The Lady Next Door

by Laura Matthews

  “You know I don’t. But it is important, vastly important. It determines the way in which he lives, how large a house he resides in, how many amenities he can allow himself, how much leisure time he has for amusements. And you must admit that those things are important. You take a young lady who has all her life enjoyed every luxury; you do not suddenly allow her to exist in humble circumstances.” He was, of course, referring to Lady Louisa, but he turned to face his companion. “I may be wrong, but I think that is what has happened to you, Marianne, and it’s not pleasant, is it?”

  “No,” she admitted, “but it’s not entirely disagreeable either.”

  “Well, you can’t expect someone who has the welfare of a young lady at heart to choose a situation that is not 'entirely disagreeable,’ can you? Or one who is sincerely attached to her to wish to lower her to an ignominious financial and social position? There is a substantial difference between objecting to a mésalliance, and promoting a worldly and advantageous match. I am perfectly in accord with the theory of equals marrying. There are difficulties enough without adding to them.”

  “And is no consideration to be given to the wishes of the young ladies involved?” she asked gently.

  “You know that’s unfair, Marianne.” Purposely he used her name again because he needed the closeness and familiarity it symbolized, needed a friend to understand the realities of his position. “As often as not, young ladies do not comprehend the extent of the deprivations they would suffer. One’s emotions are flexible, even chaotic, when young. My sister fell in love half a dozen times between the ages of sixteen and twenty. She didn’t regret later that no one had encouraged her in her passion for the footman! It is not cruelty, but kindness, to lead such a one away from a mistaken object. Time heals such wounds, especially for the young."

  “Not always,” Marianne retorted, remembering her aunt’s story.

  “Usually.” He met her eyes with a sad smile. "You know it does.”

  “Yes.” But not, I think, in this case, she wanted to add, but refrained. It would do no good to cast doubt on his good intentions. Nor would it prove of the slightest efficacy to point out that he was no more likely than Lady Louisa to find himself heart-whole in time, for this was no simple physical attraction to be superseded by someone newer and more appealing. “I’m very sorry . . . Stephen."

  “Thank you.” He smiled and reached across to press her hand. “I don’t feel any anger in the matter, you know. I could scarcely have been treated with greater kindness and tact by his lordship. My resolution was not strong enough, being perpetually in her company, until he helped me firm it. I am greatly to blame for permitting such a hobble. And I have never felt any blindness to my personal self on his part, either. His vision is remarkably clear and he would, I think, always value the person behind the profession. You cannot have failed to remark his easy association with his secretary. His authority comes from his principles, not from his position, and there’s no lack of humanity in him. He’s quite as distressed for my feelings as you are, my dear.” Dr. Thorne looked away from her, out over the harvested fields, and said, “I’m sorry all this, and his brother’s accident, have kept him from visiting you."

  Marianne flushed. Were her emotions so clear to the doctor? “He has been very accommodating to us. I only wish there were more we could have done for Derwent in his illness.”

  Accepting this as her decision not to confide in him, Dr. Thorne said cheerfully, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry myself over that. Each time I enter the sick room I find more books, games, packs of cards, drawing materials, and the like. He’s no longer in much pain, and his time is fully occupied with one of the members of the household reading to him or playing at piquet. Shall we head back? I would hate to incur Miss Effington’s wrath at having you late to dinner.”

  “Will you dine with us? Aunt Effie specially ordered a roast leg of lamb and a bread pudding, in hopes that I might convince you.”

  “I’d enjoy nothing better.” As they set their horses in motion, he pursued his previous intention and proclaimed, “Now I shall tell you more about my microscope. I don’t think you have the right idea of it at all.”

  * * * *

  Louisa tapped hesitantly on the door, and to her surprise Harry opened it himself. He was fully clothed in buff breeches and a brown coat, his walking stick clutched firmly in his hand, looking very much as though he intended to go visiting. The determined light in his eyes did nothing to diminish this impression.

  “Are you . . . going out?” she asked, attempting to keep the concern from her voice.

