Never Doubt I Love Page 2

  "I'll be off, zur," said Aaron, rising and taking up his crook.

  "What?" Mr. Grainger looked at the old man as if only now becoming aware of him, and he added with rather forced affability, "Oh. How do you go on, Bleckert?"

  "So sharp and spry as ever was, thankee Mr. Grainger, sir. And sorry if I kept Miss Zoe from her drawings, grousing at her 'bout the hole in me thatch." He touched his brow with grave dignity and, having succeeded in turning his employer's thoughts, limped away, Hops at his side.

  Looking after him, Grainger muttered, "Blast!" He found his daughter watching him, her little face unwontedly sober, and he flushed and said testily, "Well, there is no call to look at me as though I were an ogre! The old fellow's roof—er, slipped my mind, is all."

  "Of course, Papa," she said loyally. " 'Faith, but I wonder you can order your thoughts any more with all Mrs. Mowbray's children clamouring and squabbling and racing about as they do!"

  Grainger stifled a sigh. They did clamour. Indeed, they were the most noisy and quarrelsome brats he'd ever seen. The quiet old house was quiet no longer, and, as his bride said, not nearly large enough. If he'd but known—He blocked off such useless repining. "The lady's name is Mrs. Grainger," he reminded. "And you should show her more respect, Zoe. I know you loved your mama—as did I—but I was very—er, lonely after she went to her reward. And—and Mrs. Mow—I mean, Irene, is most solicitous and devoted."

  He saw his daughter's mouth opening, and went on hastily, "But never mind that. You must come up to the house now. There is a lady arrived to offer you a great opportunity, and you will want to change your gown and—and do something with your hair. Really, child ''Tis unseemly to be rushing about like any country wench, perching on walls, and with no cap on your head! You are a young lady now. Indeed, many girls have one or two children by the age of nineteen. Besides, ''Tis past time for you to—to see some more of—er, the world…"

  Gathering her sketchbook and crayons, Zoe was silent, and suddenly she was also cold, and very fearful.

  "Such a splendid thing for the gel, my lady," simpered Mrs. Irene Grainger, her most ingratiating smile pinned to her lips as she poured another cup of tea for her illustrious guest. "So good of you to even consider her. I would have taken her to Town myself long since but," she fluttered her lashes coyly, "I am newly wed, you know, and ''Tis hard to break away."

  Lady Clara Buttershaw, tall, gaunt, and harsh featured, was perfectly aware that the second Mrs. Grainger had "broken away" to London several times since her marriage, always accompanied by her own two eldest daughters. It went against the grain not to give this silly upstart the set-down she deserved, but my lady controlled her natural impulses, and said, "To say truth, Mrs. Grainger, I have been unable to find a companion for my poor sister. Not a companion who—suits, if you take my meaning. We are, as all London knows, of most distinguished lineage. Indeed, I doubt it could be surpassed—or even equalled throughout the realm. When one is well born one is bred up to standards quite beyond the understanding of less-favoured persons. I insist that those standards be maintained in all our establishments. When we met in Bath last month, and you mentioned your rather cramped quarters here, and the fact that your step-daughter would benefit from some Town—er, polish, why it seemed to offer the ideal solution for both of us." She frowned as the sound of a male voice upraised in anger could be heard. "On the other hand," she added, a glint coming into her hard dark eyes, "if Miss Grainger is for some incomprehensible reason reluctant to accept of my generous offer…"

  Mrs. Grainger practically gabbled assurances that Zoe was "fairly twittering" with eagerness. "She longs to visit the Metropolis, as all girls do, and she is besides, the very kindest creature," she went on, desperate not to lose this opportunity to be rid of the wretched girl. "She is not without accomplishments, ma'am, for she has been properly bred up. She knows her globes, plays the harpsichord adequately, sketches quite well, and has a rare eye for beauty. Though," she shook her pretty head sadly, "I must own it, she is far from being a beauty herself."

  "We cannot all be Toasts," my lady allowed. "I well remember my dear Mama warning me in my salad days that I must have compassion for those to whom beauty was denied. For I do not scruple to tell you that I was quite the rage of London. As you will have heard, I am assured."

