment downstairs and I believe I’ve found the right one, but Miss Findlay insisted I enclose it in a metal case so as to prevent any accidents if it’s wound too tightly. Would you like to see it operate?”
Which was how it came about that Mr. Geddes at length accompanied Harry (and his new walking stick) to the earl’s house and inspected the turnspit there with an eye to installing one of his inventions in the kitchens there. Harry was absolutely positive that his brother would approve, and more, he would entirely overlook the fiasco in the dining saloon in light of such a brilliant advance in the culinary department. Such is the faith of youth.
Chapter Five
Lord Latteridge and his secretary reached Pontefract early in the afternoon, and took rooms at the Red Lion, where his lordship was well-known and expected. There was a private parlor ready for them, with. a meal consisting of pea soup, a saddle of roasted mutton, stewed beef, goose giblets, and a second course of chicken, a roasted hare, collared eel, and a variety of pastry and creams. When the cloth was removed, Latteridge stretched out his long legs and disposed his lanky frame more comfortably in the ribband-back chair, nodded dismissal to the servant who had set out a bottle of the inn’s finest claret, and closed his eyes. William poured out two glasses and set one within reach of his employer, and awaited some pronouncement of moment. His lordship did not disappoint him.
“I am thinking of marrying, William.”
“Are you, sir? I had no idea.”
“Nor had I, until I received a letter from my mother the other day. She is determined that, as our mourning period is over, I must look about me for a bride and settle down at Ackton Towers.”
William raised an eyebrow unbelievingly. “I am all astonishment at your complacent acceptance of her decree sir. Has she chosen someone for you?”
"Therein lies the rub,” Latteridge replied, his hand reaching languidly for the glass of claret. “I am informed that she intends to bring Everingham’s oldest daughter with her to York when she comes. As a companion for Louisa, of course.”
“Of course."
“Have you ever met Sophia Everingham?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”
Something very like a snort emanated from his lordship. “She is a great favorite of my mother’s, and very like her.”
William took a healthy sip, and carefully placed his glass exactly four inches from the edge of the table. “I see.”
“Yes, I thought you would. It occurs to me that my mother is likely to persist in bringing eligible young ladies to my notice until I marry, and I am forced to observe that her choices are not likely to agree with my own requirements. Not that I think myself particularly demanding, you understand. A lady of good breeding, gentle manners, a fair understanding, reasonable beauty of face and person, but above all, a solid character. In short, an amiable, unaffected woman whose conversation is sensible, and whose deportment is acceptable.”
“I dare say you’ll have no trouble at all finding such a lady,” William replied with a grin.
Latteridge opened lazy eyes and asked with mild surprise, “Do you think I ask too much?”
“Not at all. In your position you should have included her being of one of the first families and fortunes of the realm, and possessed of more than ordinary beauty. But I would remind you that you have, over the years, met an inordinate number of foreign and domestic ladies,
and yet apparently never found anyone acceptable as a wife.”
“I wouldn’t say that, precisely,” the earl rejoined. “I simply was not looking for a wife then.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “There was Miss Hotchkiss.”
“Married to Lord Wilberfoss.”
“Well, Maria Wandesley.”
“Ran off with the family coachman, I believe.”
“Did she? How extraordinary. I admit I admired her spirit. In Rome, what was her name? Charlotte Martin? No, Marshfield.”
“She was already married,” William said dampingly.
"Was she? Ah, yes, the irascible member of Parliament from . . . Well, it was years ago, and he’s probably gone off in an apoplectic fit. Still, if I didn’t remember she was married, she may not be quite the right sort of woman.” There was a lurking twinkle in his eyes, and William bit back the acerbic retort he had intended to make. “My dear William, the point is that there are any number of suitable ladies, some of whom, in all likelihood, would prefer marriage to the single state. Look at my sisters, if you will. Susan is the picture of conjugal bliss, and Louisa is intent on contracting an alliance as soon as may be. Of course, that could be so that she may leave home; I do not overlook that possibility.”
