“My dear Lady Louisa, your brother has given me the most delightful report of your progress, and here I find you quite grown into a lady. I understand you met my cousin Janet yesterday at Miss Findlay’s house. And she never said a word about how fashionable you have become! I remember you as the veriest hoyden.” Here Clare paused to offer an arch lift of her brows before continuing her flattery, but to her horror, Lady Latteridge, ostensibly attending to Lady Horton’s diatribe on the merits of close proximity to a felon’s prison, interrupted her with a bark of awesome fury directed at her daughter.
“Miss Findlay? Miss Findlay? Which Miss Findlay, Louisa?”
The girl lifted her chin and fearlessly met her mother’s eyes. “Susan’s friend Marianne, Mama. She now resides in York.”
“And you dare to tell me that you have visited her?” snapped the Dowager.
Not wishing to quibble, Louisa said simply, “Yes.”
“Never! You are never to do so again! Do you hear me? I will not have you call on that loose woman!”
Clare was drinking in every syllable as though her life depended on it, but now Louisa answered coldly, “You know that is not the truth, Mother. It is owing to your twisted planning that Miss Findlay has suffered ignominy, and for absolutely no purpose at all. Press took me to see her, and I intend to call again.”
“I absolutely forbid you to do so,” Lady Latteridge roared.
“Discuss the matter with Press, Mama. He is my guardian and if he feels I should not call, I will not.”
“He could not have taken you there knowing the situation.”
“But he does. He has had a letter from Susan, explaining.”
“And what did she know? She was a child at the time! Oh, she wanted her Selby, but she would not look to her own interests.”
Louisa, very aware of the two Hortons listening with goggling eyes and fervent enthusiasm, put an end to the argument. “I won’t discuss the matter further, Mama. You must take it up with Pressington.”
Complete silence fell over the group. Clare was too immersed in the ramifications of the scene to offer a word of social chatter and her mother, having considered Lady Latteridge’s uncompromising anger, felt too inhibited to do so. Madame Lefevre smiled benignly on the stunned party and made no effort to restore peace.
Eventually Louisa herself attempted to breach the gap with a few questions as to race and assembly dates, but the responses she received from the Hortons were hushed and incomplete, as though they were afraid to break in on the Dowager’s magnificent wrath. Shortly they excused themselves, and Louisa slipped from the room with them in order to avoid a further confrontation with her mother.
* * * *
During the acrimonious dispute, Lord Latteridge was himself riding with the object of Lady Latteridge’s scorn, though his mother had no inkling that this was the case. Louisa had made no objection to his taking the mare for Marianne, had in fact pressed him to do so whenever he chose. The riders made their way along the Ouse until it joined with the Foss, the aroma of late summer wafting over the water and the last of the fields being harvested. In a farmyard to their right, a young man fed a sow and her litter, while the dairy-maid sat in an improvised shade milking the cows. Beyond, two children carried mugs of home-brewed beer to the haymakers, as the farmer surveyed their work from the back of a plodding nag, a puppy scurrying at its heels. The sun glared down on the peaceful scene, only the swish of scythes and the occasional murmur of voices floating on the still air. Though Marianne had received her new riding habit, she had not worn it, owing to the heat of the day; it was almost too hot to ride comfortably.
Their way took them from the river, and after awhile they entered the cool of a small wood. Even under the wide-brimmed bonnet, Latteridge could see that her face was flushed with the heat, so he suggested that they dismount and rest for a while by the stream, sparkling where arrows of sunlight pierced the trees and danced chaotically on the ripples of water. The spot was enchanting, but secluded, and Marianne studied his face for a moment before nodding.
With the aid of his hand, she swung herself off the mare, and while he tethered the horses to a tree, she walked to the bank of the stream. Her face still prickled with the heat, so she reached down to dip her handkerchief in the rushing water. The wide skirts of her habit hampered her and she felt a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Allow me.” Taking the tiny linen square from her, he shook his head wonderingly as he dipped and wrung it out. "It is a source of amazement to me that ladies find the least usefulness in such a tiny bit of cloth.”
When she had seated herself on a flat stone, he returned the handkerchief and settled himself beside her, his knees drawn up, and his hat discarded, watching the stream as she patted at her flushed cheeks. “I’m not ordinarily so affected by the heat,” she said apologetically, slipping the damp handkerchief up her sleeve.
“You probably don’t get outdoors enough.”
“Of course I do. Aunt Effie and I walk about town frequently.”
“Which precludes a brisk pace, and truly fresh air. York is better than London, I grant you, but one has to get out of town altogether to enjoy smoke-free air. Think about it, Miss Findlay—butcher shops with their refuse, rotting vegetables in the market, sea coal fires on every hearth, litter from horses, cows, sheep, goats, dogs . . ."
“I don’t want to think about it,” Marianne protested, laughing. “I live in town and try to make the best of it.”
“But you were raised in the country and are accustomed to a more congenial air.”
"There are off-setting virtues to town life: its convenience, its diversions, the access to company.”
“Have you many friends in York?”
