Never Doubt I Love (6 page)

The road was not wide enough for both vehicles. Enraged, my lady rose from her seat and screamed orders for the “ill-bred young ruffian” to at once draw back.

A wheel went onto the grassy verge, the carriage lurched wildly, and my lady was bounced onto the squabs. The “ruffian” inside the other vehicle turned a dark and laughing countenance.

“Oh!” cried Zoe. “'Tis that horrid
doctor!
”

Struggling to escape the hat and wig that had descended over her eyes, my lady uttered a strangled howl and elbowed her way up again. “STOP!” she commanded in a voice that should surely have caused strong men to tremble. “You … dastardly
villain!
Give way!
At once
I—say!” But the carriage rocked, and with an expletive that sounded suspiciously like a very naughty word, she was again tossed back.

Attempting to be of assistance, Zoe had as well have tried to restrain a tiger. Lady Buttershaw's long arms flailed, one skinny leg shot into the air, and, although muffled, there could be no doubt as to her
extremely
naughty words.

“My lady…,” gasped Zoe, also jolted about, but succumbing to the ridiculous aspects of the incident and fighting laughter. “Let me help—”

“
Doctor,
did you say?” screeched her ladyship. “Confound and—
curse
the wretch!” She heaved herself up, but the wig was her undoing and its might and majesty—and weightiness—bereft her of sight. All but incoherent with wrath, she struggled to her feet. The “wretch's” coach bade fair to skid into the ditch, and the occupant was lost to sight.

“Shameless …
animal!
” howled Lady Buttershaw. “How
dare
you?”

Muffled but defiant came the breathless response, “You've been—hogging the road for—miles, madam! Spring 'em, for Lord's sake, Florian, and pass this silly female!”

The light carriage all but leapt forward.

“Silly—female?”
Gobbling with wrath, my lady's glittering eyes darted about, but found no suitable missile within reach. Her wig slid. She tore it from her head and hurled it, hat and all, at the man who'd dared defy her. He was in the act of picking himself up from the floor. A glimpse of tousled dark hair was blotted out by the flying wig, then his coach shot past, the wheels of the two vehicles all but scraping. Lady Buttershaw gave vent to a triumphant screech. “A hit, by the Lord Harry! It caught him full and fair! Did you see, gel?”

Zoe tried not to stare at the shorn aristocrat, and stammered, “I saw it—f-fly, ma'am. Did you recognize the gentleman?”

“
Gentleman?
Pah! A pox on him! I did not catch a clear look at his face, for the monstrous creature seemed more on the floor than on the seat. Intoxicated, I make no doubt! One of these young care-for-nobodies who call themselves Corinthians! I'd Corinthian him!” Lady Buttershaw leaned out of the open window to first howl abuse at her coachman for having allowed “that lawless viper” to best him, and then instruct him to turn off to Uxbridge. Breathing hard, she settled back on the seat. “My woman will procure me a new wig there,” she said, seemingly unaware of the amused glances thrown their way by the occupants of the Portsmouth Machine as it rumbled past, westward bound.

Her ladyship's mousy brown hair was twisted into corkscrews and contained by hairpins. Bereft of the glory of her wig she looked oddly nude, but had lost not one whit of her arrogance and appeared not in the least embarrassed. Trying not to stare, Zoe mumbled, “I wonder you would—would bother with a wig, ma'am. Your own hair is so—abundant. Most ladies find it more comfortable nowadays to wear their hair short and—”

“Nonsense! I wear a wig, Miss Grainger, because I prefer to set fashion rather than follow it. Uxbridge is a very ancient town, and although it is not mentioned in the
Domesday Book,
there is sure to be a milliner there. Not of the first stare, naturally, but one most not expect the impossible.”

Far from being overset by such a violence of temper, she was all but purring. Incredulous, Zoe thought, ‘Why, I do believe she enjoyed herself!'

“Now,” said Lady Buttershaw, “you may tell me the name of that young villain. I mean to lay an information 'gainst him at Bow Street.”

