The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

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.

  Dr. Thorne was no less bedraggled than the sailors or the gentleman, but he surveyed her own condition with admiration. Although undoubtedly wet and cold, she still looked lovely, with her wind-tossed hair, her shining hazel eyes, and glowing cheeks. “Poor dear. I’ll have to take the sailor home to set the leg. Shall I see you back first?”

  “Certainly not! I’m perfectly capable of making my own way. Thank you, Dr. Thorne.” She forced herself to turn to the gentleman whose sparkling white knee breeches were muddy, and whose velvet coat would soon be wet through from the sopping brocaded waistcoat. His resemblance to Harry Derwent and to Lady Susan was unmistakable. Though not positive, Marianne had the distinct impression that he had to be the Earl of Latteridge. There was, of course, the off-chance that he was related to them in some other way, but the very fact that he was in York made that possibility remote. “And thank you, sir. I feared no one else would have the humanity to help.”

  Latteridge was seated on the bank trying to force his wet-stockinged feet into elegant boots. “I enjoy a good swim now and then,” he said ruefully. Rising to stand over her he asked, “May I see you home, ma’am?” When she hesitated, he raised a comic brow “Unless, of course, you object to being seen with a gentleman in such a disgraceful condition.”

  “Pray don’t delay for me. It is but a step to my home.”

  “Then I shall suffer no inconvenience in attending you,” he drawled, “and I am sure the good doctor would appreciate my rendering you such a service after you have provided him with a new patient.”

  Dr. Thorne, meant to overhear this remark, regarded Marianne cheerfully. “Go with him, my dear. It will make my mind easier.”

  Marianne had no choice but to accept the earl’s offered escort; any other course would be churlish. Pulling the hood back up over her flaming curls she smiled and said, “Very well. Good day, Dr. Thorne. I shall remember that if I wish an exciting morning’s excursion, I have only to accompany you.”

  Already occupied in directing the removal of the wounded sailor, Dr. Thorne protested somewhat absently, “I might say the same! Run along now and change into some dry clothes before you catch your death. I’d hate to answer to your aunt for that!”

  Hardly a lover-like parting, Latteridge decided with surprising satisfaction. Unlike Marianne, he had no idea who she was, but he had every intention of finding out. “It’s not then a habit with you? Rescuing people?” he asked as he guided her along the promenade.

  Marianne laughed. “My first occasion, I promise you, and I could just as well have done without the excitement. How could so many people stand by and not do anything?”

  The question was rhetorical and the earl made no attempt to answer it, since it was unanswerable. “Do you live in York, Miss . . ."

  “Yes, though we haven’t been here long. It’s quite a lovely city, isn’t it? And excellent theaters, beautiful assembly rooms, shops of every description, the horse races. And with few of the distressing elements of London. Things are less hurried here.”

  Latteridge noted with surprise that she was headed for the Ouse Bridge. Still he did not suspect; his only thought was that she could not. possibly live far from his house in Micklegate. “Dr. Thorne seems a competent young man. Has he practiced here long?”

  “Several years, I believe. He went to Oxford, then trained as a surgeon at St. George’s Hospital in London. But I believe he holds his Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of Aberdeen. He’s fascinated by microscopes."

  “Is he?” The earl was fascinated by the smile that played between her lips and eyes.

  “Yes, he says he’s seen the circulation of globules of blood in a frog’s toe web.”

  “Has he? How extraordinary! And he thought you would be interested to hear of it?”

  Her eyes danced. “Of course I was. Everyone should have an enthusiasm, don’t you think?”

  “Undoubtedly. Do you have an enthusiasm, Miss . . ."

  It was more difficult this time to ignore the query but Marianne managed to do so. “I confess that I am especially interested in other people’s enthusiasms. Have you seen Miss Morrett’s tapestries? My aunt is so agog with how clever they are, that she will wear her spectacles in public to study them. And Mr. Geddes is currently intrigued by the possibilities for further innovations to candlesnuffers. Did you know a fellow in London has patented one with a device to prevent the previously snuffed stuff from falling out when you go to snuff the next candle?”