Marianne withdrew the handkerchief and patted once again at her cheeks. “Not so very many, I suppose. The Whixleys—you wouldn’t know them—and Dr. Thorne, and a few others. We’ve only been here a bit over a year, you see, and have spent most of our time getting the house in order . . . to take lodgers,” she finished, almost defiantly.
“Do you go to the theater and the assemblies?”
His curious gaze disconcerted her and she traced the embroidered “M” on the handkerchief. “The theater, yes; the assemblies, no.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you suppose?” she asked rather sharply, exasperated.
“I haven't the faintest idea. Tell me.”
He was lounging there so comfortably that she wished to shock him out of his lazy mockery. “Because I’m a social outcast, Lord Latteridge.”
Undaunted, he opened his drooping eyes wider to determine to what extent she really believed what she had said. “Are you? What constitutes a ‘social outcast’ in your eyes, Miss Findlay?”
“For a lady, a damaged reputation. Mine is irretrievably damaged.”
“And yet you didn’t seem to think so when you attended Lady Wandesley’s ball.”
“You know very well that was a trial. If I had been acquitted . . . But I was not.”
Latteridge noted the slight tightening of her lips, nothing else. Absently, he picked up a pebble and tossed it into the stream. “That was eight years ago, and this is York, not London.” His voice was almost impatient.
“Do you think I lack the courage to face them?” Her eyes flashed momentarily, then shrank before his. “Perhaps I do. There is always someone who remembers, some tenacious, sordid memory stored away, ready to be recalled. And then the clusters of whispering groups, the hostile eyes. You see, after Aunt Effie and I retired to Hampstead, I thought time might heal the damage. Four years we waited, years that seemed an eternity to me . . . but not to one old roué. We attended an assembly there and this . . . gentleman approached me for a dance. His countenance betrayed his knowledge, his hopes, I might even say. I refused him. Within the hour I was the object of every eye in the room and the Master of Ceremonies was approaching. I would not suffer that final disgrace, and we left. How can you think it would be different here,
especially since your mother has come to town?”
“It wouldn’t be different, I dare say,” he murmured, “but wouldn’t you like to face them all down?”
“To what purpose? Just to prove that I’ve developed a skin thick enough to ignore their horrified gazes?” Marianne rose and paced along the grassy bank. “I don’t think you understand, my lord. What others think of me is of little concern. I know the truth. That is enough. Usually. I have no desire to make other people uncomfortable. My attendance at an assembly would be upsetting not to the gossips, who would find it delightful conversation for weeks, but to those who sincerely believe that my presence is a threat to the moral tone of society.” She read his amusement where he still sat following her progress with his eyes and said sternly, “It is no laughing matter. If young girls entering society saw that their elders made no distinction between the virtuous and the . . . the impure, where would be the incentive to lead a moral life?”
The earl attempted valiantly to keep a straight face, but he was not successful. First his lips twitched, then his shoulders shook, and finally, the wicked man, he burst out laughing. Marianne, hands on hips, stood before him, glaring uncompromisingly on his unseemly mirth. But her outrage had no effect on him; he merely laughed the harder. When he at last gained a measure of control over his mirth, he rose to his feet and Marianne turned away from him, embarrassed by the delight still dancing in his eyes.
“My dear Miss Findlay,” he said to her stiff back, “don’t you see how ludicrous it is for you to take such a stand? A lady falsely accused of immorality refuses to go out in society because her supposed immorality might lead others astray?”
“It’s true, nonetheless,” she retorted fiercely, though she allowed him to turn her around and stood breathlessly still when he did not remove his hands from her shoulders.
“I think you have allowed your sense of humor to desert you on this point,” he told her seriously, surveying the wary face before him. “Or are you only able to see the absurdities of your companions, and not yourself?”
Stung, she shrugged away his hands. “I don’t consider people’s enthusiasms to be absurdities, and I assure you that I don’t take myself any more seriously than those around me. There is a substantial difference, however, in contemplating such little oddities as I may previously have mentioned, and the situation we are now discussing. You would not have introduced your sister Louisa into my home had you believed me to be a wanton woman, would you?”
In spite of himself, the earl could not resist grinning. He was aware of her earnest gravity, but such words as "impure” and “wanton” issuing from her lips was too much to be borne. “I had no idea there was this streak of propriety in you, Miss Findlay. Much sooner would I have supposed you wouldn’t care a fig for such things as appearances."
His choice of words was not perhaps felicitous. Although his only intention had been to tease her out of her rigid if estimable stand, Marianne regarded him with owlishly disbelieving eyes. “Just what is it you do believe about me, Lord Latteridge?” She could not resist glancing quickly past him to where the horses stood.
“For God’s sake, don’t be a goose! I’m not Sir Reginald! Have I not told you that Susan wrote to me? I promise you I consider your virtue beyond question.”
Marianne drew herself up to her most dignified height. “And what does Sir Reginald believe?”
“Who cares what the devil he believes?” Latteridge responded with asperity, annoyed with himself for such a careless slip.
“I care, of course. Not about what he thinks, but about what he says. Is he spreading malicious gossip about me in York?”
