Never Doubt I Love (35 page)

On the return journey, Zoe continued to scan the passing traffic, but when they approached Yerville Hall she had to admit it was hopeless, and her heart sank.

Gorton, who had been watching her in growing anxiety, said, “Ay do hope your letter has not brought bad news, ma'am?”

“Letter?” Zoe asked sharply, “What letter?”

“Whay, the one what come for you Saturday. Ay saw you reading it at your desk, and Ay thought—”

“That was a letter
I
was writing!” Agitated, Zoe said, “Elsie, are you very sure there was a letter brought for me?”

Beginning to be frightened, Gorton nodded, “Yes, Miss Zoe. Ay chanced to be fetching your kid shoes with the red ribbons—they were so muddied after you went in the boat with Mr. Cranford that Ay had left them in the kitchen to dry. The underfootman carried in the second post, and he put it on the table for a minute because Chef had cut up some stale cake and we was all give a bit. And the scullery maid—a proper widgeon she is—knocked the post over. So we all helped pick it up, and Ay saw it distinct. Your name it said, not no mistaking!”

“Did you chance to see how much had been paid? Was it more than a penny?”

“It was marked plain, Miss. One penny.”

That meant London. Who in Town would be writing to her? It couldn't be Travis—no, surely it could not! She asked, “What like was the writing?”

“Oh, very fine, Miss. And a flourish to the letter Z, as I never— Oh, Miss! Whatever is it? Did not you get your letter?”

‘A flourish to the letter
Z
…' Travis had always written her name with that teasing deviation from his beautiful copperplate. Then he was
home!
He was in Town, and had written to her, and his letter had been withheld. She felt dazed, and heard herself telling Gorton that she was all right.

“That you're not, Miss,” said Gorton anxiously. “So white as any sheet is what you are. If 'tis because of your letter, Ay shall go direct to Mr. Arbour, and ask him for—”

“No! You must not! Here we are, thank heaven! Perchance Lady Buttershaw had not time to sort the mail, and now my letter is waiting upstairs.”

The house was gloomy and dark, and resounded with the voice of Lady Buttershaw, who surged across the entrance hall in full cry, surrounded by her little crowd of sycophants.

Upon catching sight of Zoe, she bellowed redundantly, “So there you are! 'Tis a good thing you are come home. The streets are more unsafe daily!
Hourly!
You will do well to keep indoors for the rest of the day!”

As if to emphasize her remarks, she flung the hood of her cloak over her head with a dramatic sweep. Unhappily, her vigour dislodged her wig, which settled down over her eyes, blinding her. When the pandemonium died down she seemed to have forgotten her own advice, and the small and vociferous party went out into the unsafe streets with no evidence of trepidation.

Zoe proceeded up the stairs, and Gorton murmured, “You could have asked her la'ship about your letter, Miss.”

Zoe shook her head, and all but ran to her bedchamber. There was a folded paper on the mantelpiece. With a sigh of relief, she flew to take it up, but her heart sank. It was a note from Lady Julia's footman, Whipley, to the effect that her ladyship was gone out with friends and would not need Miss Grainger until this evening. Exasperated, Zoe tossed the note aside and paced restlessly to the window.

She was only dimly aware of the lowering clouds, or how the wind whipped the branches of the trees about, for her thoughts were turned inward. Any lingering doubts she may have held were gone now. Peregrine was absolutely right. There really
was
a League of Jewelled Men; they really
were
hunting her beloved brother. And, incredible as it seemed, Lady Buttershaw
was
a member of the League! She had opened and read Papa's letter, and now she had kept another letter, which had almost certainly been written by Travis.

Gorton, who had made a quick search of the bed, the chest of drawers, and the little secretary in the corner, said worriedly that the letter was not to be found.

“Of course 'tis not,” said Zoe. “I am not meant to have it.”

Gorton gripped her hands together and said she could not believe that. “Whay ever would may lady keep your letters from you, Miss Zoe? Her la'ship is not kind, if Aye dare remark it, but she was properly bred up and is Quality. She would not do anything so low!”

