Never Doubt I Love

by Patricia Veryan

  "Perhaps. But I do not care to be looked upon with pity or teary-eyed compassion, thank you! And furthermore—" Cranford gave a gasp as they turned onto Piccadilly and Furlong had to pull up sharply to avoid a sedan chair.

  "I vow this traffic gets worse by the day," grumbled Furlong. "I'm going to turn off." A moment later, he did so, only to swear furiously as a black carriage that had followed them for some distance, suddenly swung out to pass. With a fine display of skill, Furlong kept his vehicle from being crowded up the steps of a house. "Only look at that Bedlamite!" he raged, glaring after the fast-disappearing carriage. "He should be kept under restraint! A fellow don't spring his horses in Town!"

  "Likely making a dash for St. George's," said Cranford, unclenching his fists.

  "Then may his bride prove to be a harpy!"

  "I second the motion. But meanwhile, this is a nice quiet area, and a good place to rest your mangled nerves. So you may prove you're a sportsman by allowing me to take the ribbons for a space."

  It was lightly said, but Furlong knew that the least sign of hesitation on his part must turn the knife in the wound Cranford's admired lady had dealt him. "Oh, very well," he grumbled, halting the team and climbing down from the box. "But since you are determined to play coachman, I shall try the squabs and let you freeze as you deserve." He paused, looking up as he swung the door open. "One scratch, Perry, and it's pistols at dawn!"

  Cranford's appealingly boyish grin flashed. "Aye, aye, you ruffian, but I can't hang about here all day!" He raised his whip warningly. "Get in, or I'll give 'em the office!"

  The team was nervous and moved faster than he'd intended, and Furlong was obliged to dive in and slam the door while the coach was moving off. Picking himself up, he opened the window, leaned out and howled a wrathful, "Devil take you, Perry! And slow down, you madcap, the street's not traffic free!"

  Exhilarated, Cranford made no move to slow their spanking pace. "Jove, but she moves well," he shouted. "How is it inside?"

  "You'll find out as soon as we reach the park, for that's as far as you're allowed to tool it!" But sinking back against the velvet squabs, Sir Owen was so gratified by the comfort of the ride that after a few minutes he jumped up to lean out of the window again. "Smooth as silk, Perry! You must—Hey!"

  Cranford, who had glanced down at him, jerked his head up and was aghast to see a very large blue carriage bearing down on him from the opposite direction, while the black coach that had all but forced them off the road earlier must have had to make a detour, for it was again close behind, and coming up much too fast.

  "Stay back, you fool!" roared Furlong furiously, but the black coach, the horses at a full gallop, swung level with them as Cranford pulled on the reins, fighting desperately to avoid a collision.

  There was no choice for the oncoming blue carriage; with a shouted curse the man on the box drove his hacks up onto the flagway.

  A young lady who'd been strolling alone had no choice either, and flung herself down the areaway steps of the nearest house.

  The black coach shot past.

  From nowhere, horrifyingly, a man appeared in front of Furlong's terrified horses.

  Blanching, Cranford whispered, "My dear God!" and strove mightily.

  The black carriage raced away, free and clear.

  Furlong's animals reared and whinnied shrilly, trying to avoid the man before them. The coach rocked and jolted.

  But it was hopeless.

  Cranford felt the sickening bump. For an instant of pure horror he was on that ravening battlefield again, fighting to keep his men from deserting… falling… quite unable to escape the heavy iron wheel of the gun carriage as it smashed onto his foot…

  Dangerously near to overturning, Furlong's beautiful new equipage slammed against the side of the big blue coach and came to a rocking halt, with Cranford hanging on for dear life.

  The coachman was raving; all the horses were neighing and prancing in panic; several pedestrians were running to the aid of the poor creature who had gone down under those iron-shod hooves; doors and windows were being flung open, and more people were gathering around.

  There had been not a sound from Furlong, who was not the man to draw back at such a moment, which brought the additional fear that he might have been thrown down when the coach lurched so crazily.