  "I am. God, Louisa, I’m sick to death of sitting around this room. Not that I don’t appreciate everyone’s efforts to entertain me! But if I don’t get out, I think I’ll lose my mind.”

  “Yes, I can see that and your color is very good today. What did Dr. Thorne say?”

  “He told me it would not be necessary for him to come again as I’m perfectly healed and only want strength to be right up to snuff. So you see, it’s practically the doctor’s orders.”

  “Harry, may I go with you?” she asked with unwonted eagerness. “I’ve been out riding with Press while you’ve been ill, of course, but I haven’t had much opportunity to simply walk about.”

  Since he had intended adjourning to his favorite coffeehouse, this was not the most welcome suggestion, but Harry realized that he was under no small obligation to his sister for the time she had spent with him. “Why not? Run along and get a bonnet and shawl; I’ll wait for you in the hall. Is Press about?” he asked somewhat diffidently.

  “No, he’s taken Mother to visit Lady Ayford. I excused myself.”

  "No wonder.”

  When the two had let themselves out into Micklegate, Louisa turned to the right but Harry frowned. “I thought we might walk toward Coney Street.”

  “Dear Harry, are you intent on exhausting yourself? You must build up your strength gradually. I had thought we might walk toward Micklegate Bar, and then call on Miss Findlay on our return.” Louisa held her breath while he considered the wisdom of her suggestion.

  “Oh, very well. But tomorrow I intend to go to Coney Street, alone,” he muttered with a touch of bravado.

  She released her breath with a smile. “Thank you, Harry.”

  No one had said anything to her about Dr. Thorne, not in so many words. Her mother, she felt sure, had no idea of her attachment to him, nor of course did Harry. But Press knew, and his actions were clear enough. First, he had no longer suggested that they visit Miss Findlay, and when she had broached the subject herself, he had, with a sympathetic smile, said, “You are spending too much time sitting with Harry, Louisa, and what you need is a ride, rather than sitting about Miss Findlay’s drawing room.” She had considered arguing with him; after a few days she had felt like pleading with him. But she had done neither, because there was also the fact that she never saw Dr. Thorne when he paid his visits to his patient. And when Harry had insisted that they should not miss the assembly on his account, they had gone—and Dr. Thorne was not there.

  Louisa was not blind and she had no lack of understanding; she knew precisely what had happened. During those hours when she was not reading to Harry, or riding with Pressington, her mind was constantly occupied with considering how best to deal with the situation. It was no use faulting her brother’s concern for her, or Dr. Thorne’s selfless gallantry. There was nothing to be gained by ranting or sulking, little use even in reasoned argument: they held all the trump cards. Louisa even forced herself to study the possibility that they were right, though it made her heart ache so badly she had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay. In marrying Dr. Thorne she would lose the privileged social position she had enjoyed all her life, and she knew that it didn’t matter in the least to her, but she saw that it would sorely grieve her family, and even Dr. Thorne himself. And there was the problem of money. Dr. Thorne’s practice was flourishing, but his income could not compare with the earl’s. Louisa had been past his h
ouse in Coppergate, a handsome brick building which housed him and also provided space for consulting rooms. He had no country house, kept only an unfashionable gig for transport, and lived simply.

  Acknowledging that she had no real concept of how it was to live on such a modest scale, Louisa could yet realistically argue that her own tastes were not extravagant. Certainly she dressed fashionably, and that was an expense; she also had her mare, and the feed and care of such an animal was not small; her delight was in her books and drawing materials, again an expense, but not so very great. No, financially she was sure she could manage.

  Were they concerned, too, about her delicacy? Did they worry that she would be exposed to sick and injured people and find it trying, or worse? Louisa had, over the weeks, induced Dr. Thorne to tell her his experiences as a student and as a practitioner. Under her inquisitive questioning he had, at first reluctantly, and then with relief, as he saw she had no squeamishness, related the fascinating and the gruesome alike. Once, before Harry’s accident, she had attempted a small test. Knowing that Mrs. Stillingfleet was a major subscriber to the York hospital, she had arranged to accompany her on a tour of the wards. The sights had been distressing, but her empathy had not overcome her practical outlook, and her sensible questions had much elevated her in Mrs. Stillingfleet’s eyes. On her own she had become a subscriber, without mentioning the matter to anyone; her allowance was hers to do with as she wished.

