Never Doubt I Love (25 page)

“You've met?” asked Cranford, surprised.

“To my very great pleasure,” Furlong answered. “Be so good as to present me.”

Bemused, Cranford made the introduction, then said with a dark frown, “This all sounds very havey-cavey, Owen. You never told me you were acquainted with Miss Grainger. When did you meet? And what a'plague is an odiousity instructor?”

“Must I tell you all my secrets?” Sir Owen bowed, and offered his arm, smiling down at Zoe as she placed her free hand on it. “Have you been afflicted with this oaf for very long, ma'am? If so, I'll be more than glad to relieve you of his—”

“Oh, no, you don't,” interrupted Cranford indignantly. “Go and find your own lady!”

They walked along together, and Zoe pleaded that Sir Owen not be sent away. “I like him.”

Furlong chuckled. “There. That gives you back your own, Perry. You are the one to be dismissed. Miss Grainger has chosen wisely.”

“If I had chosen at all, which I have not,” said Zoe, clinging tightly to Cranford's arm. “I would not have chose you, sir.”

Sir Owen looked taken aback. By now accustomed to Zoe's frankness, Cranford grinned.

Zoe patted Furlong's arm kindly. “You are very handsome, Sir Owen, although you look rather wan today. I so much like your smile, and the way you have of making me feel I am somebody. But I scarce know you, and Mr. Cranford is an old friend. Or,” her brow wrinkled, “he
seems
an old friend. The thing is, though, that I should like to keep you both, if you please.” Her artless gaze travelled from Cranford's dark, finely cut good looks, to Furlong, Saxon fair and equally, though differently good to look at, and she added, “It cannot fail to add to my consequence, you see.”

They were all laughing merrily when Lord Eaglund came up. He bowed gallantly over Zoe's fingers, shook hands with Cranford and told him he was glad to see him in Town again, and scanned Furlong's pale features and shadowed eyes with some anxiety. “Not another bout with that miserable fever, Owen?”

“Just a slight brush with the beast, sir,” admitted Furlong. “Nothing I can really grumble about.”

“It don't look so slight to me. I wonder you came to this affair.” The viscount leaned nearer and said with a wink, “Cannot stand musicales myself. Still, Lady Eaglund will be most pleased to see you. To which end, we should probably go upstairs. We're to have some poetry readings first, I regret to say. Afterwards, there will be refreshments downstairs in the ballroom before the music begins, so you may escape then.”

Furlong laughed, and Cranford said with a grin, “You must take us for a graceless lot, my lord. I thank you for inviting me.”

“You must come more often, Perry.” Eaglund smiled at Zoe. “Especially if you mean to bring this lovely little creature.”

The guests were starting to drift up the wide staircase, the viscount's attention was claimed by a small colonel with a big voice, and Zoe and her two escorts mingled with the brilliant throng.

The music room on the first floor was large and superbly Romanesque. Quite a number of people had already assembled here. Few had settled on the numerous chairs that had been grouped about, however, and were instead engaged in chatting merrily and greeting friends and acquaintances. Cranford guided Zoe to three chairs, as yet unclaimed. Furlong was buttonholed by a statuesque young woman wearing a magnificent gold silk gown, and Cranford leaned to Zoe's ear, and murmured with a grin, “Mrs. Pettifor. A widow. Striking, isn't she?”

“Sir Owen seems to think so.”

“The poor fellow was born to be a diplomat. Truth is, the lady has pursued him relentlessly ever since his fiancée was lost at sea in forty-six, and—Now what have I said to throw you into gloom again?”

His use of the word “diplomat” had inevitably brought Travis to mind. Zoe said, “There is something I want so much to tell you, and—and to ask for your advice.”

The worry in her face inspired him with an urgent need to dispel it. “I am not very wise, alas,” he told her. “My brother has all the brains in the family. But 'twould be my pleasure an I could help. We will find a way to be private after the readings.”

