Never Doubt I Love

by Patricia Veryan

  "Oh, Gad!" groaned Cranford, allowing Florian to take his cloak, and thrusting tricorne and cane into his hands. "Is he abed?"

  "In the spare room, sir. Are you—"

  Cranford was already limping rapidly along the passage. "I'm well," he called over his shoulder. "Lunch, if you please. I'm also starved!" And he thought bitterly, 'Even if I have just murdered someone and put a good friend into a sickbed!'

  Florian ran ahead to open the guest room door. His attempt to say more was cut off as Cranford brushed past, and with a resigned sigh, he closed his lips and retreated to the kitchen.

  The draperies were drawn over the bedchamber windows and the sparsely furnished room was dim. Tiptoeing to the four-poster, Cranford peered anxiously at the long still shape of the man who lay there.

  Sir Owen's eyes were closed, his powdered hair was dishevelled and he was frowningly pale except for two ominous spots of colour high on his cheekbones. Cranford, who had dreaded to see bandages, was relieved by the lack of them and hoped prayerfully that the physician was correct and the concussion not dangerous. Poor Furlong was shivering though. Cautiously, he pulled up the eiderdown.

  "If you think to turn me up sweet, you waste your efforts," growled Sir Owen, not opening his eyes.

  Cranford groaned and pulled a chair closer to the bed. Sitting down, he said, "I am so very sorry! It's all my fault!"

  Furlong scowled at him. "Well, it certainly ain't mine! I was in-in-ssside my once-beautiful new carriage!"

  "I know you were. Dear old boy, your teeth are chattering. Is there anything—What can I do?"

  "You can bl-blasted well tell me what the d-devil you were about! Much against my better judgment I let you tool my new coach, and what must you do but st-start to run a race with some d-down-the-road cloth-head! I w-wonder you didn't slaughter half-a-dozen ladies, to's-say nothing—"

  "Lord knows I didn't mean to kill the silly—I mean, the poor fellow. Owen, I swear he—"

  At this, Furlong lurched up and demanded in an aghast voice, "What are you saying? Perry…? You didn't r-really…I"

  "Deuce take it, I thought you knew! No, please do not go into the boughs! I'd not have mentioned a word about it if I'd even suspected you weren't told!"

  "I wasn't!" Furlong was paler than ever, and there was an alarming glitter in his eyes. "Am I to't-take it that you struck someone?"

  Pulling himself together, Cranford ordered, "Lie down and calm yourself or I'm leaving."

  Furlong glared at him, then lay back and pointed out, "Can't leave. This is-is your house, not mine."

  "Oh, so ''Tis. If you stay quiet, I'll tell you, though I probably should not. It was that same maniac in the black coach who nigh ran us off the road earlier. You'll recall you shouted at him not to pass?"

  Furlong answered uncertainly, "Vaguely. But I did not mean you to kill the poor devil."

  "No more did I! He came on at the gallop. At the gallop, Owen! There was not the time or the room to overtake. I was sure he would slow his team. But he didn't. Passed like the wind and right under the noses of the hacks of that antiquated chariot on't'other side of the road. I had all I could do to keep your cattle from bolting. And then… Oh God, 'twas awful! A poor fellow jumped out in front of us!"

  "Jumped? The devil you say!"

  Cranford searched his friend's horrified face and pleaded hoarsely, "He must have, for he appeared as from thin air! There was the most fearful bobbery, with people shouting that I was a murderer, and that repulsive young woman screeching that I was driving too fast!" Cranford dabbed his handkerchief at his pallid and perspiring brow. "But that was not the way of it Owen! I swear! I had slowed, but there was no least chance to avoid him. He was in front of the team and under the wheels in a trice!"

  "But—but why should the poor m-man have jumped in front of you? Was he a suicide d'you think?"

  "That—or mayhap he was running to help the screecher and misjudged his distance from our team."

  "Why should he help the scr—er, the lady?"

  Cranford pressed a hand to his head distractedly. "What? Oh, well she was almost run down by the blue coach, for it was forced up onto the flagway. She started screeching, and then swooned, and the Bow Street Runner came, and—'Fore God, Owen, I never saw the poor fellow in time! It is so ghastly to think I… killed an innocent—"

  He looked devastated, and Sir Owen intervened comfortingly, "No, no. I am very sure it wasn't your fault, Perry. Do not bl-blame yourself, old lad. We must talk with your screeching lady and convince her to see reason."