An implacable anger was burning in Zoe's heart. “She is gone out. And Lady Julia is out as well.” She looked steadily at her nervous abigail. “I mean to have my letter, Elsie.”

“Well, er, yes, of course, Miss. When may lady comes home—”

“Now,” said Zoe, starting to the door.

With a yelp of alarm, Gorton flew to stand before it. “But Hackman cannot give it to you, Miss! Not even if he wanted, which he don't if Ay know
him!
And Lady Buttershaw's woman is so sour as any lemon and wouldn't lift a hand to help, not if you begged her!”

“I do not mean to beg anybody. Or to ask anybody. 'Tis my letter! I will have it!” There was stark horror on Gorton's paling countenance and Zoe added earnestly, “Elsie, there is something very wicked going on in this house. I cannot tell you all of it. I can only say that my dear brother's very life may depend on my reading that letter, and—I mean to do so!”

“Oh,
Miss,
” wailed Gorton. “How
can
you?”

“Does her ladyship lock the door to her room?”

“No, of course not! But—”

“Then what is to prevent me from going down there and walking in?”

“Oh …
Miss!
Oh, my dear departed granny! Oh, help!”

Zoe reached for the door handle.

Really frightened, Gorton caught her arm and cried imploringly, “Do
not,
Miss Zoe! They won't allow it! Hackham will stop you. Or Whipley or—or one of the lackeys. Miss—you
dare
not!
Nobody
goes to Lady Buttershaw's apartments 'less they're summoned.
Nobody!
”

Zoe was afraid also, but she said, “I know, but I must! From what I have seen of Hackham and Whipley, they're not the kind to tend to their duties when there's a chance of avoiding them. With both their ladyships gone out, they're likely down in the kitchen this very minute, badgering Chef to open a bottle and slice some cake for them! Will there be other maids, Elsie? What of her dresser?”

“Lady Buttershaw sent her to Sundial Abbey to fetch some winter cloaks. She'll be away another day, at least. But—but her
woman,
Miss! Such a prune-faced creature is Truscott, and has never said a kind word to me in all the years I've worked here.”

In her agitation, Gorton had neglected to employ her careful accent, and Zoe said, “You really are worried for my sake. Thank you, dear Elsie. Please, won't you help me? If you could just go down to Lady Buttershaw's suite and knock on the door and ask Truscott—”

Gorton gave a little shriek and shrank away. “Oh,
lor'!
Oh, I couldn't! Not
never,
Miss! Oh, I'd—I'd swoon away afore I even
got
to the door. Never been near it, I hasn't!”

She looked ready to swoon at the very thought of taking such a terrible step. Zoe, who well knew the power of fear, said gently, “No, I understand. Then do you think you could instead keep watch and come and tell me at once if Truscott goes out? You could do that for me, couldn't you?”

Trembling, but very conscious of the fact that this pretty young lady had been most kind to her and to Cecil, Gorton nodded convulsively and made her shaken way down the stairs to keep watch.

Thus it was that only a quarter of an hour later, Zoe was advised the coast was clear. Her pulses quickened as she slipped into the corridor. It was chilly and dim, and she walked along rapidly. Unlike Lady Julia's wing, there were no doors blocking off Lady Buttershaw's apartments. Probably, thought Zoe, because the woman inspired such terror in the staff that they would not dare come near her domain.

Only when she passed the last of the guest suites did it occur to her that she had no idea which of the remaining doors opened into my lady's study, or bedchamber, where she thought it most likely that the missing letter might be found.

The first door seemed to loom up and tower over her. She bit her lip nervously, raised a hand and knocked. Silence. She knocked again, then opened the door. She looked into a room that made her blink. It was evidently reserved for my lady's toilette and was rather astonishingly garish. The walls were hung with a silk print of purple and gold fans, the velvet draperies at the windows were scarlet, two white chests were gilt trimmed. There was a chaise longue covered in deep pink velvet, and in the centre of the room stood a large hip bath, a fine cheval-glass beside it. “My goodness!” murmured Zoe, and hurried across the corridor.

