The Lady Next Door (23 page)

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 house 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 marry 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.”

Louisa regarded her incredulously but said nothing.

“Did I tell you that I heard from your sister a few days ago? Her letter was ten pages long, catching up on all those years, and Lord Selby added another two pages. And she has sent me the most beautiful shawl. May I show it to you?”

Though Louisa nodded, it was obvious that she barely heeded the rich Indian design when it was shown her and she soon excused herself, saying, “Thank you for hearing me out, Miss Findlay. It means a great deal to me, knowing that you understand.” And she placed a salute on Marianne’s cheek before hastening from the room.

Chapter Seventeen

Harry had been home for some time when Louisa returned, but he had long since made his way to his room, though not without being confronted by his brother. Latteridge was mildly surprised to find Harry returning from a walk, but he made no comment, especially when Harry informed him that Louisa had accompanied him.

“Did she not return with you?”

“No. We stopped in at Miss Findlay’s and she stayed there. I suppose she’ll be back directly.”

“Were there other guests at Miss Findlay’s?”

“Not a soul; even the aunt was out.”

“I see. Well, I’m pleased you’re feeling so well, Harry. I’ve put a novel in your room. If it’s something you’ve already read, I wouldn’t mind having a crack at it myself.”

The door of his library was left open while he studied some accounts, and on hearing the sounds of arrival, he went to stand in the doorway. "Might I see you a minute, Louisa?”

Her eyes, sparkling with anger, met his across the hall. “You certainly may!” With decided impatience she allowed the footman to take her shawl, but she did not wait to dispose of her bonnet, which she untied as she stomped into the library and tossed uncaringly (though it was one of her favorites) on a pillow-strewn sofa. “Really, Pressington, you astonish me!”

“Do I?” he asked almost uncertainly, as he firmly closed the door. This was a complete about-face from her dutiful acceptance of her restricted intercourse with Dr. Thorne, and he was not at all sure what to make of it. Learning of her visit to Miss Findlay, he could only assume that she had hoped to meet the doctor there and been disappointed. Perhaps he should have spoken with her previously, but he thought that she understood and was attempting to deal with her unhappiness alone. Her obvious anger was the last thing he had expected. “Do sit down, Louisa.”

“Thank you, no. I am entirely too agitated to sit still.” And to prove the truth of her statement, she paced briskly to the window and back before speaking, all the while drawing her gloves again and again through her fingers. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Pressington?”

It boded ill for any member of his family, save his mother, to call him Pressington, and he eyed her cautiously. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, for fear you should think I’ve been high-handed in this matter. I . . ."