  "Reason! I doubt she's had a rational thought in her entire life! She took me in violent aversion in High Wycombe last week, only because Tio Glendenning's madcap brother hove my new foot over the hedge."

  Sir Owen lay back against his pillows. "What, Michael Templeby? Never say he threw your foot at the lady?"

  "Well, he didn't. But you know what a scatter-wit he is. He had made off with the foot just after I'd collected it from that fellow in Oxford who carves 'em for me. Templeby stole it away and painted it so that it looked just like a real foot." Momentarily diverted, Cranford sighed reminiscently. "It really did, Owen. Deuced clever the way he did it. Toes, and even toenails, each one a different colour. And at the top—Jove! It was pretty ghastly. Jamie Morris thought it hilarious, but I was ready to strangle Templeby. He ran off with the foot, and Jamie almost had him, so he tossed it over the hedge."

  "And—and hit the poor lady?" asked Furlong, awed.

  "I don't think so. But she's a very silly female. Swoons at the slightest thing… She set up her screeching and started accusing me of being a doctor, of all things! And now she's at it again!" Cranford groaned and said distractedly, "Heaven above, how quickly one's life can be ruined! Yesterday, my greatest annoyance was that I'm obliged to call on some distant relative I've never even met. And today, I'm a—a murderer, with Bow Street preparing the chains for my feet, and the screecher fairly slavering with eagerness to bear witness 'gainst me, and Whitehall levelling their guns, and—"

  Furlong's head had not been helped by this erratic tale and was pounding miserably. Confused, but trying to make sense of it all, he now stiffened, and intervened sharply, "Whitehall? How are they concerned?"

  "It seems my unfortunate victim was some highly placed and much admired public official. Of all—"

  Struggling to one elbow, Furlong demanded, "What is—was his name?"

  "Dash it all, I don't know." Cranford drove a hand through his hair. "I can scarce recall my own at this moment. Bernard—somebody. Or—no, 'twas a family name I think… Bentley, or Barton—Burton! That was it! As for the surname, though—Oh, egad! What's the matter? Are you—"

  His voice quivering with tension, Furlong said, "Not—Burton Farrier, surely?"

  "Yes. That's it. What are you about? You can't get up!"

  "I must . . . get up," argued Furlong, pushing back the bedclothes doggedly.

  Restraining him as best he might, Cranford gave a cry of relief when the door opened and Florian came in with a laden tray. "Thank heaven! Put that down and come and help. Sir Owen has suffered a spasm, I think! There, that's better. Lie back, poor fellow. Only see how you've exhausted yourself." And as Furlong sank down, weak and panting from his efforts, Cranford added in a very gentle voice, "Whatever is it, Owen? Never say that to add to all else, I've contrived to murder a friend of yours?"

  "You've contrived to… to despatch a… a very great… snake," gasped Furlong. " 'Terrier' Farrier's dead, Florian!"

  "Aieee!" exclaimed the gypsy youth, his dark eyes very bright. "Justice, sometimes it really does prevail!"

  "'Terrier'?" echoed Cranford, frowning. "I've heard something of a man called that. A sort of bounty hunter, wasn't he?"

  Furlong closed his eyes wearily. "He was. A murdering villain who snuffed out… many fine lives."

  Cranford bent over him, then beckoned to Florian, and tiptoed to the door. In the passageway he whispered, "I've to go and see my solicito
r about this wretched business. Keep a close eye on him, lad. He must rest."

  The gypsy youth nodded, but after the front door had closed on Cranford, he returned at once to the quiet bedchamber.

  Sir Owen said, "I'm awake. I didn't want you to say too much."

  Florian sat in the chair Cranford had vacated. "Burton Farrier!" he exclaimed. "Why should such an unfeeling creature commit suicide?"

  "Exactly so. You know he was a tool of the League of Jewelled Men?"

  "Yes. Ah, then you think it was an execution!"

  "He made mistakes. The Squire d-don't permit mistakes. I think they gave him more latitude than-than most, but they decided to punish him, and to do so in such a way that one of us would be blamed."

  "You, Sir Owen! Praise God, it did not work."

  "It came blasted close to working! Their fiendish coach passed us the first time to make sure I was driving. On their second p-pass, they must not have realized that Lieutenant Cranford had taken the ribbons!"