Very few people rubbed along with any ease in the Dowager Lady Latteridge’s company, and certainly her youngest offspring did not number of their company. The enforced inactivity of the year’s mourning had caused tempers to rise, even in such a phlegmatic family as that of the Derwents. Lady Latteridge had condemned any proposal of diversion as disrespectful of the dead, though her attitude toward her husband while living (and though she rarely saw him), had been anything but a model of domestic accord. It was her wont, on receiving the occasional missive from him, to throw up her hands in a characteristic gesture (Lady Latteridge was French) and cry, “Imbecile! Does he think I cannot manage without his advice? If he is so convinced of my inutility, why does he not return to direct his own estate and family?”
The questions were rhetorical, as it was entirely owing to Lady Latteridge herself that the previous earl had found it necessary to leave England. But he was not a man to be pitied, as he had found his exile enjoyable in the extreme, and over the years had, through his services abroad, worked his way back into the good graces of his government. Perhaps it would be more precise to say that through his son’s services, the previous earl had been latterly clasped to his Majesty’s bosom, but that is mere nit-picking. The results were the same: The third Earl of Latteridge, having departed under a cloud of disgrace, had returned in triumph to his native land, bearing his eldest son home in his train, to settle once more at Ackton Towers, where he promptly succumbed, not to his wife’s acid tongue, as was rumored, but to the English weather, developing a chest complaint within weeks and dying, full of fond memories of his travels, within the month.
William Vernham had found it no simple matter to settle in the same house with Lady Latteridge, for she tended to look on him much as she did any other servant, and was given to sending him on errands more properly bestowed on the footmen. When Latteridge had come on him one day in the hall, the countess’s work basket in his hand, he said nothing to his secretary, but subsequently the Dowager had developed a frosty attitude toward him which was no better than her previous condescension.
Certainly William felt only sympathy with Lady Louisa’s firm resolve to establish a life of her own, away from the Dowager’s ruling hand. Harry, too, was feeling the stifling weight of his mother's overbearing personality, and had gladly escaped with his older brother to York. Only the earl himself remained seemingly oblivious to his mother’s autocratic sway, imperturbably going his own way whether it accorded with her sense of propriety or not. He had, three times during the year of mourning, slipped off to London with never a word to her. When she had expostulated each time on his return, he had smiled lazily and said, “I had matters to attend to, Mother. Pray excuse me; I should like to change.”
Eyeing the earl’s calm countenance now, William had a sudden inspiration, produced, perhaps, by the faintest of twitches to the lips betraying a secret amusement in his employer. Cautiously, he voiced an inner certainty. “If you marry, your mother will probably move to the dower house.”
The earl sighed. “Perhaps even to the estate in Dorset. I would make it very comfortable for her there, and she has often complained of the Yorkshire weather.”
“I dare say the change in climate would do her a world of good, sir.
“Yes, she’s been . . . out of sorts since my father died. Her companion—Madame Lefevre, is it?—would doubtless welcome the change of scene, too. I think Harry and Louisa are a strain on her nerves.”
William lifted his glass to hide the grin which refused to be squelched. “Apparently there are any number of advantages to your lordship’s marrying.”
“I believe there are.” The earl sipped the last of his claret, set the glass on the table and rose. “Shall we go? I have a mind to call on several of the neighborhood families after our business is finished with Hardwick.”
* * * *
Few sounds penetrated to the sick room in the black hours of the night, but neither aunt nor niece slept, the one struggling for breath, and the other gently wiping the damp forehead. One candle burned on the bedside table and by its light, Miss Effington studied Marianne’s watchful countenance. She spoke in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. “What will you do if I die?”
“You aren’t going to die, Aunt Effie.”
“You can’t possibly know that,” the old woman said fretfully, her fingers reaching out to clamp onto Marianne’s wrist. “What will you do?”
