The Lady Next Door (12 page)

The room assigned to Janet was on the second floor, though the family had their rooms on the first. Being set further apart from them did not have the desired effect on the girl, however, as she was pleased to escape from their vicinity whenever she was able. Hers was not a maid’s room, but a secondary guest room which had not been attended to in years, overlooking the street through smallish windows. Janet was delighted with it—the faded wallpaper, the ill-hanging door, and the drafty windows—because there was a charming window seat with a battered pillow which she could sit on and watch the movement in the street below. Never having spent much time in a city, she was fascinated by the strollers and riders, the occasional street vendor or ragged dog. Janet busied herself distributing her few possessions about the room, drawn time and again to the window at the clop of horses’ hooves or the cry of “Lavender!”

Instead of bringing the mourning dresses she had been wearing for the last year, Janet had chosen from among the clothing she had brought from the parsonage. Lady Horton had frowned on her gowns these last weeks, urging her to enliven them with lace and aprons, "For I won’t have you looking like a bereaved widow when you are in York, miss. You have no call to depress everyone’s spirits with your drab dresses; it is time you forsook your mourning.”

How Lady Horton expected Janet to enliven her mourning gowns on the dismal pittance her husband had granted the girl, Janet did not know, but she had said nothing, carefully attending to her former apparel in readiness for the trip. Now she removed the black bombazine, suitably alleviated by lace, which she had worn for the journey, and held up the pomona green striped poplin with its quilted petticoat. It caused her a moment’s sadness, remembering the last occasion on which she had worn it before her parents’ illnesses, that lovely dinner party where they had all laughed with their friends, unaware of the tragedy about to strike.

Resolved to remember those happy times, to cling to them when she had nothing else to support her, she carefully dressed herself in the walking gown, chose a round-eared cap and set it on the scarred dressing table while she brushed out her long black hair. It might be wise, too, to loosen the severity of her hairstyle, she decided, as she regarded her reflection in the glass, the dark eyes thoughtful, the full lips rueful. No need to give Clare further opportunity for snide remarks on her resemblance to a village schoolmistress.

Before she had quite finished, there was an imperative summons to accompany Miss Horton on her promenade. Sufficient experience had taught Janet that it was diplomatic to answer such a call promptly, and she allowed the hair to remain free, save for a small clip her father had given her, grabbed up the green cloak, and presented herself at Miss Horton’s room, where she found her cousin as yet unready to depart.

Clare sat at the glass admiring her reflection as her dresser settled a low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat carefully on the silver-blonde tresses. The apricot gown had triple falls of lace just below her elbows, and was held wide from her body by panniers, so that Perkins had to avoid them as she came around to touch the hat into place. When she moved, Clare for the first time saw her cousin in the glass and her eyes widened. "Well, Miss Sandburn, what have we here? A new gown? Sadly out of fashion, I fear.”

“No, it’s not new.”

For a moment, annoyance at the surprisingly attractive sight her cousin presented contorted Clare’s features, but she had only to level her eyes on her own reflection to reassure herself that there was no comparison. With a spiteful laugh she said, “I suppose it is better than those black rags you’ve been wearing, but don’t expect anyone to pay the least heed to you.”

“I won’t, cousin.”

"Then let us be off.” Clare rose and pulled on long white kid gloves. “We will take the promenade by the river. That is perhaps the best way to announce my arrival in York. And we will call on Mrs. Whittaker on our return to take tea.. She can spread the word to anyone we miss."

“Won’t you take a shawl?” Janet asked, as her cousin swept gracefully toward the door.

“And spoil the effect of my gown? Nonsense. It is still summer, after all.”

And indeed the sun was shining brightly, so that their walk to the river was hot and dusty, but the breeze coming from the river made the promenade cooler. At first Clare did not seem to notice, as they stopped frequently to exchange a few words with acquaintances, but when they had left one group behind, she eyed Janet’s green cloak enviously. “I feel quite chilled,” she remarked pointedly.

“Yes, I think you would have been wise to bring a shawl. Shall we return to Castlegate?”

Clare stamped an impatient foot. “I needn’t be cold if you would lend me your cloak.”

Fortunately, Janet was spared the necessity of answering her when they were overtaken by Lord Latteridge, who too late realized his mistake, having been deep in thought.

