Never Doubt I Love (4 page)

A tall, severe-looking woman rose from the window seat where she'd been sewing, and came to make her curtsy. “Good evening, Miss Grainger,” she said in frosty and affectedly precise accents. “Ay am Gorton.”

Zoe's heart sank, but she said brightly, “Then you are my abigail. How nice that will be.”

Eyes of a chill blue slid over her. A faintly aghast look dawned.

Zoe sighed. “Oh dear. Am I quite hopeless, Gorton? I am from the country, you know. This is my best travelling gown. I had thought it would be perfectly suitable for London.”

“Never mind, Miss,” said Gorton, repressing a shudder. “Ay feel sure we can—ah, improve matters.”

An hour later, Zoe was forced to acknowledge the truth of that statement. Her gown had been removed and whisked away. Her hair had been brushed until her scalp tingled, then arranged into soft curls. Her corsets had been laced so tightly that for several seconds she had been unable to draw a breath. An excitingly fashionable gown of pale peach ribbed silk had been slipped over her hoops. The stomacher had looked so tiny that she'd been quite sure it would never encompass her, but under Gorton's ruthless assault it was secured at last. Surveying herself in the mirror while a dainty ruffled cap was placed on her shining hair, she could scarcely believe that the elegant young creature in the glass was Zoe Grainger, and when a simple gold chain and locket were added, she exclaimed an involuntary, “Oh, my! How nice I look! Thank you, Gorton!”

Meeting her abigail's glance in the mirror, she thought for a moment to glimpse a softening in the pale blue eyes, but the voice was as cool and detached as ever. “Ay tray to please, Miss.”

It wanted fifteen minutes until seven o'clock, and Zoe was too restless to be confined to the small room for over an hour. She asked Gorton to find an appropriate shawl, and said she would take a stroll in the gardens.

The abigail turned a surprised countenance. “
Outside,
Miss?”

“Of course. The air will be cool now, I fancy.”

“But—but 'tis getting
dark,
Miss Grainger! And we are in the wilds! It is not
seemly!
”

Zoe stared at her. “But that is silly! We are still in England and not lost in some snake-infested jungle. The shawl, if you please!”

There was a touch of hauteur in the young face, and authority in the firm tones. Elsie Gorton realized that her new lady might be the “poor little lass” she'd mentally dubbed her, but she was not entirely lacking in spirit. Which would, she thought, be interesting.

She opened the valise in which Zoe had packed the articles likely to be needed for the journey, and took out a white crocheted shawl exquisitely embroidered in pastel shades. Slipping it about Zoe's shoulders, she said admiringly that it was “Very nace. Was it you as done the 'broidery, Miss?”

‘The accent slipped,' thought Zoe. “No. I am not clever with my needle. The shawl was a gift from my … Mama.” The reminder of her beautiful and so terribly missed mother brought home all the ills of her present situation, and she hurried into the passage. It was remarkable that for a little while she should have almost forgotten that she had been banished from the home where she had lived all her life, and that Papa had carelessly fobbed her off on the odious Lady Clara Buttershaw.

She started down the winding staircase, and reflected that despite her odiousity it was extreme generous of Lady Buttershaw to provide her with new gowns. Pausing, she tapped her fan against her chin and her brows wrinkled. Odiousity. That didn't sound right. Odious-ness…?

A discreet cough awoke her from her introspection. The stairs were narrow and her paniers wide. A gentleman waited at the foot, watching her enquiringly. She summed him up swiftly. Tall; lean; older—early thirties probably, but good-looking and well set-up with a fine pair of shoulders. His own hair, powdered; light complexion. Eyes: a warm blue holding a tentative smile, and with little lines at the corners, as though he had spent much time under a hot sun. ‘Military' she thought. ‘Or Navy, perchance.' And, liking him instinctively, she gave him her own sunny smile and hurried down.

“I do apologize, sir. I was lost in thought, you see.”

Amused by this artless and most improper confidence, he said in a lazy good-natured voice, “So you were. You appeared to be trying to recall something or other. Am I right, ma'am?”

“I was wondering,” she replied, “which is correct. Is the word ‘odiousness'? Or ‘odiousity'?”