“Honestly, Aunt Effie, I haven’t given the matter any thought.”
“You should, my girl. You can’t stay here unchaperoned. For all you think yourself so advanced in years, your character would be in shreds if you lived here with two lodgers.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Understanding that her aunt was tormented by the thought of leaving her abandoned, Marianne said calmly, “I would find a companion, I suppose, until I could sell the house. Then I would move somewhere—to a village, perhaps, where I would keep chickens and a cow and maybe a few pigs. With my spare money I would invest in Mr. Geddes’s inventions.”
“This is not a jesting matter! Marianne, you should marry.”
“My love,” she laughed, “how can you say so? Have you not convinced me that a woman’s true freedom lies in the single state?”
Much to her surprise, a tear escaped the old lady’s eye and glinted in the candlelight as it slid unheeded down the pale cheek. “You are clever enough to know I spoke so only because of your situation, Marianne. Here in York you needn’t pay the least heed to the London gossip.”
“With Lady Latteridge expected any time?”
“Lady Latteridge can influence only the quality.” The words hung in the air as though written there in burning letters, and Miss Effington shivered despite the fire on the hearth, and the blankets piled about her. “Do you set much store in position? The finest man I ever knew was a gentleman-farmer. Look about you. The doctor, the inventor, the attorney—all minor gentry. What counts is not the orders they can pin on their coats, but the goodness in their hearts. Not that I would have you marry Mr. Oldham. Promise me you won’t marry him!"
“I promise,” Marianne said firmly, pressing her aunt’s frantic hand.
“Of course not. You have a great deal of sense, my dear, and you know it would be disastrous to ally yourself with such a prosy fool.” She struggled for breath and Marianne laid a finger on her lips.
“Don’t talk anymore now, love.”
“I must. I want to tell you something important. Tomorrow may be too late.”
“It won’t be. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” The old lady moistened her lips and said very slowly, “I loved that gentleman-farmer, Marianne. But we were quality, as you are, and he was beneath my st
ation. My parents forbade the banns, shuffled me off to France, lavished me with exquisite clothes and jewelry, always, always drumming into my mind the gulf between us. A whole parade of elegant young men was brought forth, in the hopes that one of them would catch my eye, and daily my parents pointed out the differences between their polished behavior and the simple rustic manners of my gentleman-farmer. And it was true. John never in his life could have bowed so gracefully, or conversed so politely, or held a teacup with such poise. My mother would say, with a sad smile, ‘Poor Mr. Deighton would be so uncomfortable at a London rout, wouldn’t he?’ And I realized that he would. I was pretty as a girl, you know, and much attention was paid to me when we went to London for the season. My head was turned, and all those little refinements came to seem so vastly important. Can you understand what I’m saying, Marianne?”
“I think so.”
“We returned to the country in the summer and there was John, just as rustic and honest and straightforward as he had always been, and I told him . . ." The pale face turned aside on the pillow as though only to the darkness opposite could Aunt Effie confess her shame. “I told him we were not suited, that I would never be able to marry him, that he was not to wait until I came of age. At the time I thought I had uncovered a major flaw in him, one that I could not live with. Only later did I come to understand that the flaws were superficial, and infinitely small compared with the ones I found in my suitors. My lord Hercules cheated when racing his horses, my lord Ulysses had gambled away the whole of his family’s fortune, Sir Achilles seldom endured a sober moment, the Honorable Mr. Nestor was anything but honorable. In addition,” she declared, the strength returning momentarily to her voice, “they all quite deserted me when Papa lost most of his money in the South Sea scheme.”
“And what of Mr. Deighton?”
“He had married poor Lavinia Trapper. She was orphaned when her parents were killed in a coaching accident, and it was found that her father was deeply in debt. Do I credit John with too much humanity in thinking he married her out of kindness? Or is it only that I cannot believe he could have loved someone other than me? What a foolish old woman I’ve become.”
The Lady Next Door Page 5