  Transfixed by a challenging stare, Mrs. Grainger had to restrain the impulse to shriek with laughter. She thought, 'Why, you hatchet-faced old crow! The only rage associated with you was—and is—your horrid bad temper!' But she smiled admiringly, and lied, "I have indeed heard of how you took London, and Paris I believe, by storm. My step-daughter will have much to learn from you, dear ma'am. And she is very quick, I promise you, so—"

  Lady Buttershaw looked displeased, and her bony hand shot up in an autocratic demand for silence. "You do not say that she is clever, I trust? I cannot abide clever gels!"

  Mrs. Grainger laughed merrily, saw disapproval on the austere countenance of her guest, and at once strangled the laugh. Zoe was far from clever, she declared. Indeed, she was quite stupid, for she had rejected several unexceptionable suitors. "Still, she is amiable enough and will, I am very sure, be deeply appreciative of the honour you do her, dear Lady Buttershaw!"

  This opinion was not shared by her spouse, who at that moment was on the verge of losing his temper with his far-from-appreciative daughter. "Of course I love you," he reiterated, pacing nervously about Zoe's bedchamber. "Have I not said it? ''Tis because I care so much for—for your well-being that I have accepted Lady Buttershaw's very kind offer."

  "A very kind offer to obtain an unpaid servant," argued Zoe, trying desperately not to cry. "You know how much I love you, Papa, and—and my home. You never minded in days past that I had not found a gentleman I cared for. You used to say you needed me here after dearest Mama went to her reward. But now, because that—that woman wants me gone, you have let her six nasty children come and turn out your own—"

  "That—will—do!" Scourged by these home truths, Harvey Grainger took refuge in anger. "You have resented Irene since first we met. I know you were deeply attached to your mama, and I have tried to make allowances for your jealousy and—er, and sullenness. But it cannot continue. Irene is my wife now, and—and no house can have two mistresses."

  Zoe wrung her hands, and pleaded, "But it is not true, Papa! You know I never have interfered with her changes—no matter how silly they were! I never have been rude or said one word, even when her ill-behaved brats were—"

  "You have usurped her authority at every turn! The servants resent her for your sake. And if ''Tis true that you say nothing, your manner, your very silence is—is a criticism, and she feels it, for she is sensitive and highly strung."

  "But—dearest Papa, I—"

  The tears that trembled on her lashes, the pleading in her green eyes were upsetting Mr. Grainger. Besides which, he was finding it hard to remember all the other accusations Irene had listed with such martyred pathos. He interposed with the force of desperation, "No, never argue, Zoe. You do but make it more difficult for both of us. I have kept you cooped up here much too long, when you should have been in Town learning to behave as a young lady of quality. And only look at the result! All your friends are wed and setting up their nurseries, while you moon over silly novels, and likely believe such romantic adventures really happen. Which I can assure you they do not! And even if they do," he added, weakening his position, "you'll not find them while you hobnob with farm hands and village people, or go riding in the rain and come home, as you did last week, looking like a drowned rat!"

  "I suppose Mrs. Mowbray said that!" inserted Zoe rebelliously. "I doubt she could mount a horse even were three strong men to lift—"

  "When I found you with old Bleckert this afternoon," her father overrode, raising his voice, "you looked more like a common dairymaid than Miss Grainger of Travisford! Irene says—I mean—Oh, I'll not wrap it in clean linen—if you are unwed 'tis because no gentleman worth the name
wants a madcap and unbridled country bumpkin for a bride!"

  That barb went home painfully, and it was all Zoe could do to plead, "Then if you must be—be rid of me, let me go to live with Aunt Minerva, Papa! I do not know Lady Buttershaw, nor her sister. At least let me stay with my own family, I beg you!"

  This had, in fact, been Mr. Grainger's intention. His Irene had been quick to point out, however, that if Zoe moved into her aunt's country home so soon after her papa's remarriage, people were bound to think she had been made to feel unwanted, and would likely blame the new bride for that circumstance. On the other hand, to be invited to stay at the Town residence of so proud a pair as Lady Clara Buttershaw and Lady Julia Yerville, the daughters of an earl, would be judged a notable achievement.