  "Poor cove's stone dead!" An organ-grinder, his scared monkey chattering and clinging about his neck, straightened from the pathetic figure under the coach, and shook his fist at Cranford. "That there young gentry cove playing coachman done it! Murder's what it is! I see it all! Going like the wind he were! Much his kind care fer the likes of us! Our lives don't mean no more'n a dog's!"

  From beyond the blue coach came a feminine scream, followed by an outraged if fading demand that the Watch be summoned.

  Cranford knew that voice. Making his awkward descent from the box, he thought grimly that there was no end to the evils of this terrible morning.

  Shortly before Peregrine Cranford first glimpsed Furlong's new coach, Elsie Gorton was exclaiming uneasily, "But, Miss! Ay have been give strict orders you are never to be out of may sayt!"

  "Oh, I do wish you would stop talking in that foolish fashion." Zoe slid her hands into her muff. "Why can you not speak in your natural way?"

  Gorton sighed. "Because Ay mayt forget, Miss. Ay do sometimes. And her la'ship likes it. She thinks Ay tray to copy her talk, and that pleases her."

  "Oh, very well. As for your not letting me out of your sight, pish! I'll not be far away." She glanced out of the carriage windows. "Are we almost there? Faith, but I'd forgot how crowded the city is! All these people and houses and shops! And so much noise and confusion."

  Scanning her anxiously, Gorton said, "Are you sure you'll be all right, Miss?"

  Zoe realized she was behaving like a very green girl, and gathered herself together. "I am not straight from the schoolroom, you know. I" will have a lovely time in the emporium, and you and Stone can go off to a quiet place where you can chat for a little while in peace. Is what you would like—no?"

  Gorton clasped her hands and emitted an ecstatic moan.

  "Very well," said Zoe. "But now you must help me, Elsie."

  With a worshipful and tremulous smile, Gorton mumbled that she would be ever so proud to think she could help Miss in any way.

  "Well, you can," Zoe confirmed, "by telling me about this report Lady Buttershaw seems to expect from me this afternoon. Do you think I am to answer questions about the fashions the ladies wore last evening?"

  Thinking very much, Gorton said carefully, "Likely so, Miss. And—er, the gents, Ay expect."

  "Hmm. I collect I had better not say that those little black bags they stuff their wigs into at the back look stupid!"

  Gorton grinned and agreed that would be best left unsaid. She glanced out as the carriage pulled to a halt on busy Bond Street. "This is the New Emporium. Oh, Miss! I'm all a'twitter! It is so good, so very kind in you, but—if anyone should recognize you…!"

  "If anyone should recognize me, which I doubt, I shall tell them I sent you off to purchase something for me." Zoe paused, listening to the tolling of a church bell. "There! ''Tis eleven o'clock. Now you must pick me up again in no more than thirty minutes, for I do so want to see some of the famous places in the city. Is agreed?"

  It was, said Gorton huskily, agreed.

  A porter hurried from the emporium to open the carriage door and hand Zoe down the steps. He waited for Gorton, but Zoe shook her head, the door was slammed shut, and the carriage rolled away. Her heart beating rather fast, and well aware that the porter eyed her curiously as he opened the door to the shop, Zoe smiled her thanks and went inside.

  She entered a large crowded room, warm and fragrant, where many long tables were piled with ells of cloth, pattern cards, embroidery silks, ribands and braids, silk flowers, zephyr shawls, dainty mittens and gloves, and lacy fichus. Ladies wandered about with friends, or were followed by servants. Clerks hovered an
d made deferential and carefully pronounced suggestions. And throughout was a hum of conversation and an air of elegant prosperity.

  Fascinated, Zoe moved from counter to counter until, overhearing a matron say without bothering to lower her voice that there was a most exceptional milliners "just around the corner," she abandoned this house of treasures and ventured outside once more.

