“I hope so. No man ever had a finer, dearer wife. I have been far more fortunate than I ever deserved or expected to be.”
Miss Effington nodded, though her heart ached, and it was impossible not to regret all those years when he had cherished another woman. Knowing him as she did, she had to accept that he had grown to love Lavinia, that she herself had become a transient memory, perhaps forgotten for years on end, while the children came and the estate expanded, and they went through those thousand intimacies of daily life. And it had been a rich, fulfilling life, one of years to set against the paltry hours she had shared with him so painfully long ago. While his life had been filled with new and more deserving loved ones, hers had stretched barren with only the past to offer a glow and, more recently, her niece to offer companionship. There was no telling why he had come to her now, and she would never ask him. One did not question miracles. It was enough that he had come. For that alone she would have suffered all those wasted years. In an unusually tender voice she said, “I will try to make you happy, John.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “And I you, my dear.”
Chapter Eighteen
After Louisa’s abrupt exit, Latteridge sat at his desk and considered what she had said. From his own experience of Miss Findlay he had felt certain that she would be much in accord with his own feelings on the problems of a mésalliance between his sister and the doctor. There was always the possibility that Louisa was interpreting Miss Findlay’s sympathy as support, but Latteridge suddenly felt that he must know precisely where matters stood. In his attempts to keep Louisa from meeting Dr. Thorne there, he had necessarily not called himself, feeling that it would not be fair to Louisa. Instead he had taken his sister riding, long restoring gallops across country where she recovered the color in her cheeks, but never once spoke of the thoughts uppermost in her mind. The earl continued to feel a nagging doubt as to the wisdom of his proceedings. There was that special quality to his sister’s love, that almost unnerving bond between her and Dr. Thorne, with which it somehow seemed impudent to tamper. If he could discuss the matter with Miss Findlay . . .
Even as he rose, there was a tap at the door. Recognizing it as his secretary’s, he bade him enter. “Ah, William. You look large with news. Was this the day you chose to put your suit to the touch?”
The young man grinned. “It was, and congratulations are in order. Miss Sandburn has agreed to accept me, and even her uncle proved no obstacle. Janet thought it especially kind of you to offer me assistance in getting a seat in Parliament.”
“I’m delighted for you, though when the time comes for you to leave, I will sorely miss your invaluable assistance. Could you and Miss Sandburn dine with us tomorrow and join us at the benefit? I’ve taken a large box, and Mr. Baker promises me the performance will be excellent.”
“Thank you. I think Janet would like that.”
“Good.” The earl shook William’s hand and said, “I hope you’ll excuse me for rushing off when you have such famous news, but I would like very much to have a word with Miss Findlay before the dinner hour.”
“I fear this would not be an especially appropriate time.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve just come from there.”
“Spreading the word, are you?”
“Not exactly. It’s rather complicated to explain concisely, but let me try.”
His tale was indeed a little difficult to follow, but after the fiasco with his sister, Latteridge made a determined effort. “So the man was actually proposing to her when you left?”
“Yes, and Miss Effington gave every indication of being totally bemused. I understand from Miss Findlay that Mr. Deighton was an old beau of her aunt’s.”
“Dear God. There must be something particularly intoxicating in the air here this year.”
“Yes,” William agreed with a mischievous smile, “I believe there must be.”
So Latteridge did not call on Miss Findlay that afternoon, and when he called the next day, she was not at home. He asked if he might leave her a note and Roberts promptly brought standish and quill, but he was undecided as to how much he wished to say. In the end he wrote:
Miss Findlay,
There are several matters of importance which I would appreciate discussing with you. If it is convenient, I shall call tomorrow at twelve. Latteridge
No message came during the day to defer his proposed visit, and he sat down to William’s engagement dinner feeling at charity with the world. Louisa appeared in better spirits than usual, though he had to admit she had never sulked, and Harry was eager for his first evening’s entertainment since his duel. Lady Latteridge was graciously condescending to William and his prospective bride, and Madame Lefevre derived entertainment from watching the Dowager make (in Madame Lefevre’s eyes) a fool of herself. The trout and roast mutton of the first course were followed by brandied chickens, partridge, and a variety of puddings, while those assembled talked, ate, and drank in a properly festive mood.
Louisa’s more cheerful outlook was occasioned by her having hit on a scheme for talking with Dr. Thorne, and in her quiet satisfaction that this might prove of consequence, she entirely forgot that Miss Findlay had told her that she, too, intended to be at the benefit performance that evening. If she had remembered, she would most certainly have told Latteridge, for a confrontation between the Dowager and Miss Findlay was to be avoided at any cost. Louisa had blushed for her mother more than once, but there was a great deal more at stake here than the ordinary social snub at which Lady Latteridge excelled. There was the earl’s future to be considered, and for all Louisa was desperately unhappy at his decision with regard to Dr. Thorne, not for the world would she have done anything to jeopardize his own peace of mind.