  Surely she had exhibited her ability to be usefully detached when Dr. Thorne had treated Harry. And the thought of being of assistance to Dr. Thorne, no matter how little, was important to her. Watching him work, knowing his concern for his patients, had made her aware of the essentially unrewarding life she led, the life everyone was so intent that she continue to lead. Louisa felt a need for some balancing influence, some purposeful object to her existence. Her mother’s life, she felt, was totally without merit; her sister Susan had her husband and her family; her brother Press had the management of his estates; her brother Harry seemed to her to be unconsciously searching for something to do with himself in a restless exploration of all sorts of amusements which failed to entertain. Louisa thought perhaps Press would understand at least this facet of her situation, though he might, like most men, see her role as being fulfilled by marriage and motherhood.

  The same considerations plagued her every waking hour because she could see no solution which would satisfy everyone; and no one, not even Dr. Thorne, would believe that her decision was irrevocable and based on a knowledge of herself which no one else could possibly possess. She dismissed the idea of sharing her troubles with Harry, who was agonizingly burdened by his own just now. As she walked with him she maintained, as she had for some days now, the composed exterior which was more alarming to Latteridge than any signs of distress might have been. Her disappointment at not finding Dr. Thorne at Miss Findlay’s, however, very nearly cracked her hard-won facade.

  “Have we come at an awkward time, Miss Findlay?” Louisa inquired, noting that not even Miss Effington was with her niece.

  “Not at all. I’m delighted to see you both. Aunt Effie has gone a-shopping with her friend Mrs. Whixley, and they hope to procure us a box for the benefit at the theater tomorrow. Please sit down. You look splendid, sir. I hadn’t expected to see you out so soon.”

  Harry’s color was better than it had been since the duel, mostly on account of his exercise, but he was more tired than he cared to admit. “I’m right as rain again. Louisa thinks to pamper me but there’s not the least need.”

  As he seated himself, Marianne pretended not to see his grimace of pain, but she shared a rueful glance with Louisa. Not until that moment had it occurred to the girl that here was someone in whom she might confide, someone who might understand and help her to sort out her confusion. When Harry in his exhaustion suggested that they should be going, she smiled and said, “If you don’t mind, Harry, I shall stay a moment longer with Miss Findlay.”

  Too tired to object, he took his leave and Louisa found Marianne’s kindly eyes on her, waiting for her to speak. The girl made an apologetic gesture with one fine, long hand and said simply, “I need to talk with someone.”

  “Please feel free, my dear. I’m honored by your confidence.”

  “You know how things stand . . . with Dr. Thorne and me?”

  “Yes. I ache for you both.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if there’s anything I can or should do. Please believe that I’ve considered all possible arguments against such a match, and I can understand Pressington’s concern. My social position, my financial position, even the distresses of being a doctor’s wife, all are valid objections, but they don’t really apply to me. They are concerns of my brother and Dr. Thorne for a girl of my birth. But I have led a rather retired life, Miss Findlay, and really have no taste for the social whirl. My father and older brother were on the continent for years, with only occasional visits home. Harry was at school and Mama, after seeing Susan married, was content to return to Ackton Towers, where she hasn’t many social exchanges. And then Papa died, and we stayed at the Towers doing little for a year."

  “Didn’t you look forward to coming to York?”

  “Oh, certainly. But mostly I was determined to find a husband to get out of my mother’s .. . I suppose I shouldn’t say that. It’s true, nonetheless. And I envisioned meeting some man of my station and falling in love with him and marrying, just as Susan did. It wasn’t for the assemblies and card parties and morning calls that I looked forward to coming here. They’re well enough, I suppose, but they become terribly repetitious.”

  “And the young men of your station whom you’ve met?”