He stood as several military acquaintances and their ladies came towards them. It was the start of a steady stream. He struggled manfully with introductions, but the names swept into Zoe's head and out again. It seemed that half the people in the room wanted to shake Cranford by the hand, and tell him how pleased they were to see him. He responded gratefully, if rather shyly. Zoe sensed that to be the object of so much attention embarrassed him, for which quality she did not like him any the less.

Lord Eaglund rang a little bell for quiet; the crowd dispersed to their places, and Cranford sat down with a whispered, “Phew!”

Furlong eased into his chair, murmuring that he'd fancied he would never fight his way through the crush of Cranford's admirers.

A plump and jolly woman moved to the centre of the clear area before them, and extended a welcome to her “dear friends.” She was a far cry from the proud viscountess Zoe had imagined, and with such a natural manner that her popularity was easily understood. She introduced the first reader, and a gaunt and grim gentleman clad all in black made his bow and offered an “Ode to the Damsel Dark.” His intonation was sonorous, his ode a gloomy tale of unrequited love, and Zoe's thoughts wandered to her brother, and Papa's letter. She was startled when Cranford nudged her and she joined hurriedly in the applause.

A moment later, she was applauding in earnest. The second reader, breathtaking in a magnificent gown of dark pink velvet trimmed with swansdown, was Miss Maria Benevento. There were several admiring cries from the gentlemen, and so much applause that she held up her hands at last in an amused plea for quiet.

A hush fell. The beauty stood there, slender, poised, half-smiling, as she scanned the room. Her first selection was from
A Midsummer-Night's Dream,
and she began to read, the familiar words enhanced by her rich, faintly accented voice.

“I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where oslips and the nodding violet grows

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine…”

Sudden tears stung Zoe's eyes. Almost she could see herself and Travis wandering among the great trees of Wychwood in the springtime, gathering the violets that dear mama had so loved … And now her brother had near died from the dread cholera and was coming home, never having writ a word to let them know— She gave a gasp of embarrassment, for Cranford was nudging her again. Preparing instinctively to clap her hands, she realized that Miss Benevento had gone on to another selection, this time from
Richard II:

“… happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves…”

Another nudge. Indignant, she saw that Cranford's eyes were alight with mirth. He nodded very slightly towards Furlong. Curious, she turned to her left. Sir Owen was leaning forward, so still that he seemed scarcely to breathe, and his eyes had a dazed look as they held intently on the lovely reader. That husky voice was stilled. A brief hush, then the air rang with applause. But Sir Owen Furlong remained silent and motionless, as one bewitched.

Applauding heartily, Cranford bent to Zoe's ear. “I think your new friend has captured another heart, or else poor Furlong has turned to stone! We shall either have to wake him up, or have him hauled away!”

She turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “I do believe you are in the right of it! Oh, what a lovely couple they would make!”

“Cruel!” he exclaimed, with a hand clasped to his heart. “I am betrayed and tossed aside! You promised the lady was just right for
me!
”

Zoe's eyes fell. He was only funning, of course, but her cheeks were hot and she was seized by an unfamiliar confusion. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I did. But I—er, I changed my mind.” Peeping up at him, she met a brilliant grin that set her pulse galloping in the most foolish way. Thrown into deeper confusion, she stammered, “M-might we go downstairs now, do you think?”

“Miss Grainger! Oh, how glad I am that you came!”

Maria Benevento was hurrying to them. Zoe had not dreamed that the beauty would break away from her admirers only to renew their acquaintance, and she returned a hug gladly. “Lieutenant Cranford was so very good as to bring me,” she said. “I so enjoyed to hear you read. 'Twas prodigious moving.”

Watching Cranford as he endorsed those sentiments and bowed over her hand, Miss Benevento said shrewdly, “Something troubles you, I think, sir.”

Zoe's gaze flashed to him. She had thought him a trifle heavy-eyed, but had supposed he'd stayed late at his club.