  Florian said gravely, "A neat trap, sir. Meant to kill two birds with one stone."

  "But sprung on the wrong man. You-you must f-find Lieutenant Morris and't-tell him all this."

  "Not now, sir. Forgive, but you are shivering again. When Mr. Peregrine comes back, I'll slip away. Please, try to rest now." He stood and walked to the door, then turned back. Sir Owen was watching him. He said, "One last question, if I may, sir. Shall you be able to keep my master clear of the League? Is it possible, now?"

  Sir Owen sighed. "I don't know, Florian. We can sure as the devil try!"

  Chapter VI

  By the time a pale and fearful Gorton had been restored to her and a very scared Cecil Stone had driven them home, Zoe felt quite wrung out, and ready to follow Gorton's suggestion that she lie down and rest in her quiet bedchamber. In some mysterious fashion, however, news of the tragedy had preceded them. They reached Yerville Hall to find Lady Buttershaw's great coach drawn up outside, with her coachman and personal footman on the box, two lackeys standing up behind, and three mounted gentlemen apparently ready to serve as outriders. Lady Buttershaw herself emerged onto the front steps, wearing an awesomely high wig, wrapped in a sable cloak, and clutching a furled umbrella much as if it had been a military baton. She waved the umbrella on high and howled, "Forward to… Bond…" Catching sight of Stone and the small coach at that point, her call to arms faded. The rescue mission was disbanded, and, looking somewhat thwarted, my lady led the way into the house. Lady Julia hurried to Zoe's side, and one glance at her pale and anxious face was sufficient for Zoe to declare that she had suffered no injuries beyond a few bruises, and would be quite all right if she might just rest for a little while.

  Comfortably settled on a sofa in the withdrawing room, with a hot cup of tea in her hand, she gave a very brief account of the incident. Lady Julia uttered occasional murmurs of shock or sympathy. Lady Buttershaw was attentively silent, her thin lips tightly compressed and her eyes glittering.

  "It was truly dreadful," said Zoe, her voice tremulous. "That poor gentleman! I never saw anyone k-killed before."

  Lady Julia squeezed her hand and said understandingly, "Of course you did not, poor child! I wonder you were in a condition to be driven home, I am sure such a sight would have left me quite prostrated!"

  "I have not a doubt of it," Lady Buttershaw agreed, with a scornful glance which reduced her sister to silence.

  Zoe said quickly, "I knew you would be worried for my sake, so I asked to be allowed to come home at once, instead of making a statement at the scene."

  From Lady Buttershaw came an explosive snort. "If there is one thing I cannot and will not countenance, Miss Grainger, it is that any least breath of—scandal—should touch this house!

  Taken aback, Zoe protested, "Surely, ''Tis not scandalous, ma'am, that I chanced to witness an accident?"

  "Accident? I understood you to call it by quite another name. Did not you, Julia? Was this debacle not described to us as a foul murder?"

  Lady Yerville said hesitantly, "Well, er, yes. But if—"

  "Exactly so. And murder, I advise you, will be reported in the newspapers. Vulgarity in its most depraved form." Lady Buttershaw shuddered, and closed her eyes. "I never dreamed the day would dawn when anyone under my roof would consort with such low people!"

  Beginning to feel like a criminal, Zoe said, "But I did not consort with anyone, my lady! I promise you I would have nothing to do with that horrid—"

  "Had you not been wandering about the back streets unescorted, you would have been spared such a tawdry encounter! Indeed, why Gorton was not at your side is something I shall be pleased to have explained to me!"

  "Yes, but the poor child must be quite worn out, Clara," interposed Lady Julia valiantly. "Surely we need not—"

  "One gathers," Lady Buttershaw swept on, overriding her sister's gentle tones, "that we must be grateful Miss Grainger escaped the indignity of being hauled off to Bow Street!"

  "The Runner wanted me to go there," admitted Zoe. "But lortunately, he agreed to bring the papers here inst—"

  "What? What papers?"

  "Why, I—I promised the Runner I will sign a statement that I saw the way that disgusting creature was driving, and—"

  Lady Buttershaw thundered, "You—will—do—no—such—thing!"

  Zoe had never heard even her step-mother shout so, and she shrank. But although her voice shook, she persisted bravely, "My apologies an that dis-distresses you, ma'am, but I consider it my duty to testify—"

  "Consider again, gel! While you are under my roof—"

  Surprisingly Lady Julia put in with quiet but rare firmness, "Now Clara, we must not be hasty."