“Miss Horton and Miss Sandburn! I had no idea you were in York already. When did you arrive?”

“Only today, my lord,” Clare replied with a demure curtsy. “How fortuitous that we should meet so soon.”

“Indeed.”

“Have your mother and Lady Louisa arrived? I shall have to call on them."

“They come next week.” Latteridge turned to Miss Sandburn. “Is this your first visit to York, ma’am?”

Janet nodded. “It’s by far the largest city I’ve ever seen, and lovely with the old walls and posterns and gates. I understand the Minster is exceptional.”

“Oh, it’s vast but a great deal overrated,” Clare interpolated. “Wouldn’t you say so, Lord Latteridge?”

“Not at all. I consider it York’s finest achievement.” He noticed Clare’s shiver and remarked, “The wind is rather biting this afternoon. May I see you ladies home?”

“Perhaps so far as Mrs. Whittaker’s in Clifford Street,” Clare suggested archly. “I must pay my respects to this month’s Queen of the Assemblies. She will want to know that I’ve arrived in town.”

Though Latteridge strongly doubted the truth of her assertion, he politely said nothing. In fact, he found little opportunity to say anything during their walk, as Miss Horton assumed he would be interested in her plans for the coming weeks of her stay, and he was content enough to be warned. Miss Sandburn likewise was silent, but he watched her avid interest in the people and places they passed, her dark eyes alive with curiosity. When they reached Mrs. Whittaker’s imposing residence, he declined Clare’s invitation to join them, protesting that he was engaged elsewhere, but before taking leave of them he turned to Janet.

“I believe Mr. Vernham has looked up that book he mentioned to you, Miss Sandburn. Shall I tell him that he may call in person with it?”

“Why, yes, that would be very kind of him, my lord,” she replied without a trace of confusion, though for the life of her, she could not remember haying discussed any books with the earl’s secretary. As her cousin mounted the steps, she impulsively held out her hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Latteridge clasped it firmly and said, “Not at all. Shall we say a book of Thomson’s poetry?”

“That I am to borrow?” And she quickly followed her cousin into the house.

* * * *

Latteridge’s study, relieved of its excess chairs and pipe racks, but retaining the bronzes, books, and prints, had a less cluttered air, but the earl surveyed it with little satisfaction. Bringing some order to it had not relieved it of the stale aura which clung like old pipe smoke. There remained no imprint of his own. He stood with his shoulders propped against the mantelpiece, one leg crossed over the other, the gray eyes languidly thoughtful. Somehow he could not interest himself in his study.

There was a discreet tap on the door, and he bade his secretary enter. “Ah, William. I wanted to let you know that I had the . . . ah . . . pleasure of encountering Miss Horton today. They have just arrived in York. Miss Sandburn accompanies them, and I told her you would want to bring around the book of Thomson’s poetry you had mentioned to her.”

“Did I mention any particular volume?” William asked, fascinated.

“I don’t believe so. She didn’t mention it.”

“Perhaps over a period of time I could take her several.”

“An admirable idea,” Latteridge agreed, as he drew a gold snuffbox from his pocket. “It occurs to me, William, that Miss Sandburn might welcome a friend outside Miss Horton’s circle. There could be some advantage to making her known to Miss Findlay, if that were possible.”

“Some advantage for whom?” William wondered, as he watched the earl absently take snuff

“For all involved, but most especially Miss Sandburn herself. When I came upon the two ladies, Miss Horton was exhorting her cousin to lend her her cloak, having been remiss in providing herself with sufficient cover. I don’t believe Miss Sandburn is accustomed to such conduct, and is in no position to protect herself from it. Perhaps Miss Findlay could provide some much-needed encouragement.” Latteridge fixed his secretary with a baleful eye. “I am not only thinking of myself, or of you, my dear fellow.”

William grinned. “I’m sure I never suggested such a thing, sir.”

The earl’s brother poked his head in at the door to say, “I’m off, Press. Shan’t be back for at least a week, I dare say.”

“We’re expecting Mother next Tuesday, Harry.”

“Shouldn’t think she’d miss me if I’m not back by then,” his brother retorted. “I’ve been angling for this invitation for days, Press. To Hall’s castle, you know. Really great sport there.”