The smile spread from his eyes to his well-shaped mouth. He said gravely, “They both are charming. All things considered. But I rather suspect are not—ah, widely used. Might you perhaps substitute—‘disagreeable'?”

Zoe pursed her lips and considered. “It has not quite the same force, do you think? And—what about the ‘ness'?”

“Ah. Well, the ‘ness' would make it into a noun, of course.”

“Can one?”

“But with perfect propriety, ma'am.”

“Then why can I not have ‘odiousness'?”

The smile became a soft chuckle. “Heaven forbid I should deprive you of it. And you are quite correct. ‘Odiousness' does indeed have more force.”

“Miss!”
Gorton hurried down the stairs, wrapped in a cloak and regarding Zoe in horror.

“Oh dear.” The gentleman stood aside as Gorton passed, her outraged eyes accusing him. Bowing politely, he said to Zoe, “I am delighted to have met you again, ma'am. Pray remember me to your family.”

Zoe promised to do so, and as she passed, he added
sotto voce,
“But—no odiousity, I beg.”

She giggled.

Bustling along beside her, Gorton hissed, “Miss
Grainger!
To speak to a strange gentleman! And all alone! Most
improper!
May lady would think it—
fast!
”

“But—he was not strange. You heard him ask to be remembered to my family.”

“We must tell may lady, Miss! And may lady will wish to have the gentleman's name, Ay am very sure!”

“Then my lady must be disappointed, for to say truth, I cannot recall it. I am dreadfully forgetful, you see. Are you going out?”

“Ay am accompanying you, Miss.”

“Whatever for? I am unlikely to get lost in the gardens.”

“'Tis not
convenable
for a young lady to wander about without her footman, or a maid, Miss. Especially, a young and most attractive spinster lady of Quality!”

“Is it?” Zoe walked on again, then asked thoughtfully, “Do you say that whilst I am in London I must take you everywhere I go?”

“Unless Lady Clara or Lady Julia assigns a personal footman to you, Miss. Yes.”

“How tiresome. But we are not in London now. And I particularly desire to be alone for a little while.”

Gorton's shoulders rustled under her cloak, for all the world as though she had been a large bird ruffling her feathers. “In that case,” she said with determination, “Ay shall follow at a discreet but proper distance, Miss Grainger.”

Zoe sighed and, capitulating, passed through the open door and into the gardens.

C
HAPTER
II

Zoe was pleased to find that the gardens behind the Three Horse Inn were quite extensive. In addition to a neatly scythed lawn there was a large flower garden with well-kept paths meandering among the various beds in which chrysanthemums were out-blooming some rather leggy late roses. An area for vegetables was separated from the main gardens by high hedges, and the rear of the property was taken up by a sizeable orchard.

Autumn was shortening the days; the sun had already gone down, and dusk was deepening to evening. The air was still fairly warm however, and carried upon it the smell of cooking and the tangy aroma of woodsmoke. Several other guests were enjoying a stroll before dinner. Zoe encountered a gentleman and two older ladies who nodded politely as they passed; a lady walked hand in hand with a small shy-eyed boy, and the bantering voices of several gentlemen could be heard beyond the hedges that screened the vegetable gardens.

Zoe wandered aimlessly, wondering what Papa might be thinking at this moment, if he was able to think at all. Mrs. Mowbray's children were wildly undisciplined, and although the two smaller ones would be in the nursery at this hour, the other four would be quarrelling and crashing about the house until eight o'clock. Poor Papa. How he would enjoy the peace and privacy of this quiet stroll instead of—

From the vegetable gardens there came a louder outburst of shouts and hilarity. Zoe drew back uneasily, which was fortunate, because something hurtled over the hedge, barely missing her before it thumped to the ground.

An indignant male voice was raised. “No, really, that is too bad of you, Templeby! You had no business to interfere with it!”

Glancing down at the object that had been “interfered with,” Zoe uttered a shriek of horror. A human foot lay before her, the severed area above the ankle hideously gory and jagged. She felt faint, and heard again my lady's voice telling of evil surgeons and carelessly mistaken amputations. Sickened, she was grateful for the arm that steadied her as Gorton rushed to her aid, only to herself emit an even more piercing shriek.