  She had evidently not left by the same door through which she'd arrived, for this street was unfamiliar and less travelled. She hesitated, but the porter was watching, the corner was only a short distance away, and pride forbade that she admit she was lost in the big city. Hurrying on, her hands in her muff and her steps betraying a confidence she could not feel, she went around the corner only to find herself on a residential street of large and prosperous-looking mansions. It was, she thought, a charming street, and she liked the fact that there were trees here and there. It was a great pity that there were not very many trees on London's streets. Houses and shops and churches were all well and good, but—

  She gave a gasp of fright as a large blue coach that had been proceeding towards her swerved sharply. From the opposite direction came two more carriages, one black, one brown, racing abreast and taking up the entire street. She had a split-second awareness that there was not enough room for three vehicles. There followed a rapid and nightmarish series of events. The team of the blue carriage was forced onto the flagway and ran straight at her. In a frantic dive for life she flung herself down the area steps of the nearest house. From the corner of her eye she saw the black carriage thunder away, even as, the ultimate horror, a pedestrian was struck by the team of the rival brown coach.

  All then was pandemonium, the snorts and whinnies of frightened horses mingling with shouts and cries of shock and angry accusation. With blackened mittens, a torn gown, her cap hanging down, and her knees shaking, Zoe struggled back up the steps. Some men were peering under the brown carriage. A scream escaped her as she caught a glimpse of a pathetically twisted figure lying under the wheels. There was blood… Faint and sick, she looked up at a familiar face that seemed to float high above her. A handsome face, white and strained now, and with a tight-lipped look of desperation. Revolted, she cried out something, but the scene was fading. She was trembling so violently that she could not stand… Someone was supporting her, but she could not see who it was… In fact, she could not see anything… at all…

  "I must protest, officer," said the motherly housekeeper indignantly. "The young lady has suffered a severe shock and should be conveyed to her home at once. I am very sure my employers would insist upon it."

  The officer from Bow Street, a slender man with a thin intelligent face and a hawk nose, bowed slightly, but pushed past her and said in a chill and authoritative voice that in his experience, the sooner statements could be taken down, the better. Producing a pencil and notebook, he walked across the tastefully furnished withdrawing room and drew a chair close to the chaise longue where Zoe lay. "If Miss Grainger is feeling better…?" he said with a hint of a smile.

  Much embarrassed, Zoe set aside the brandy that tasted horrid, but had to an extent restored her. She was still trembling, and her knees felt weak, but she said apologetically, "I am indeed sorry to have caused such a fuss. I promise you I have never in my life swooned, before this."

  "Small wonder," said the housekeeper, coming to stand militantly beside her and fix the officer with a challenging stare. "The shock of being almost trampled and run over by a coach and four is enough to cause any lady to swoon; much less seeing a poor creature as good as murdered before her very eyes!"

  Zoe shuddered, and took up the horrid brandy again.

  The Bow Street Runner watched her narrowly, and with pencil poised, asked, "Is that your view of it, Miss? Was it deliberate murder?"

  Blinking, she coughed and said hoarsely, "I—wouldn't say… deliberate, exactly. But had he not been going much too fast, 'twould not have happened."

  The officer wrote busily. "I know that as this lady said, you've suffered a great shock, Miss. But I'd be much obliged if you could describe exactly what took place."

  The housekeeper's chin drew in, and her ample bosom thrust out. She said, "I think it would be best, Miss Grainger, if we was to send for your people—they'll likely be worrying for you."

  The Runner slanted an irked frown at her, but Zoe said at once, "Oh, yes, if you please. My maid was running an errand for me and left me at that lovely emporium just around the corner. She will be beside herself." She looked at the housekeeper imploringly. "If someone could be sent? Her name is Gorton."

  The housekeeper patted her shoulder kindly. "Never you fret, Miss. I'll send the fireboy round at once."

  Watching her bustle out, the Runner stifled a sigh of relief. "You were saying, Miss Grainger…?"

  "Oh… yes. Well, I saw the big chariot, the blue one, you know, coming down the street towards me, and then two more carriages came along, racing side by side. The blue chariot had no room and was crowded onto the flagway! It was making straight for me! So—I threw myself down the area steps, and the brown coach knocked that poor man down!" She closed her eyes a moment. "Oh, 'twas… dreadful!"

  "Yes, indeed, Miss. Is a mercy you were not killed also! Then the brown coach struck the victim as he crossed the street?"

  She nodded.

  "By which time the black coach had gone past?"

  "Yes."

  "So the black coach was not actually involved when the gentleman was knocked down?"