Lady Latteridge was carried to the performance in the earl's black leather sedan chair with its gilt mounts and coronet. The entrance to the theater was through a passageway opposite Blake Street, a location which she deplored almost as much as she did the theater itself. Inside, the building was square with oak pillars supporting two galleries, with rows of boxes on either side of the stage. Brass chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, and the candlelight which glowed from them was not sufficient, so she said, to illuminate the truly disgraceful condition of the chair coverings. Her grumblings were familiar to the members of her household and the only sign they occasioned was a shared grimace which passed between Harry and his sister.
If it had not been necessary for the Dowager to stop several times in her stately progress to bestow her gracious, though frosty, smile on several of her more deserving acquaintances, she would probably not have arrived at her box at precisely the same moment Miss Findlay and her party reached their adjoining seats. Latteridge had been bringing up the rear, and the first he knew of the unfortunate encounter was his mother’s voice announcing in ringing accents, “Since when are they allowing the riffraff into this theater?”
Harry looked as though he wished to vanish, and Louisa said sharply, "That's enough, Mama!” but the Dowager paid no heed to either of them. “Nothing will induce me to sit in a box next to THAT WOMAN’S!”
Before dealing with his mother, Latteridge bowed politely to Marianne and Miss Effington and said with a smile, “Good evening, ladies. I hope my mother’s rudeness has not disturbed you. She occasionally suffers from an emotional imbalance. You have my most abject apologies.” Then, still not turning to his mother who stood mortified before him, he said to his brother, “Please take charge of our party, Harry. I shall return when I have seen Mother home.”
“I’m not going home,” she snapped.
“Yes, you are,” he said evenly, taking her arm, “unless you wish to apologize to Miss Findlay.” When she made no move to do so, he guided her firmly through the staring groups of people and out into the chill autumn night, where he was able to secure a chair immediately and walked beside it in silence. Despite the cold she let down the window and grated, “You cannot do thi
s.”
“Ah, but I can. I warned you, Mother. Your obsession with Miss Findlay is truly unbecoming, aside from being petty, dishonorable, and vulgar. I shall expect you to write a note of apology tomorrow morning, which I will deliver myself.”
“Never!”
“You have a choice. You write the note or tomorrow afternoon you return to Ackton Towers. Think about it, Mother.”
The window was snapped shut, and even when they arrived in Micklegate, Lady Latteridge said no word to him. He bid her good evening and in her hearing told the butler to summon the housekeeper, as his mother was not feeling well. With one last inflexible glance, he left.
By the time he returned to the theater, the intermission was in progress and he had only an opportunity to speak briefly with Miss Findlay, again offering his apologies, and declaring his intention of calling the next day.
“Do you think that wise, sir?” Marianne asked uneasily, her eyes locked on the flow of lace at his collar.
"Eminently." His eyes were tender when she briefly met them, and quickly looked away. “Will you introduce me to your aunt’s friend?”
Because she wanted him to come, Marianne allowed the subject to drop, but her turmoil during the rest of the evening was almost more than she could conceal. Conceivably she could have misunderstood that warm light in his eyes. And there could be any number of important matters he wished to discuss with her—notably Lady Louisa’s attachment to Dr. Thorne. Certainly that. Probably Mr. Vernham had told him of Mr. Deighton’s declaration; he might find that of interest. But if he were to speak of marriage, if the impossible were to happen, what was she to say? She had admitted her feelings to herself some time ago but they changed the situation not one whit. His mother detested her, she was anathema to society, there was no dowry to speak of; surely it would be a worse mésalliance than the one his sister contemplated!
And her aunt. Dear Aunt Effie was firmly clinging to the incredible good fortune which had brought her only love back to her in her declining years. It was touching to watch her accept that her shining dream of the youthful John had to be revised to the sturdy, comfortable, dear old man whose life had for so long not included her. That false pride which had prevented the young Aurelia Effington from accepting her rough country gentleman, and which had sustained her through years of unwanted independence, was abandoned without a murmur. What would Aunt Effie think of a match between her and Lord Latteridge? Though the old lady had been perfectly willing to see her marry Dr. Thorne, would she not balk at Latteridge, especially after his mother’s exhibition this evening?
And Louisa and Harry. How would they feel? There was a very great difference between accepting someone as a friend, and as a potential sister-in-law. Of course, Louisa had hinted that she expected something of the sort, but Louisa was so completely beset by her own torn emotions that she could not really have considered the matter carefully.
Marianne shifted in her bed, unable to sleep, trying to face the hardest question of them all. If you loved a man, did you let him do something which would inevitably destroy the easy pattern of his life, the calm of his mind, and the unsmirched character of his name?
* * * *
In addition to making calls on bedridden patients, Dr. Thorne kept office hours in his home for several hours in the morning. Those he treated ranged from the laborer to the aristocrat, and it was his invariable policy to accord each the same courtesy and attention to his ailments. He was an astonishingly good diagnostician and had enough experience of the inefficacy of some standard treatments to cautiously experiment with new possibilities. Consequently, he was often the last hope of a large number of his patients, and he tended to see a disproportionate number of the incurably ill. The morning after the play, which he had not attended, was an especially discouraging one for him, having to tell two men that there was nothing further he could do for them.