On this side she discovered a room that had the air of an audience chamber; certainly not the type of chamber she sought. The next two doors opened into a green saloon that was almost a shrine. The air had a musty smell, the walls were hung with ancient tapestries, family portraits, and historical memorabilia. There were stands containing armoured figures; many weapons of bygone centuries hung in racks or were mounted in glass cases. And the whole was so reminiscent of Lady Buttershaw, that Zoe shivered and closed the door hurriedly, her nerves tightening because this desperate expedition was taking so much time.

She recrossed the corridor, and stepped into a large and luxurious bedchamber. Once more, the decor seemed voluptuous and out of character: the curtains on the enormous canopied bed were of naughtily sheer purple silk with gold tassels, and the window draperies were a rich purple velvet. A large portrait hung on the wall beside the bed. She gave it a cursory glance. The gentleman was not above thirty, she judged, and despite an air of pride and cynicism, was extraordinarily handsome, with finely chiselled features and hair of jet black. The eyes were deep-set and thickly lashed but of a slightly alien shape, like none she had ever seen. Hurrying to the dressing table, she had a brief thought that he was the last type of man she would have expected Lord Buttershaw to be, and then forgot about him. There were no letters on the dressing table, nor did the three chests of drawers yield anything of interest. With a nervous moan, she sped back into the corridor.

A parlour came next, over-furnished and over-heated, with a well-banked fire burning under a ponderous chimney-piece despite the absence of the owner. One swift glance convinced her to move on. And, at last, she entered a spacious combination book room and study. Her hands were by now damp and her heartbeat erratic. She ran to the large and beautifully wrought desk before the windows. There were several letters lying there, but the one she sought seemed to leap at her.

“Thank heaven!” she whispered, and snatched it up.

Travis' writing was a little less neat than usual, but he had been ill, which would explain that. She moved to the windows and read the cramped and crossed lines eagerly:

My dearest sister,

By the grace of God I am back in England, but under circumstances that forbid me to present myself to my father. I must tell you that I was sent home following a long illness. En route, I came into possession of a document of great significance. It is an extreme treasonable Agreement, Zoe, between several highly born British aristocrats, and some powerful gentlemen of France, led by Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy, of whom I am very sure you have heard.

I am sworn to deliver this paper to the Horse Guards. However, you may guess that heads will roll should I succeed, and several attempts have been made to stop me. I have been obliged to hide myself, but I fear I may be discovered at any time. If I attempt to get to Travisford or to Whitehall, I am very sure to be intercepted. I hired a fellow who seems to be honest, and sent him down to try and speak with you at home. He was chased off by my father's new bride, but luckily met dear old Bleckert, who told him where you are now staying. (I shall be interested to know why you are no longer in residence at Travisford!)

It is a piece of luck for me that you are in Town, however, where I can visit you, hopefully with less chance of putting you in danger. There are many men I could ask for the help I very badly need, but this plot appears so widespread that I dare not confide in anyone save you, dear Zoe, or Peregrine Cranford, whose integrity I would trust with my life.

I mean to rest here for a day or two. Then, if all goes well, I shall call on you. In the event this is not suitable, know that I am staying at the little inn Mama told us of. Do you recall? The place with the waiter who was so amusing. Oh, and I am at present using the name of the music master you fell in love with when you were ten … I feel sure you cannot have forgot
him!

My deepest apologies for greeting you with such trying news. Pray discuss it with
no one.
You cannot guess how I long to see you, little sister. And I see that I have been too wrapped up in myself to enquire as to your health. I trust it is good and that you will forgive

Your loving brother,

Travis

Zoe stared down at the paper in her hands, her eyes wide and unblinking. They knew now that he was in England. But, thank heaven, his name and whereabouts could be known only to herself, and so— She must not stay here! She started to the door with the letter, then paused. If she took it, Lady Buttershaw might guess she had dared to come and appropriate it, and she would be warned. No. It was better to leave it here. The important thing was that now she knew where to reach Travis. She must do so at once!

The corridor seemed darker than ever, and a few downstairs candles had been lit, throwing a soft glow on the walls. Running lightly towards her room, she heard a man say, “I allus thought th' old crow was touched in the upper works, but I didn't think she was that far took! She could give him twenty year, at least.”