She was displeased when Zoe confessed that she did not know the name of the miscreant, and demanded to hear what Miss Grainger did know of him. The tale was interrupted before it had properly begun however, because they came into Uxbridge and my lady forgot the matter during the search for a suitable milliner. The search was doomed to failure. Astounded when her footman returned from the tiny shop to report there was not a wig to be had, Lady Buttershaw's mood suffered an immediate reversal. It deteriorated even more drastically when it was discovered that the second coach with the servants and luggage had evidently failed to make the detour to Uxbridge. My lady's resonance had already attracted a small but growing crowd, and the poor footman looked ready to faint. Zoe took pity on him, and leaving the carriage accompanied him into the little shop.

The proprietor was a large and amiable woman. She sent her daughter running to the church for the sexton, who was also the local hairdresser. With much bowing and scraping Lady Buttershaw was ushered from the coach. Her appearance was greeted by a sudden and complete silence. Never had Zoe seen so many jaws sag at the same instant. She had taken the precaution of warning the proprietor that they had suffered a small accident and that her companion, a great lady of rather uncertain temperament, had lost her wig. Wigless or not, Lady Buttershaw's haughty demeanour silenced any comments. She was safely inside the shop before the stunned onlookers recovered. The butcher snorted something having to do with being turned to stone, and Zoe closed the door on gales of laughter.

It was fortunate that the elderly hairdresser was a man of God, for his patience was sorely tried during the next hour, but at last my lady's locks had been arranged, pomaded, and powdered into what she termed “a faint semblance of style.” Whatever her failings, she was not mean. Her generosity restored the good nature of her victims. She returned to the carriage, and as they drove off, favoured the crowd with a thin smile and a series of regal bows and waves. “Poor simple folk,” she said condescendingly. “'Tis rare for them to come into contact with the nobility. They will now have something to tell their children and grandchildren. Likely, 'twill become a legend.”

She was to an extent correct. The locals had been vastly entertained. The story of the visit of the Medusa from London would be told and embellished for weeks to come, and was always good for a hearty laugh.

C
HAPTER
III

Luncheon was taken at a fine posting house on a hilltop from which could be seen the distant spires of the City. Their departure was delayed while Lady Buttershaw instructed the host on the more efficient placement of the tables in his dining room, and it was late afternoon before their coach reached the outskirts of the Metropolis. The drizzle had by this time turned to rain, and the air was misty and chill, but, undaunted, Zoe was agog with excitement.

At the age of five, during a visit to the Richmond home of her favourite aunt, Lady Minerva Peckingham, she had been taken to London. Lady Minerva had not judged it sensible to show a young child the sites of history. Zoe was left with hazy recollections of endless narrow streets along which the houses were as if strung together; of countless people, an enormous noise and confusion, and grown-up luncheons and tea parties at which her aunt was very kind and talked to her gaily. That is to say, she was kind and chatty until, inevitably, one or more gentlemen would join them. Aunt Minerva thereupon appeared to forget her niece, and whispered and laughed with the gentleman despite the fact that they were evidently all “wicked” or “rogues.”

Now, therefore, London was viewed as if for the first time, and Zoe's eyes were wide indeed by the time the carriage was jolting through Hyde Park. Lady Buttershaw informed her that anything lying west of the park was “wilderness.” She also observed that although King Henry VIII had been wise to appropriate the land, he should have had the foresightedness to ensure the proper upkeep of its roads. He would probably not have objected to the fact that today the park was much used as a duelling place, she added thoughtfully, for, whatever the century, honour must be upheld.

The coachman was instructed to detour so that Zoe might be shown the elegance of Kensington Palace, where her ladyship was “a frequent visitor.” The history of the palace and its occupants was dwelt upon while the coach bumped and lurched off the atrocious park road, and after a smoother drive turned into a quiet square some half mile to the east.

A central garden for the use of the residents was enclosed by ornate iron railings, and the houses were scattered around it. Each was large enough to be counted a mansion, but her ladyship had not exaggerated; Yerville Hall was enormous. It was also, thought Zoe, extremely ugly. Two storeys in height, its wide stone front was broken by rows of small square windows. At the centre a recessed entrance portico was dignified by four tall stone columns supporting a large pediment. This structure partially blocked several of the windows, so that they appeared to Zoe to be hostile eyes peering suspiciously from under a frowning brow.