Latteridge shook his head uncertainly. “I really don’t know. You annoyed him over the explosion, and he has twice tried to denigrate you to me. Whether he does so with others . . ."
“Well, of course he does. Have you ever met one of his kind who didn’t use their meager mental powers to find fault with anyone who dared to cross him?” Marianne frowned. “How does he happen to know about what happened so long ago?”
“He doesn’t. He bases his suppositions on your taking lodgers.”
“With Aunt Effie in the house?” she asked incredulously.
“I don’t think he’s met your aunt.” Latteridge observed with satisfaction the delightful dimple that emerged when she chuckled.
“Ah, well, that explains it. Perhaps I should arrange for him to make my aunt’s acquaintance. That would repay him for his scandalous conclusions.”
“A very wise precaution,” the earl murmured as he straightened her disarranged bonnet. “Will you allow me to escort you to the next assembly?”
“Thank you, no. I realize you would like to undo what has been done, but it’s not possible, my lord. I’m quite content as things are. At my age, and with my new occupation, assemblies are a thing of the past in any case. Sometimes we have a dance at the Whixleys, you know, and among friends . . . Your sister is the one you will be escorting, and nothing should stand in the way of her enjoying her introduction to society.”
“She would be only too pleased to share the occasion with you.”
Marianne shook her head. “Nonsense. And even if she were, your mother . . . Well, there is no need to say how your mother would react.”
“I am more than capable of seeing that my mother behaves properly,” he said shortly.
“Are you? Yes, I believe you are. But my answer stands, Lord Latteridge.” She turned aside from him then and went to the mare. “Shall we go?”
"Of course.” When he had handed her onto the mare, she asked his opinion of the shaky nature of the current government, and whether he expected to see a change of administration. He had no choice but to go along with the change of subject.
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Louisa had intended to waylay her brother on his return to prepare him for their mother’s latest storm, but she had ducked into the kitchens for a moment to satisfy her curiosity about the new turnspit, when he walked, all unsuspecting, into the house. Lady Latteridge had disposed herself in the closest room to the hall, the door open, and her workbasket untouched, so that she might concentrate her entire attention on listening for her son’s footsteps. When they came, she instantly rose to her feet and stood in the doorway saying only, “Pressington.”
Her ominous tone might have shattered the composure of her minions, but the earl smiled. “Mother. Would you not be more comfortable in the drawing room?”
“I will not be comfortable anywhere until I have had a word with you.”
“I see. Well, let me just change out of my riding clothes and I’ll join you in the drawing room.”
Lady Latteridge clenched her hands in an agony of impatience. "The matter is urgent. This once you may join me in your dusty condition.”
Murmuring his gratitude at such condescension, he followed her into the cheerless antechamber where she had awaited him and, although she waved him to a chair, he chose to stand by the window, his hands clasped lightly behind him and a polite air of attention about his countenance. Sure that she would launch directly into her subject, he made no attempt to speak.
“It has come to my attention that Marianne Findlay lives in York and that you have taken Louisa to visit her. I will not allow it! That my daughter should associate with a woman of the grossest of morals is not to be tolerated. You should be sunk in shame for such an action. Your own sister! Have you no sense of what is fitting?” Under his cold stare she abruptly stopped speaking.
“Have you no sense of justice at all, Mother?” he asked, his voice as cold as his eyes. “Are you not content with persecuting that poor girl eight years ago without dredging up your infamy? Do you intend to reopen a matter which sheds such a deplorable light on your own character?”
“My character! You are misinformed, Pressington. I’m not surprised, if you have had your information from that empty-headed sister of yours, but you will please to speak to your mother with the respect which should be shown
her.” Lady Latteridge sat unbending in her indignation and dignity, but her son was not to be intimidated.
“Perhaps you forget, Mother, that I am the head of the family now, and responsible for the behavior of all of us. I should like to hear your justification for the way you treated Miss Findlay.” When she did not reply, he said, “Come now, Mother. What was Miss Findlay’s crime?”
"She spent the night alone with her cousin.”
"I see. And how do you know that?”
“Everyone knew it.”
“In other words, common gossip. You surprise me, Mother.”
But Lady Latteridge did not flinch under his disdainful tone. “Her father made no secret of the fact.”
“Did he tell you personally, Mother?”
“No, of course not, but I had it on the best authority.”
“Whose?”
“Your cousin Charles,” she said triumphantly. In the whole course of his life, no one had ever doubted one word which sprang from Charles Hastings’s lips, since he was an uncommonly pious fellow, not only a believer in Methodism, but addicted to it.
“And what did Charles tell you?”
“He was in a coffeehouse where Sir Edward Findlay proclaimed that his daughter had run off with her cousin.”
Latteridge tapped the windowsill like a judge calling the court to order. “If you expect me to believe you, Mother, you had best be more precise in your wording. ‘Run off with’ denotes a willingness on the part of both participants.”
“What does it matter?” she complained petulantly. “She spent a night, alone, with a man.”
The Lady Next Door Page 14