  The earl caught the unmistakable gleam in her eyes and protested, “What you mean is that you are amused by other people’s enthusiasms."

  “Not at all. I find them wholly endearing.”

  A thought had occurred to Latteridge and he asked, "The Mr. Geddes who invents walking sticks with embedded accessories and self-propelling turnspits?”

  Their rapid pace had brought them to Marianne's door and she offered an apologetic smile. “Yes, that Mr. Geddes.”

  “Miss Findlay?” There was a note of incredulity in his voice, though his ever-placid countenance reflected nothing but cordiality. When she nodded, he said, “I am your neighbor, Lord Latteridge.”

  “I suspected as much. Harry Derwent has a similar cast of features.”

  Seldom was the earl at a loss for words, but he found himself hard-pressed now. At length he said, “I trust your aunt is better.”

  “Much better, thank you. In fact,” she amended almost seriously, “well enough to partake of the soup and fruit you had sent. I trust you received our acknowledgment of your thoughtfulness.”

  “I’m sure I did.” Some recollection of William laying the note on his desk returned to him but he did not think he had read it.

  Marianne had used the knocker and Roberts now opened the door. “Good day, Lord Latteridge. I hope you receive no ill from your soaking.” And then, irrepressibly, as the door closed after her, “But send for Dr. Thorne if you do; he’s very talented.”

  Whether amusement, perplexity, or wonder was uppermost in his mind, the earl could not decide. He turned his energies instead to calculating whether it would be socially acceptable for him to call on her the next day—to inquire as to her well-being after such a harrowing adventure. Not that she had seemed the least discomposed by it, but still . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Latteridge had forgotten, in his preoccupation, that he had a match scheduled with Sir Reginald Barrett the next day at the Knavesmire track. Neither gentleman chose to ride his own horse in the race, as Latteridge’s weight was too great, and Sir Reginald’s foppish taste recoiled at the spectacle he would present. On the other hand, neither of them was content to observe the proceedings from Carr’s standhouse, since last minute instructions had to be given the jockeys. A goodly number of viewers lined the course, on foot, on horseback, as well as the ladies in carriages.

  The two horses were well-matched, a chestnut and a bay, and a hundred guineas rode on the outcome
. At the start, Sir Reginald’s colors of purple and silver preceded the earl’s scarlet and gold, but Champignon quickly gained on the showy Challenger until the two ran neck and neck for most of the course. A handkerchief fluttered onto the track, startling Champignon, who broke stride and lost just enough ground to be defeated by a neck. The earl was resigned; Sir Reginald was jubilant.

  “What did I tell you, Latteridge? Fastest horse in the North, by God! And not even at his best today. I’ve seen him faster, you know. Outran that nag of Fotherby’s without even trying.” Sir Reginald minced over to his triumphant steed, but hesitated to stroke the sweaty neck, having a great admiration for his spotless pearl-gray gloves. The victory, however, put him in charity with his opponent and he allowed his tongue to wander on thoughtlessly. “Saw you yesterday in the promenade when you dragged that sailor out of the river. Ruined your clothes, I’ll be bound. And the woman was Miss Findlay, wasn’t it? Can’t miss that vulgar red hair of hers. She acted like some five-pound maid rescuing a prize gosling from a pond!” He leaned toward the earl, whose expression he entirely misread, in a confidential manner. “I think your brother has a mind to set her up. I’ve seen him go into her house several times. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about her! Next thing you know the place will become a regular bordello. Not that it’s not a handy situation for your brother, but the neighborhood . . ."

  “As usual, you have imposed your own prurient thought on the situation,” Latteridge informed him coldly. “Miss Findlay’s aunt has been dangerously ill, and Harry has kindly visited to inquire as to her progress. You will be delighted to hear that the aunt is recovering now."