  "The decision has been made," he said with finality. "There is nothing more to be said, save Godspeed, and—and take care little… Zoe…"

  She stretched out her arms. Tears streaked down, and her ruddy lips quivered pathetically.

  Mr. Grainger really was very fond of her. He hugged her briefly, and fled, pausing in the passage to tear off his wig and mop his perspiring head.

  The portmanteau, the band boxes, and the valises stood in a neat row beside the door. Sitting on the bed, staring at them numbly, Zoe heard wheels on the drivepath. She went to the window and looked down at the great coach and the four matched chestnuts who snorted and stamped and fidgeted, eager to be gone.

  She was not eager to be gone. She felt lost and betrayed, and scarcely able to comprehend that her world had fallen apart so swiftly. Papa could not really be pushing her away from him, away from the only home she had ever known. Surely, he could not? But it was not his doing, of course.

  "Oh, Travis," she whispered miserably. "If only you were here!"

  If her brother had been at home, the pretty widow who had flung herself so blatantly at Harvey Grainger would never have succeeded in ousting his daughter from her home. Not for an instant would dearest Travis have stood by and let Papa be manoeuvred into such unkindness. But three years had passed since Travis had come down from Oxford, and within the month, full of pride and enthusiasm, had embarked on a promising career in the Diplomatic Service. Now, he was five and twenty, and in India, thousands of miles from Burford, wherefore Mrs. Mowbray had swept to victory, unchecked. There was little doubt that Lady Buttershaw's offer had come as a surprise to her. But a lovely surprise. Her unwanted step-daughter was to be packed off to her "glorious opportunity," and the new Mrs. Grainger would be able to rule Travisford without—

  A knock at the door announced that the servants had come for her luggage.

  Blinking away tears of despair, Zoe let them in, and followed them forlornly down the stairs.

  "Affection and respect for one's parents is commendable," acknowledged Lady Clara Buttershaw, her eyes fixed on the scene beyond the windows of the great carriage. "But I trust you do not mean to snivel all the way to London."

  Since my lady's skirts took up the entire seat, Zoe had of necessity to sit facing her. She had hoped she was concealing her grief, but although those hard dark eyes had not once appeared to glance her way, a furtive dab at her tears had evidently been noted.

  Lady Buttershaw's head, ridiculous with its high powdered wig and the wide-brimmed hat perched à la bergere atop it, turned to her. "I require a response when I address you," she declared awfully.

  "I am't-trying not to be a watering pot, ma'am," responded Zoe, as steadily as she could manage. "But I had no notion this—this morning that I was to be ordered to leave my papa and—and Travisford, so—soon."

  "In which case your step-mama has more brains than I had credited her with. Change is the more difficult when one has time to brood upon it. What is done, is done, and you will do better to stop such foolish repining and turn your mind to your great good fortune. The chances of a plain young female such as yourself achieving a respectable match while dwelling in the wilds of nowhere are, I may tell you, exceeding remote."

  "I have no desire to—"

  "Be—silent—miss!" Lady Buttershaw's harsh bray drowned the pounding of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the swaying coach. "You may speak when I have finished. And not before!"

  Intimidated as always by a display of anger, Zoe shrank.

  "That is better. Now, as I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted—in coming to me, you will reside in one of the most admired mansions in London Town. It is, I must own, a new structure. Our family home was destroyed by fire twenty years ago. The Earl, my father, was an enlightened man. He saw the advantages of establishing a fashionable and select area away from the common herd. Others followed his example, of course, for Yervilles have ever led the way. I myself am a leader of le haut ton. I assume you know what that means. Whereby I shall select a suitable mate for you. With your lack of fortune, looks, height, and grace, 'twill tax my ingenuity, but I shall rise to the challenge. We will cross that bridge when we come to it, however. Our first task must be the matter of your unfortunate wardrobe. I refuse to have anyone dwelling in my house whose garments run the gamut of fashion—from bad to worse!" My lady folded her fan and rapped Zoe smartly across the knuckles. "You may now speak."