  Louisa smiled. “They’re repetitious, too. Elegant clothes, elegant manners, and concerned only with trivialities.”

  “Surely not all of them,” Marianne protested.

  “Most of them. Do you know Clare Horton?”

  “I’ve never met her, only her cousin.”

  “Well, the beautiful Miss Horton is determined to have Pressington and she thinks to provide me with a partner as sort of a prenuptial gift to him, I think. Rid him of one of his concerns, as it were. How she lighted on Lord Bowland, only someone acquainted with her tortuous brain could say. I certainly couldn’t. Do you know him?”

  "No."

  “You are very fortunate. A polished fellow, as lively as can be, with a penchant for courting anyone known to have a sizeable dowry. He is all talk of every expensive pursuit—traveling, hunting, lavish entertaining—but one seldom sees him actually spend so much as a guinea. He’s hanging out for a wife who will provide him with all the elegancies of life. And Clare Horton has pointed him in my direction.” Louisa frowned. “That’s neither here nor there. Even if he were the most decent fellow in the world, I couldn’t see him for Dr. Thorne.”

  “You don’t think,” Marianne asked gently, “that in time you could be fond of some gentleman of whom your family would approve? That if he doesn’t exist here in York, you might find him in London?”

  "I suppose there are some gentlemen of Pressington’s caliber to be found,” Louisa admitted, frowning thoughtfully at her kid boots, “and I suppose I might even develop a fondness for one, after awhile, but it would not be the same. You see, aside from himself, I like Dr. Thorne being a doctor. I can respect a man for reading Latin and Greek, for taking an interest in his tenants, for being generous in his dealings with his family and those unrelated to him, but Dr. Thorne is all that and more. He’s immersed in his work. It’s more than a facet of his personality, it’s a part of his being. I can’t explain it very well.”

  In spite of herself, Marianne was impressed by the quiet strength of the girl’s conviction. “And you want to be a part of that sort of dedication.”

  Louisa turned shining eyes to her. “You do understand. Am I wrong to want it? To depend on someone else to belong to that realm? I don’t think I’m a fanatic; certainly I’ve never had the least desire to m
arry old Dr. Miller or his young assistant at Ackton.” Louisa giggled, but immediately turned serious. “And I think I wouldn’t now if I didn’t feel so . . . close to Dr. Thorne. Sometimes I feel as though he were a part of me, a part that’s been missing all my life and has now completed me. Miss Findlay, I wouldn’t feel whole anymore if I weren’t with him.”

  “So it would do you no good to try to fall in with your family’s wishes.” Marianne smiled a little wistfully. “You are a most unusual young lady, my dear. Do you think you could explain this to your brother, Lord Latteridge?”

  “He has a great deal of sensibility for a man, and I feel sure that in the end I could convince him of my sincerity, but he is not the major problem, is he? Dr. Thorne himself poses the major obstacle. I mean, he hasn’t asked me to marry him, after all, and there is really no chance that he will. He’s an honorable man, Miss Findlay, and in his eyes it would be wrong for him to do so, for any number of reasons—because he cannot offer me the position I am accustomed to, because my family would disapprove, because he feels he has captured my affections when I am young and vulnerable, because he thinks it possible that in time I will find a worthier match with which I can be happy.”

  “You will have to talk to him.”

  “How can I? He’s doing his best to avoid any place where he may run into me. I had hoped, I confess, that I might find him here, accidentally, as it were. I would never ask you to arrange a clandestine meeting for me." She lifted her firm little chin, and gray eyes, so like Latteridge’s, uncompromising. “My mother has made a great deal of trouble for you and I will not be the cause of further distress. But if . . . if Pressington were to ask your opinion of the affair, I would be grateful for your support.”

  “He is not likely to do so.”

  Startled, Louisa regarded her with puzzled eyes. "Why not? I can think of no one he is more apt to consult.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve misread the situation, Lady Louisa. Lord Latteridge had not known about the contretemps in London, and when he found out he wished to do what he could to rectify any damage. A noble sentiment, of course, but wholly unnecessary. I think I have convinced him that we manage very well.”