  "I cannot stand idly by," persisted Zoe, "and let that evil doctor—"

  "Doctor? 'Twas my understanding that the person driving—" Lady Buttershaw's teeth snapped shut, as if she'd said more than she intended.

  Lady Julia stroked Zoe's hand soothingly. "Are you acquainted with the gentleman, my dear?"

  "Not acquainted, ma'am. But I had—er, encountered him before, as I tried to tell Lady Buttershaw, when he drove past us on the way to London."

  Lady Buttershaw stared, then, comprehension dawning, she demanded, "Do you say your murderous driver was that same insolent ruffian who made off with my wig when we came up from High Wycombe?"

  It was one way of putting it, thought Zoe. "The very same, ma'am. And at the Three Horse Inn I had seen him playing with—with a severed limb!"

  "God bless my soul," gasped Lady Julia. "The man must be a monster veritable!"

  Lady Buttershaw, who had been struck to momentary silence, now bellowed, "Why was I never informed of this? I will tell you, Miss Grainger, that it does no good to go through life with your tongue in your pocket. You are duty bound to supply whatever details Bow Street may require of you. Especially since you were an actual witness to the crime. Collect your thoughts and tell them exactly what you saw. Pon rep, but I fail to see the difficulty!"

  Zoe's head was aching and she was beginning to feel very tired indeed. She said, "I will, ma'am. Though… if you please, I do not want to think of it any more today! It was so horrid!"

  Lady Julia stood. "It must have been, indeed. Clara, the child must not—"

  "Dwell upon it?" her sister interrupted. "I agree, and we shall change the subject, for I've a more important matter to discuss."

  Zoe's heart sank, and Lady Julia exclaimed with real indignation, “Now? Surely this is not the time!"

  "Why ever not? My dear sister, pray do not indulge your foolish habit of making every molehill into a mountain! It was a sad occurrence, and the perpetrator must be punished. But the unfortunate victim was, after all, unknown to Miss Grainger, and while it would be proper for her, in Christian charity, to include him in her prayers tonight, his passing has nothing to say to us, and there is no cause for her to be weeping and wailing and gnashing her teeth!"

  A little flushed, Lady Julia ventured, "Nor is she doing so, but I
scarcely think—"

  "That is all too apparent! If you did so, Julia, you would realize that I have gone to considerable pains in behalf of Miss Grainger, and I am entitled to hear what she has to say!"

  "Yes, but not—"

  "You may leave us, sister. I am very sure your creatures are pining for you!"

  Pierced by a blazing glare, Lady Julia stood her ground for a moment, then wilted, murmured something incoherent, and drifted away.

  "There," said Lady Buttershaw as the door closed behind her sister. "Now we may be comfortable. I should warn you, Miss Grainger, not to be unduly influenced by Lady Julia Yerville. She is good hearted, but hers is not—er, in the general way of things—a strong spirit. You will do much better to model yourself after me. But we will say no more on that head, for I require to have your opinions."

  Zoe, who would have thought her opinions were of not the slightest interest to this formidable matron, stammered, "My—opinions…? On—on what, ma'am?"

  "Great heavens, gel! What would you suppose? The prospects, of course! Heaven knows, I gathered the pick of the current crop for your approval. All scions of the finest families and with the best of connections. Charming young gentlemen, of most excellent address. And, last, but by no means least, not one having less than fifteen thousand a year!" A crocodilian smile was levelled at Zoe's astounded countenance. My lady prompted coyly, "Well, my dear?"

  Zoe gulped, "Do you—do you refer to the gentlemen who attended your party l-last evening, ma'am?"

  "To whom else would I refer, pray? Hackham? Or my coachman? Do try not to be such a widgeon! I promised to find you a husband, did I not? Be so good as to tell me which one you favour."

  Conjuring up Sir Gilbert Fowles' leering grin; the vapid incoherencies of the man called "Purr"; Mr. Reginald Smythe, with his malicious tongue and high-pitched giggle; Zoe thought numbly, 'And those were the best of a very silly lot! My heavens!'

  "I cannot properly express my admiration of you, my dear boy." Lady Buttershaw fluttered fan and eyelashes at her morning caller, and purred disastrously, "To venture out on a rainy morning, only to see me! And especially when it must be monstrous difficult for you to get about."