Never Doubt I Love by Patricia Veryan

hairdresser. With much bowing and scraping Lady Buttershaw was ushered from the coach. Her appearance was greeted by a sudden and complete silence. Never had Zoe seen so many jaws sag at the same instant. She had taken the precaution of warning the proprietor that they had suffered a small accident and that her companion, a great lady of rather uncertain temperament, had lost her wig. Wigless or not, Lady Buttershaw’s haughty demeanour silenced any comments. She was safely inside the shop before the stunned onlookers recovered. The butcher snorted something having to do with being turned to stone, and Zoe closed the door on gales of laughter.
    It was fortunate that the elderly hairdresser was a man of God, for his patience was sorely tried during the next hour, but at last my lady’s locks had been arranged, pomaded, and powdered into what she termed “a faint semblance of style.” Whatever her failings, she was not mean. Her generosity restored the good nature of her victims. She returned to the carriage, and as they drove off, favoured the crowd with a thin smile and a series of regal bows and waves. “Poor simple folk,” she said condescendingly. “’Tis rare for them to come into contact with the nobility. They will now have something to tell their children and grandchildren. Likely, ’twill become a legend.”
    She was to an extent correct. The locals had been vastly entertained. The story of the visit of the Medusa from London would be told and embellished for weeks to come, and was always good for a hearty laugh.

C HAPTER III
    Luncheon was taken at a fine posting house on a hilltop from which could be seen the distant spires of the City. Their departure was delayed while Lady Buttershaw instructed the host on the more efficient placement of the tables in his dining room, and it was late afternoon before their coach reached the outskirts of the Metropolis. The drizzle had by this time turned to rain, and the air was misty and chill, but, undaunted, Zoe was agog with excitement.
    At the age of five, during a visit to the Richmond home of her favourite aunt, Lady Minerva Peckingham, she had been taken to London. Lady Minerva had not judged it sensible to show a young child the sites of history. Zoe was left with hazy recollections of endless narrow streets along which the houses were as if strung together; of countless people, an enormous noise and confusion, and grown-up luncheons and tea parties at which her aunt was very kind and talked to her gaily. That is to say, she was kind and chatty until, inevitably, one or more gentlemen would join them. Aunt Minerva thereupon appeared to forget her niece, and whispered and laughed with the gentleman despite the fact that they were evidently all “wicked” or “rogues.”
    Now, therefore, London was viewed as if for the first time, and Zoe’s eyes were wide indeed by the time the carriage was jolting through Hyde Park. Lady Buttershaw informed her that anything lying west of the park was “wilderness.” She also observed that although King Henry VIII had been wise to appropriate the land, he should have had the foresightedness to ensure the proper upkeep of its roads. He would probably not have objected to the fact that today the park was much used as a duelling place, she added thoughtfully, for, whatever the century, honour must be upheld.
    The coachman was instructed to detour so that Zoe might be shown the elegance of Kensington Palace, where her ladyship was “a frequent visitor.” The history of the palace and its occupants was dwelt upon while the coach bumped and lurched off the atrocious park road, and after a smoother drive turned into a quiet square some half mile to the east.
    A central garden for the use of the residents was enclosed by ornate iron railings, and the houses were scattered around it. Each was large enough to be counted a mansion, but her ladyship had not exaggerated; Yerville