Furlong put in, “Perry will tell you 'tis nothing, ma'am. But the truth is—”

“The truth is that this presumptuous mushroom is desperate to be made known to you, ma'am,” interrupted Cranford hurriedly. He performed that small service, but for a breathless instant neither Furlong nor Miss Benevento made the slightest response, standing there, facing one another, motionless and silent, as though in the grip of some powerful spell. Zoe found that she was holding her breath. Then, the beauty started and sank into a graceful curtsy. Furlong bowed over her hand and touched it to his lips, but again, rising, she made no attempt to reclaim her hand through another exchange of rapt glances.

Zoe sighed, and smiled mistily at the handsome tableau.

Catching sight of Cyril Crenshore waving eagerly from across the room, Cranford seized Zoe's elbow. “Come. Now is our chance to go downstairs.”

“But we cannot leave Sir Owen,” she protested as he hurried her away.

“My dear girl, are you blind? Poor Furlong has quite forgot we exist! I fear,” he added, as they went into the crowded corridor, “there will be no bearing him for months! Cupid just dealt him a thundering broadside.”

“Yes indeed, and was it not the dearest thing? So
romantical!
As if they both were enchanted in the very instant they met. I never believed there was such a thing as love at first sight, did you?”

“No. And I still do not,” he said, making his difficult way down the stairs. He added thoughtfully, “It has pierced my reluctant intellect that when one tumbles so quickly into love, one tumbles out of it even more quickly.”

“You, sir, are a marplot,” Zoe advised him.

“And you, madam,” he countered in amusement, “are a frustrated matchmaker. I pity London's bachelors when your daughters are of marriageable age! Do you wish to find a place to talk, or shall I first acquire some of those deliciousnesses I see being carried about?”

The refreshments crowding the tables that had been set up in the ballroom did indeed look delicious. Despite her anxieties, Zoe could not resist, and Cranford went limping off, to return with a tray of little tarts, iced cakes, and pastries, and two glasses of champagne punch. He found a deserted anteroom, and they settled down together to enjoy their small hoard.

Zoe took up a cheese tart, then glanced at the door. “Is this proper, sir? I seem to make so many etiquettal errors.”

He grinned. “I've not the reputation of a hardened rake, and the door is wide, so I fancy you're safe from your ‘etiquettal' mis-steps. A good word, that! Now tell me what brings the worried look to your pretty face.”

She sipped her champagne punch, and said hesitantly, “You will likely think me foolish, but—well, there have been several things that seem … odd.”

“Such as Lady Buttershaw deciding I was the ideal mate?”

He thought she would smile at that, but instead she answered gravely, “Well, I had only been in Town a few days, and there had been no mention of a suitable marriage for me before I left Travisford.”

“Is it not possible for her ladyship and your sire to have discussed that in private?”

She chose a lemon puff, and held it poised in the air while she considered, then acknowledged, “'Tis possible. But even if they had, it seems a very sudden business. Especially since I was come to be companion to Lady Julia, and have scarce begun to be of use to her. And then,” she nibbled daintily at the lemon puff and said, “there was the clothing, you see…”

Cranford listened with interest as the tale of the garments ostensibly sewn for the “very fat” Hermione, was followed by an account of the man Zoe had seen watching the house at night.

“Hum,” he said, poking absently at his apple pasty. “Do you fancy he was one of those you heard when you were jauntering about in your nightrail?”

“I was not jauntering! And I could not tell—'twas too dark. But—why should he have been standing for so long across the road in the private garden? And now, there is this horrid business of my letter!” She looked at him with deep tragedy. “Oh, this is dreadful! I should not even entertain such suspicions! But—I simply must discuss it with
somebody!
”

“Of course you must. And there's no call to look so distressed. I am only flattered that you can feel comfortable in sharing a confidence with me. I won't betray it, I promise you. Say on, lady fair.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “It is that my maid brought me a letter this morning. From my papa. It was not good news, alas, and I did not at first realize, but … Oh, Mr. Cranford! It had been
opened!
And then re-sealed!”

Taken aback by so damning a statement, he exclaimed, “The deuce! If ever I heard of such a thing! Are you quite sure? Was there a broken seal?”

She described the care she'd taken in opening her father's letter, and the evidences of it having been re-sealed, then regarded him anxiously.