  "No. As I said, it had already passed by when… it happened."

  She was shaking visibly. The Runner said gently, "I will be as quick as I can, but I must beg that you are very clear on these points, Miss Grainger. The victim walked across the street?"

  Zoe stared at him. "He may have run, I suppose."

  He gave a small tight smile, and persisted, "The black coach was in the lead, and appeared to have been racing with the brown coach?"

  "That was all I could think, yes."

  An acid voice said from the open doorway, "Then your thoughts were scrambled, madam!"

  She jerked her head around, and was surprised by the shrill note to her own voice as she cried, "How can you dare say such a thing? Were you at your collecting again, doctor?"

  "I am not a doctor! If you want to know—" Peregrine Cranford started forward, but a constable put an arm across the doorway, restraining him. He snarled fiercely, "I don't mean to attack the silly chit, you fool! The fellow jumped, I tell you! He jumped from that damnable black coach right under my team's—"

  "I'll thank you not to use strong language in front of this lady," scolded the Runner.

  "And it is besides so much stuff and nonsense," said Zoe angrily. "Why would anyone do so mad a thing?"

  The Runner nodded. "Your point is well taken, ma'am."

  "Her point is poppycock!" From under dark and frowning brows a blue glare scorched at Zoe. "There could be any number of reasons why the poor fellow jumped out. I doubt this lady was in any state—or in a proper position—to see clearly what transpired."

  "I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods," declared Zoe.

  "Indeed?" Cranford said hotly, "In my experience, that is precisely your habit!" He turned to the Runner, and added, "I'd not be surprised was this poor creature deranged!"

  "Oh!" Incensed, Zoe gasped. "How dare you say such a wicked thing, only because I am not accustomed to seeing people ch-chopped up every day—as you are!" And fighting a sudden need to weep, she counter-attacked, "You are a bad man, sir. I do not scruple to say so!"

  "No, you don't, madam! I can vouch for that sorry fact! If you had any scruples you might stop and think before you jumped to your erroneous conclusions!"

  "Constable," interposed the Runner, standing. "Please remove this gentleman. I will talk to you later, sir."

  "You will talk to me sooner, or 'twill have to be at my house, for I've to get my friend home. In case it has slipped your mind, he was injured and I must c
all in a physician."

  "What a pity," said the Runner scornfully, "that you did not have more concern for your friend than to race another coach on a city—"

  "Curse you for a blockhead! I was not racing! I have told you—

  "You have told me, sir, an extreme doubtful tale, which I cannot but question. Beyond question is the fact that Mr. Burton Farrier, a highly placed civil servant, lies dead. And that several witnesses, including this lady, are willing to swear that your grossly improper and reckless speed brought the tragedy about."

  Struggling against the constable's efforts to drag him away, Cranford raged, "That is a lie! I tell you, this woman is addle-brained at best and wouldn't know what she saw if she saw it! The fellow jumped—or was—"

  The Runner raised his voice, "If I have your statement properly written down, and brought round to your home, will you sign it, Miss Grainger?"

  Meeting the murderous glare of the amateur coachman with unyielding defiance, Zoe said, "I most certainly will!"

  An hour had slipped away by the time the hackney stopped in front of the large and pleasant house on Henrietta Street where Peregrine Cranford lived when in London. His rooms were on the ground floor, and he called to his servant as he limped into the small entrance hall.

  Florian came running. Of slender build, he moved with fluid grace and with anxiety clearly written on his delicate features. Olive skinned and dark-haired, his birth and background were unknown, but he was soft-spoken, with a precision to his words that Cranford believed was due to English not being his native tongue. He had been sold into a gypsy tribe as a small boy and escaped a life of cruelty and servitude by running away in his teen years. Cranford had rescued him from a hand-to-mouth existence and, against the advice of all his friends, had taken the youth into his service. He had never regretted it. Florian was faithful and utterly devoted.

  Cranford asked in a distraught fashion, "Has he come round? Has a doctor seen him? Is it bad?"

  "Yes, and yes, and—no, sir. 'Tis a concussion that the physician says is not serious. Save that—er, it has brought on an attack of that fever he suffered in India."