  “Delighted be damned,” Sir Reginald muttered, his face suffused with color. “I still think she doesn’t belong in the neighborhood. Any number of the first families of the county have houses in Micklegate, Latteridge, and there she sits in that run-down shambles with her lodgers.”

  "The house looks a great deal better than I remember it. True, it is small, but the broken gutters have been replaced and the window trim painted. Actually, I think it makes both of our residences appear the more to advantage, in contrast to its moderate size.”

  Sir Reginald had not considered this facet of the matter, but he was undaunted. “She’s not a lady, Latteridge! No gentlewoman would have gone to the assistance of some ragged sailors.”

  “Nor walked home with a gentleman in my miserable condition, I suppose,” suggested the earl placidly, a gleam in his eye which should have warned the obtuse Sir Reginald, but did not.

  "She should give her right arm to be seen in your company, disarrayed or not! You are too easygoing, Latteridge. Such upstarts should be put firmly in their place. The next thing you know she’ll be telling her friends you asked to escort her home.”

  "I did.”

  Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. “I wash my hands of you. Have you no regard. for your dignity?”

  “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be standing here listening to your spiteful drivel, my dear fellow.”

  “You’re just annoyed because Challenger took the shine out of your mushroom. That’s what it means, doesn’t it? Champignon?”

  “Yes,” the earl replied with a quiet chuckle. “Your accent is deplorable.”

  “Bah!” Sir Reginald started to mince away to a group of friends. “One must mimic French fashions, but I can see no reason to exert oneself to learn the language. Of course, your mother is French, so it comes naturally to you.”

  Lord Latteridge shook his head mournfully and turned to console his jockey. “Don’t blame yourself, Timothy. It was an unfortunate accident. Champignon is a bit skittish yet, but he’ll settle down.”

  “I don’t believe ‘twere an accident, my lord,” the little fellow grumbled, scratching his head. ‘Twere one of Sir Reginald’s friends lost his handkerchief.”

  "Don't tell anyone else, if you please. Nothing would be achieved by such a rumor.” The earl smiled at his disconsolate rider. “We’ll just bear it in mind for the future.”

  On the ride back from the race course, Latteridge was silent, and William chose not to interrupt his thoughts, which apparently were perplexing, as the dark brows were lowered over narrowed eyes. Eventually the earl shrugged and turned to him. “I finally met Miss Findlay yesterday, William.”

  “Did you, sir?”

  “Yes, she was helping to fish some drowning sailors out of the river. With Dr. Thorne. Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met, but for the most part I’ve only heard of him. A very respected doctor in town, though he’s young and hasn’t been here all that long.”

  “Apparently he’s quite devoted to his work. Is he married?”

  “No, a bachelor.” William unobtrusively studied his employer. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “Me? No, no, I’m fine. We have no family doctor in town since Bradshawe died. Prudence dictates that we have someone to call in an emergency. You think Dr. Thorne would be a wise choice?”

  “From everything I’ve heard. He seems to have pulled Miss Effington out of a very dangerous illness.”

  “Miss Effington?”

  “Miss Findlay’s aunt.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten her name. William, it is going to be deuced difficult to get to know that woman.”

  With a straight face, William asked, “Who, my lord? Miss Effington? She’s fifty if she’s a day, and she has a ferocious tongue. Are you sure you want to know her?”

  “And this is the man I offered to help,” Latteridge repined. “Base ingratitude. When I think of the years I have harbored a serpent in my bosom . . ."

  “Don’t tell me you are asking my help,” William laughed. “When I think of the Misses Haxby, Condicote, Winscombe, and Horton, not to mention Mrs. Tremaine, hanging on every word from your lips . . ."

