Never Doubt I Love by Patricia Veryan Page A

almost be the figure of a man … Curious, she moved closer to the window. It was someone, for the figure had drawn back quickly, as if fearing to be seen. The light faded as the front doors were closed. The coach rolled away, and the street was quiet again. There was no sign of anyone in the central garden now, and although she stood there for at least five minutes, she could detect no more movement.
    Perhaps she had imagined it, after all. Perhaps it had just been a trick of light and shadow. Or it might simply have been a servant from one of the great houses, walking his master’s pet, even as she had done earlier. But surely by this time he would have opened the gate and left, or at least have moved about? And why would a servant, who had every right to be there, have behaved in so furtive a way? If it was a tramp, seeking a place to spend the night, the unfortunate creature would have good cause to hide, for he would not have had the key to the gate and must have climbed the fence, and it was a crime for unauthorized persons to go into the private garden. She thought with a chill of fear, ‘Perhaps ’twas a Jacobite, making his way to the Thames to take ship for France! They say there are many desperate fugitives, still in hiding!’
    And there she went again, romanticizing, just as she and Travis had loved to do; taking a trivial incident and endowing it with mystery, each of them layering one dramatic possibility on top of another, until he would laugh and say he could not compete with her “overblown imagination.” She smiled nostalgically, and, half-convinced she must have been mistaken once again, heard something there was no mistaking: an urgent whispering and a half-smothered giggle.
    At the open door two figures were briefly outlined against the glow from the corridor; a man and a girl, both tall, who slipped inside but made no attempt to light candles.
    â€œCecil! You must be fair addled!” This said in a breathless female voice that continued urgently, “No! Stop that! What a dreadful chance to take! If we should be caught may lady would—”
    A deep male voice, kept low, and with a hint of cockney, interrupted, “Be green with envy is what she’d be! The old harpy likely don’t recollect how it feels to have a man’s arm round that skinny waist of hers! I haven’t had a word with you for days, love. Give us another kiss, do!”
    â€œAll right … Now go! For mercy’s sake!”
    â€œBut I just came. And I can slip out quick, if—”
    Zoe, who had been much titillated by this conversation, awoke to the fact that she was eavesdropping, and said quietly, “I think you had best stop.”
    A faint scream.
    The man groaned, “Oh, Lor’!”
    â€œâ€™Tis no use to run away,” said Zoe, as the woman jerked back. “I know who you are. Close the door and light some candles, if you please.”
    The woman began to cry. Zoe heard the scrape of flint on steel and in another moment the flame of a candle revealed two terrified faces.
    Forgetting her accent, Elsie Gorton sobbed, “Oh, Miss! Oh, Miss—don’t tell! I beg you! Don’t tell her la’ship! We’d both be turned off without characters, sure as sure, and—and we’d starve! Oh … Miss !”
    The man was Stone, Lady Buttershaw’s coachman, a brawny individual of about five and thirty, with narrow dark eyes and heavy weather-beaten features. He was pale, but he put one arm protectively about Gorton’s shoulders and said with hoarse desperation, “It’s my fault, Miss. Not Elsie’s. She told me not to come to this part of the house, but their la’ships is usually not about at this hour, and we don’t get much chance to—to meet, Miss.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Zoe, interested. “Are not your intentions honourable, Stone?”
    â€œThat they is, Miss! But Lady Buttershaw