“So I’ve heard,” Latteridge said dampingly, as his brother waved a hand and disappeared.

* * * *

On the first opportunity after Miss Effington’s recovery from her illness, Mr. Oldham, attorney to the great and near-great (by his own acclamation), visited aunt and niece in their living room. Although Mr. Oldham had already decided that Miss Effington would not fit into their household after they were married, he was excessively polite to the old lady.

He set down his teacup and said, “Your niece and I very nearly despaired of you, ma’am. And now here you sit in the pink of health again like the old days. Hardly to be credited in one your age, a most remarkable constitution you have. And a great deal is owing to the young doctor, of course. We gentlemen in the professions must stand by one another.” His laugh, fortunately not a frequent occurrence, was a high peal, very piercing to the ear.

Aunt Effie snorted, and her niece considered setting fire to the chair on which he sat. “My aunt does not sit up late,” she said, with a pointed glance at the case clock in the corner, “owing to her recent illness.”

“No, no, of course not. Don’t let me detain you, ma’am! I shall be content to keep your niece company.” This was a very encouraging sign from Miss Findlay, and one he had not been given any reason to expect, though he now clearly saw signs of her previous indications—the manner in which she had offered the chair, the way her eyes met his, her obvious appreciation of his kindness to her aunt. These older unmarried ladies were quick to grab at their few remaining chances, he decided with a complacent smile.

There was a spluttering sound from the sofa. “My niece does not sit alone without me! When I leave, she leaves—and I am leaving now!” The old lady struggled with her shawl, which had become entangled on the carved medallion atop the sofa back, and lurched to her feet. “Come, Marianne. Mr. Oldham will excuse us.”

Mr. Oldham regarded Marianne’s apologetic smile as the most encouraging sign yet.

Chapter Ten

William Vernham was coolly received by Lady Horton and her daughter. He made it known that his visit was to Miss Sandburn and signified no reflected glory from his employer on either of the ladies of the family. Finding the Thomson volume had presented no problem, compared with delivering it. Lady Horton and her daughter were seated in the back parlor, and made no immediate attempt to have Miss Sandburn sent for. Instead, they took turns questioning him.

“Does the earl intend to spend the entire season in York?” asked Lady Horton.

“He has not indicated his intentions, ma’am.”

“Well, you must know if he plans to travel outside the county,” Clare insisted.

“Not necessarily. Lord Latteridge does not, of course, consult me on when and where he chooses to go.”

“I have heard it said,” Lady Horton mused archly, “that the earls of Latteridge are the wealthiest nobility in England. Of course there are the settlements on each of the children, and on the Dowager now, but still . . . There must be any number of families who would welcome a connection with him.”

William made no comment.

“I don’t believe Lord Latteridge mentioned what day his mother and sister were to arrive,” Clare remarked. “I should like to call on them as soon as may be.”

“I understand they will be here shortly.”

Such laconic replies with their lack of sought-after information eventually discouraged Lady Horton and her daughter, so that Janet was reluctantly summoned and shortly appeared. Her simple amber sack dress may have borne little resemblance to the rich and modish gowns of the Hortons, but William was as charmed by it as by her warm welcome.

“Mr. Vernham. How kind of you to call, and to have remembered the volume we discussed. And here I had completely forgotten it.” Her laughing eyes met his briefly, before she turned to Lady Horton. “Are you familiar with Mr. Thomson’s work, ma’am?”

“I don’t believe I am,” was the cold reply.

“This one I am not acquainted with, but his Castle of Indolence is an allegory written in the stanza and style of Spenser.” Janet belabored the technicalities of Mr. Thomson’s writing until Clare fled the room and Lady Horton withdrew to her embroidery. Her eyes full of innocent distress, she turned to William and said, “I hope I am not boring you, Mr. Vernham.”

“Not at all, Miss Sandburn. I should like to point out to you some differences in style between this volume and Castle of Indolence, before you read it, so that you may particularly notice them.” He made a pretense of noting Lady Horton’s wearied countenance for the first time. “But we are distracting my lady from her work. Perhaps you would care to walk with me while we talk? The weather is glorious, and we might benefit from the exercise.” William turned a charming smile on Lady Horton who, for all her apparent disinterest, had heard every word. “Would that meet with your approval, Lady Horton? My walking with Miss Sandburn?”