The last patient awaiting him was a boy dressed in the Earl of Latteridge’s livery, who looked to Dr. Thorne, when he came out to call him, to be in blooming health. But as he motioned to the lad, the page disappeared out the door. Dr. Thorne found the incident amusing, for he knew he would see the boy again when his courage was restored. Relieved to have a break, he was turning to enter the living quarters of his house when the door opened again and Lady Louisa stood there nervously blinking at him.
“I have to talk with you, Dr. Thorne.”
“My dear girl, you can’t come here alone,” he protested, the color rising in his face.
“I’m not alone.” Louisa reached behind her and tugged on the page’s coat. “Sit over there, Tom, if you please.”
The boy obediently perched on a chair in the corner of the room and regarded them steadfastly where they stood by the door. Dr. Thorne shook his head mournfully. “It won’t do, Lady Louisa.”
“It must,” she retorted with determination as she seated herself, deliberately drawing off her gloves.
“Your brother would not approve.”
“Oh, pish. Tom is a perfectly adequate chaperone. Just see how he watches us.”
Laughter danced in his eyes, but he said, gently, “It’s not just the lack of proper chaperonage, my dear. I should not see you at all.”
“And how are we to settle matters if we have no opportunity to talk?”
“I’m afraid matters are already settled.”
Louisa lifted her chin and said haughtily, “Not to my satisfaction.”
His heart contracted within him, a phenomenon he absently noted as a medical man and suffered mutely as a man in love. Abruptly he went to the door into the hall and called for his housekeeper. When she appeared, he said, “Please bring us some coffee and biscuits, Mrs. Thomas.” He left the door open when he returned, and seated himself beside her, with a glance toward the little page, who had found one of the copies of Newberry’s books which he kept on the table and was deeply absorbed with it.
“I think you must understand the position your brother and I are taking, Louisa. We think of nothing but your own good and future happiness. Nothing is more important to me, I promise you.”
“And I must tell you, sir, that I am convinced that I should have a say in my own fate. I am, after all, deeply concerned, as you will admit.” Louisa lowered her eyes to her hands. She had planned very carefully how she would conduct this interview and she could not take a chance that the expressions which appeared on his face would influence her. This was her only opportunity and she had no intention of spoiling it with useless scruples. “Dr. Thorne, do you admit that you have, practically since the moment we met, encouraged me to an affection for you?”
“For God’s sake, Louisa!”
“Do you, Doctor?”
“Yes.” He rubbed a distressed hand over his brow. “God help me, I never meant to make such a muddle of this. I . . .”
“Please Dr. Thorne, if you will be so good as to allow me to continue. . . . Do you also admit that by the way you treated me, you led me to believe that you had a sincere and abiding affection for me?”
He groaned, but she waited patiently for an answer. At length he said, “I did, I do.”
“Thank you, sir. Now I should like to point out to you that as an impressionable young lady, these continued marks of regard led me to the conclusion that you had an honorable course of action in mind. I think any young lady might have thought so,” she said, as if considering the matter, and continuing to study her nervously twining fingers. “I have been raised among those who consider honor a most compelling virtue. There is never any need for a document to be drawn up to bind them to their word, expressed or implied. I had assumed that you, as a gentleman, subscribed to this same code. Do you?”
Dr. Thorne was becoming very uncomfortable and, had she witnessed his countenance, she would not perhaps have continued, but she did not lift her eyes. “Of course."
“And yet you did not propose any honorable action to me.”
“I did not propose any dishonorable action,” he mutter
ed, disgruntled.
“Surely you know that is not the same thing. I was very . . . disappointed to have you fail me.”
“Oh, Lord, Louisa, you know I could not!”
“You led me to believe that you could,” she said inexorably. “There is surely no legal impediment. I have come to give you an opportunity to do so now.”
The housekeeper’s arrival interrupted his shocked protest. When the coffee and biscuits had been set out and Mrs. Thomas had curiously surveyed the girl and the little page in the corner, she withdrew. Louisa poured the cups of coffee and asked, “Do you wish cream and sugar as usual?”
"Please."
There was silence for some time as Louisa forced herself to sip at the hot beverage and nibble on the shortbread. Dr. Thorne made no such attempt, but kept his eyes trained on her in hopes that she would crack under the strain and look at him. If she did, she would not be able to press her advantage. But Louisa refused to meet his eyes.
In desperation he said, “There is a legal impediment. You are not of age.”
“That does not materially affect your honoring your implied word. The end result could be affected, certainly, but it is no excuse.”
“Louisa, why are you doing this to me?”
His agonized question caused her hand to tremble and she set down her coffee cup, but she did not respond. The page was studying them again and she beckoned to him and offered the plate of biscuits. After he had helped himself, he returned to his seat and retrieved the book.
“Please, Louisa, don’t you see it would do no good?”
Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Am I to live my life then never knowing if you cared enough to even ask? Such a simple satisfaction to be denied, and so very unfair. I think . . . I cannot help but wonder if it is that you lack the courage to fight for something you want, and that would horridly disillusion me. To me you have always appeared as the most dedicated of men. You would keep better faith with one of your patients.”
The Lady Next Door Page 20