The carriage had evidently been anxiously awaited, for the front doors were flung open and a large and agitated butler came out onto the steps followed by three equally agitated liveried footmen. Lady Buttershaw was handed down and surrounded by a small crowd of solicitous and elegant ladies and gentlemen who swept out of the house and swept her inside again, all talking at the top of their lungs.

Zoe was assisted by a tall footman with a pair of pale and protuberant blue eyes which scrutinized her curiously. He conducted her up the steps and into a large entrance hall, then with a terse nod took himself off. Awed, Zoe gazed at Gothic stone rib-vaulting that soared to the roof, and at the arched openings to the first-floor gallery that ran around the hall on three sides. The noisy crowd had vanished, but Zoe was too interested to feel abandoned. She wandered through more Gothic arches into another hall containing a magnificent wood-panelled staircase with the statue of a Grecian lady on the first landing, and a life-size portrait of a proud gentleman in a flowing periwig who sneered down at the stone lady from the facing wall. Beyond the stairs was a spacious wainscoted chamber wherein small tables were set among groups of chairs. Zoe peeped in.

“The morning room,” said a soft voice at her ear, and she jumped guiltily, and jerked around.

The lady who stood there appeared to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Her features were delicate, and her eyes large and a very light blue. She wore a gown of white taffeta over modified hoops, the high neck buttoned to the throat and the full sleeves worn longer than the present style and gathered in at the wrists to falls of snowy lace that drooped over her hands. The unrelieved white of her attire, the powdered hair, the white cap, and the pallor of her face added to an impression of extreme fragility, and there was a wistful quality to her smile as she fondled the large black cat she held.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” stammered Zoe, dropping a curtsy. “I am—”

“Miss Zoe Grainger, I think,” said that gentle voice. “And 'tis I should apologize, my dear, that you were so rudely abandoned. I am sure you know who I am, for my sister will have told you of me. But I will introduce my friend.” She held the black cat higher and its big green eyes scanned Zoe dispassionately. “This is Attila.”

“He is very handsome. May I stroke him, Lady Yerville, or does he live up to his name?”

“You must call me Lady Julia; everyone does. And—no, he is very well-behaved. Until he goes berserk. But—”

“But since he frequently does so, he is
not
allowed in this part of the house!” Lady Buttershaw had come up unnoticed and her loud voice caused both ladies to jump. “Furthermore,” she went on, frowning at Zoe, “'twas impolite in you to go off on your own without waiting for proper introductions. One wonders if your mama ever taught you anything of etiquette!”

Lady Julia protested bravely, “But Clara, Miss Grainger had been abandoned and—”

“Nonsense! 'Twould not have harmed her to wait a minute or two whilst my friends greeted me. She has much to learn. I shall say no more on that head for the present, however.” Lady Buttershaw's basilisk gaze was on Attila. “One might think that I could return to my home without being obliged to scold within the first five minutes, but as usual my wishes are ignored. You know very well, Julia, that my friends are distressed by creatures. Dare I hope that no more members of your menagerie are lurking about?”

Lady Julia sighed. “I know of only one of your friends who is distressed by my pets, Clara, and he is not here today.”

“Were he able to be more comfortable in this house, I might more often have the pleasure of his company. Oh, I know what you are thinking, and I will admit that August is not good
ton.
But while I would not endanger our reputation by inviting him to a formal occasion, I hope I am not so proud as to deny him when out of the public eye.”

“But of course you would not, Clara.”

It seemed to Zoe that there was a touch of irony in Lady Julia's quiet words, but her sister inclined her head in the manner of one accepting her just due, then said, “One of your tasks, Miss Grainger, will be to keep Lady Julia's beasts confined to her quarters. Meanwhile,” she gestured to a hovering footman, “you shall be shown to your own chamber so that you may prepare yourself for dinner. A word with you, Julia…”

Lady Julia went off with her, saying meekly, “How nice your hair looks, Clara. I am so glad you have discarded that silly wig…”