There was a male chorus of muffled groans and exclamations.

“Oh—Egad! Women!”

“Now see what you've done!”

“I'm off! Go and make your excuses, Perry!”

“No you don't you villain! Hey! Come back!
You
threw it!
You
go and make things right! Blast the traitor—he's gone! Jamie—will you…?”

Someone was pushing his way through a break in the hedge. Another man vaulted over a lower spot, almost colliding with Gorton, who informed him roundly that he was a callous viper and should be ashamed of himself.

The newcomer snatched up the foot and declared with shrinking nervousness that he and his friends were most sorry, and had no thought to have alarmed anyone. He was somewhere in the mid-twenties Zoe judged, with powdered hair, an open, boyish face, and freckles that were apparent even in the fading light. “I do promise you, ma'am,” he stammered, “that we'd no idea ladies were—er, nearby, else—”

His agitated gesture had allowed her a brief but clearer view of the foot. Revolted, she thought, ‘He has painted the
toenails!
' and she interrupted shrilly. “Oh! How
could
you be so grossly unfeeling?”

Gorton's view was also improved, and she let out a most ungenteel, “Fer shame!
Monsters
is what you is! Both on yer!”

The freckle-faced man gave a gasp of mortification and whipped the foot behind his back. A second individual emerged from the hedge, only to stumble and almost fall, so that his friend was obliged to steady him.

Zoe was sickened, but when inspired by a Cause, her usual timidity was forgotten, and she persisted, if rather unsteadily, “You are b-both intoxicated, is what it is! Disgraceful! I have heard t-tell of the atrocities perpetrated by your kind upon your hapless victims—”

“We are
not
intoxicated!” The defendant was about the same age as his freckled companion, but taller and more slenderly built, with dark, unpowdered hair, and a lean well-featured but stormy countenance. His brows had drawn down sharply at Zoe's words, and, still clinging to his companion, he protested indignantly, “And why you must gabble about atrocities, when all we did was—”

“Nothing, in your eyes, I collect,” said Zoe. “I did not at first believe what I was told about you and your—your ilk! But I see that my informant was quite correct when she named you as heartless, depraved, and with not an ounce of feeling for the misery of those poor souls who come to you for help! I wonder—”

“I ain't surprised,” the dark man interjected angrily. “I wonder too, don't you, Jamie? I wonder what the—I wonder what you have 'twixt your ears, madam, and would earnestly recommend that you change your ways! If you keep on rushing about the countryside accusing people of atrocities and—and ilks and what-have-you, some right-thinking citizens are going to have you clapped up! Were I you, I would get to bed with a calming powder!”

Throughout this inflamed monologue his companion had been plucking at his sleeve and mumbling nervously. Now, he begged in great agitation that “Terry” not raise his voice to the poor lady.

“Words will not harm me, sir,” Zoe declared loftily. “'Tis his knife that strikes terror in my heart. How many deluded innocents have you turned it on, I wonder, you—you black-hearted villain!”

At this, the dark gentleman's jaw dropped and he gawked at her.

Gorton pulled at her arm and entreated her to come away “before the evil creature turns his knife on
us,
ma'am!”

“God … bless … my … soul!” gasped the gentleman in powder.

“You're stark … raving mad,” said his dark friend unequivocally.

“Whatever I may be, sir,” called Zoe as Gorton all but dragged her away, “at least I am not an intoxicated
physician!
”

He lurched forward, and with an alarmed squeal, Gorton tugged her into a trot.

“Did you see?” gasped Zoe. “Did you see the—the
toenails?
”

“I did fer—for sure, Miss,” said Gorton, a shudder in her voice. “He had—he had
painted
em! And each one a different colour! It's downright
heathen!
I vow, Miss Grainger, we are lucky to have escaped with our very lives!”

They had by this time reached the rear door of the inn, and as Gorton swung it open a sudden outburst of masculine hilarity from the two “heathens” spurred them into a rush for indoors and safety.

Her heart thundering with fright and indignation, Zoe said, “I shall call for a constable! Those wicked men must be taken in charge!”