  "Thank you, ma'am. But—"

  "So I should think. Now—in return for the education you will receive in such vital areas as good taste, deportment, and social etiquette, you will act as a companion to my spinster sister. Let me tell you that you will not find your duties onerous. Lady Julia Yerville was severely burned in the fire I told you of, and has been a semi-invalid ever since. She is a gentle creature and will likely ask very little of you. Were I not so popular and in constant demand for Society events, I would provide all the companionship she requires." My lady pursed her lips and considered for a moment, while Zoe watched her in growing fascination. "No. I shall be honest," the grande dame continued. "For in all things I am honest. I myself possess a very high level of intelligence. You have doubtless already remarked it. On the other hand, my sister's powers of understanding are not anything out of the way. It is a strain upon me to converse with her for any length of time. Do not mistake me. Lady Julia is of superior stock, as are all the Yervilles, and before the fire she was considered exceeding beautiful. She was, in fact, about to make a splendid marriage, but—Well, that has nothing to say to the case. It is good that the poor creature has her interests. I myself find them childish, but you will likely be able to enter into them without too much difficulty. If you wish to comment, you may do so."

  Zoe blinked, and decided that whatever else, life at Yerville Hall would have its amusing side. "I was wondering, Lady Buttershaw, if the doctors cannot help your poor sister. Medicine has made great advances in this modern age, and—"

  "Doctors," said my lady without equivocation, "are unscrupulous charlatans who charge outrageous fees for the privilege of practicing upon their unfortunate patients while they live, and have lately taken to cutting them up when they die from such practicing! It would surprise me not in the least to discover that in many cases they cut people up before they are deceased! I myself enjoy excellent health, doubtless because I have never permitted a physician to lay his hands upon my person. 'Faith, but I would as soon admit a wild boar to one of my musicales as to allow such a quack to cross the threshold! I see that your face bears an incredulous expression. Do you perhaps doubt the veracity of what I have said?"

  Pierced by a militant glare, Zoe stammered, "No, no, 'Tis just that—well, I know Papa would become vexed with old Dr. Edgeware when he would insist that port wine was injurious, but he is such a gentle man. I cannot think he would cut people up."

  "That is because your horizons are small and your thoughts ill-formed. You may believe whatever I tell you. All doctors are half-mad and will stop at nothing to exercise their knives. I have heard tales from sensible men that even I could scarce credit. Only last month a retired general of my acquaintance told me that he encountered a physician leaving the hospital late one night, w
ith a long parcel under his arm. When the general enquired what the young fellow carried, he had the effrontery to admit that he had chanced to cut off the wrong leg of one of his patients, but that it was just as well because he could now take it home and use it to determine how toenails grow!"

  "Good… heavens…!" gasped Zoe.

  "Just so. Now, you will suppose, since you have no experience, that I mean to reach London tonight. Not so. I never undertake a journey that will leave me fatigued. We shall overnight at High Wycombe, which is in the valley of the Wye. It is a fairish town of great antiquity and is mentioned in the Domesday Book. I would not be surprised if some of my ancestors stayed there at that time. In ancient days it was a Roman camp. I tell you these things to elevate your mind, for although it does not do for a lady to be clever, neither must she appear a stupid… In point of fact…"

  On and on she went. ,

  'Goodness me,' thought Zoe. 'I wonder whatever the sister will be like!'

  The Three Horse Inn was a charming old Tudor establishment advantageously located on the Oxford-to-London road some distance northwest of High Wycombe. When the carriage rumbled into the cobbled yard Zoe was surprised to find that they were expected. A footman hurried to escort them inside. The host bowed himself double and assured Lady Buttershaw that her own sheets were already upon the beds, and that Miss Grainger had been allocated the adjoining chamber. "Her woman," he added, "is waiting for her. If you will be so good as to come this way, my lady."

  Astonished, Zoe accompanied Lady Buttershaw up the stairs. "How very kind in you, ma'am, to have re-hired Daisy for me. When my step-mama turned her off—"

  "I am acquainted with no one called Daisy. These stairs are atrocious. You should have a more modern flight pur in, host. I would not be surprised but that you are infested with woodworms. I shall leave you the name of an excellent architect."