  “You forget that Miss Findlay does not hold my family in esteem. I have learned from Harry that it has to do with Mother.” He exchanged a significant look with his secretary and proceeded. “But that is not the major difficulty. At least, I trust it isn’t. Sir Reginald sees every male who enters Miss Findlay’s house as—shall I be blunt?—a potential patron of her favors. He has already suggested her tenants and my brother, and, though I could perhaps silence his ramblings, I feel it would hardly be fair to her to give him new pickings for his feverish brain, when I would simply welcome the opportunity to further our acquaintance.”

  “Did Miss Findlay give any indication that she would appreciate seeing you again?” William asked curiously.

  “None, but she showed no animosity.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “If you would call on her this afternoon with my compliments and inquire as to her well-being after yesterday’s adventure, I would be grateful. Beyond that, well, I will have to consider the matter.”

  William was decidedly hurt. “You don’t think Sir Reginald will look askance on my calling?”

  “My dear fellow, he is far too arrogant to notice you at all,” Latteridge retorted with a grin.

  * * * *

  “I think that fellow has his eye on you,” Aunt Effie announced when Dr. Thorne was barely out the door.

  “You think every man has his eye on me. First poor Mr. Oldham and now Dr. Thorne. Who next, my dear? Mr. Geddes?”

  “Don’t scoff, Marianne. The doctor took you walking yesterday, didn’t he? And he’s been here every day for the last week or so.”

  “Well, of course he has,” Marianne answered practically. “You’ve been sick.”

  “I’m not any longer, and I shall get up this very minute.” A challenging determination settled over her features, and she pushed back the covers with only a slightly questioning glance at her niece.

  Marianne laughed. “Very well, Aunt Effie. Let me help you with your dressing gown.”

  A sly light gleamed in Miss Effington’s eyes. “I’ll have my clothes, if you please.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t, my dear,” Marianne retorted.. “Tomor
row perhaps, if you are still feeling well, but today it will test your strength enough to simply sit up in the drawing room en déshabille. Come, slip into your gown."

  With a disparaging sniff the old lady allowed herself to be wrapped in the flowery silk wrapper, its purple and yellow splotches making her face pale by comparison. "Where are my spectacles?”

  "I'll bring them to you once we have you settled on the sofa, Aunt Effie.” Marianne paid not the least heed to her aunt’s grumblings, as she led her from the bedroom into the drawing room, and draped a shawl about her knees. When she returned a short time later, she had not one, but both pairs of spectacles with her, and she held them out for her aunt to make a choice.

  "Those aren’t mine,” Aunt Effie muttered, pointing to one of the pairs with a slightly unsteady finger.

  "They are, though. Mr. Geddes has fitted them with short temple pieces. I know you have never been able to tolerate turnpin temples, but you will find these quite comfortable, if you will but try them. The circles press against your head to hold the frames in place; Mr. Geddes saw some just like them in a spectacle-maker’s shop in Coney Street, and he adapted yours for you. And look what he’s done, Aunt Effie. This silver chain attached to the rings . . . Here, I’ll show you.” Marianne put the steel-framed spectacles on to demonstrate how they stayed in place, and then let them fall to hang around her neck by the silver chain. “This way you needn’t be forever misplacing them, my dear. Isn’t that clever?”

  “Why did he do it?”

  Marianne lifted the spectacles from around her neck and handed them to her aunt. “Because he wished to do something for you when you were sick.”

  “Humph. He wished to do something for you, more like. He’s too young for you, Marianne; I shouldn’t encourage him if I were you.”

  “For God’s sake, Aunt Effie,” Marianne said with undisguised exasperation, “I told you you’d hit on Mr. Geddes next. No one is interested in me, and I have no intention of tossing my cap at anyone, either.”

  "Now, now, don’t take offense! I’m not saying you’ve been the least forward with any of them, and you know I should like to see you married, but you must first decide which you are to have. Mr. Geddes is too young, Mr. Oldham is a bore, Harry Derwent is ineligible, so I think you should concentrate on Dr. Thorne.”