Dimity looked at her curiously. Whatever was the woman raving about?
“’Twas downright shameful, the way he used my poor sister,” continued Mrs. Deene. “I grant you the brothers were all but strangers, for they were orphaned very young and Walter was claimed by a hoity-toity uncle in Cornwall. Still, blood is thicker than water—eh, Miss Clement?”
“Yes, certainly. Do you refer to your late sister’s husband, ma’am?”
“Who else would I refer to? The boy’s father, did I not say it? His brother may deny us to his heart’s content, but I’ve the marriage lines here in my reticule, so he’ll catch cold at that!”
Shocked, Dimity said, “His brother’s only child? Surely he never would do so unkind a thing. What would become of the boy?”
“Well you may ask! I have worked my fingers to the bone to support him since my poor dear sister went to her reward!” She threw a pious glance towards the heavens. “God rest her soul, she should have gone to Jamaica with her husband, but she was delicate and her doctor held it inadvisable, so Walter left her here.”
“He must have arranged for her support, though,” said Dimity, engrossed in this sad tale.
“Walter sent funds until my sister died of an internal disorder. For years afterwards I heard not a single word from him. A letter came at last; from his solicitor. He writ that Walter had died also, of one of the fevers that abound in those dreadful hot countries.”
“How very tragic. Did he have no funds to leave his little son?”
“Ho, yes he did!” declared Mrs. Deene militantly. “And no one won’t never convince me otherwise! A-er, acquaintance of his come home not six months ago, and told me as Walter had done well. ‘Very plump in the pockets,’ he said.”
“Excellent! Then little Carlton will be provided for, and you properly reimbursed for all your years of selfless care and expense, ma’am.”
Mrs. Deene shot a keen glance at the girl beside her. She never had obtained a clear sight of the face, but the voice was cultured and the pelisse, though a trifle worn, must have at one time cost a pretty penny. “You would think so,” she said grimly. “But all Walter’s funds have been awarded to his brother, and that slippery Captain Sharp refuses to own the boy! Much good it may do the rogue!”
“Good heavens! How could anyone seek to deprive a little orphaned child? I never heard of such wickedness! Is this Captain Sharp poverty stricken, Mrs. Deene? Was he put on the parish when his own parents died?”
“Parish? Tush and a fiddlestick! Not that one! Lands on his feet always. Like a cat. He was sent to live with another uncle. Still lives at The Palfreys in the lap of luxury and will likely inherit now their son is dead.” She broke off and muttered broodingly, “It’d not surprise me was the captain behind that ugly business, as well. Very convenient their son being killed, is what I say. Very convenient.”
Her eyes as big as saucers, Dimity exclaimed, “You think he killed his own cousin? The son of his benefactor? Oh, surely, you cannot mean it! Why—he would have to be the fiend incarnate!”
“Quite true! And so I shall inform him does he not do right by us. And let me tell you, his carriage had best be waiting or the fur will fly. I do not never mean to pay for the hire of a coach to take me all the way to Romsey!”
Dimity’s heart gave a jolt. “Romsey? Why that is where I am going! Oh, ma’am, if you are acquaint with the area, perhaps you can help me. I’ve to find a Mr. Decimus Green. I think he may be at the fair. Do you know aught of it? Or do you think your brother-in-law may?”
“I never heard of no such place. And from all I know of Anthony Farrar, the only fairs he knows of wear light skirts and—”
“Anthony … Farrar?” gasped Dimity. “B—but you said his name was Captain Sharp.”
“Lud!” The woman gave an exasperated shrug. “An expression merely. Signifying a charlatan. How you could not know of it is beyond me. But—why do you seem so took aback?” She leaned nearer. “Do you know Farrar?”
Dimity said hotly, “To my sorrow, I know of him, ma’am! Because of his rank cowardice in battle my brother was crippled and has lost his foot!”
Mrs. Deene seemed less sympathetic than surprised that Dimity’s brother should have served with Captain Farrar. “On second thought,” she said bodingly, “it ain’t so surprising. The country likely crawls with his victims. That man is beyond doubting, the most depraved—”
Whatever further aspersions she meant to cast on the character of the wicked captain, Dimity was not destined to discover. The stagecoach, which had been travelling at reckless speed, probably in an effort to make up for lost time, suddenly gave a violent jolt. Thrown forward, Dimity found herself lying on the farmer’s chest. A terrible crash. A wild confusion of shouts and frenziedly neighing horses. Screams, fading … a loss of awareness …
* * *
The face hung in mid-air. A young man’s face, the powdered hair severely tied back, the chin and nose strong, and the hard blue eyes reflecting a grudging sympathy. He said, his voice seeming to echo in her ears, “…coming around. She and the boy look the least hurt of the lot of ’em. How are you now, ma’am?”
Dimity noted with vague interest that a room was forming around him. It looked surprisingly like the vestibule of The Spotted Cat in Short Shrift. “Oh,” she murmured, “Are we back again, then?”
The face retreated and she saw with a sudden clutch of fear that a red uniform went with it.
“I am Captain Jacob Holt, ma’am,” he said, polite but chill. “Your papers, if you please.”
Papers! Memory rushing back, she thought, ‘My God! I have no papers!’ and stared at him, horrified.
“I think this is hers, sir,” said a trooper, offering a reticule. “It was round her wrist when we got her out.”
The captain groped in the reticule and brought forth a sheaf of papers. Glancing through them, he asked, “Are you Mrs. Catherine Deene?”
“I—cannot seem to … think…” murmured Dimity. “Pray—how is Carlton?”
The trooper, a kindly looking middle-aged man, who should, she thought, have made better arrangements than to have such an unpleasant officer, bent over her. “He’ll be all right, never fear. Do you know who was the other young lady, marm?”
She gave a shocked gasp. “Who was? Oh, no—never say she is dead?”
“It would appear so, ma’am,” said the captain. “If you can tell us of her identity we will notify her people.”
“She said her name was Miss Clement,” offered a childish voice. Carlton’s angelic countenance hovered over Dimity. “Hello, Aunty. Poor Aunty. Are you hurting very bad? I am. I hurt my knee. We will be able to go on, won’t we?”
Dimity stared at him. “Carlton…?”
He bent to kiss her and whispered very softly, “She’s killed. So I’ll have you for my aunty instead, if you please.”
III
Shaken and bemused, Dimity was too grateful for the escape route Fate offered to deny her new identity, and with Carlton calling her his “dear Aunty” with every other breath, the captain asked no more questions.
It developed that the injured passengers had not, as Dimity thought, been conveyed back to The Spotted Cat, but had instead been taken to a small hedge tavern outside Winchester. The coachman had suffered a concussion; Carlton’s aunt had been carried off to the apothecary in an apparently expired condition; the gentleman in the frieze coat was still unconscious; the old lady was in hysterics; and the farmer, his arm fractured, grimly silent. Dimity was ushered to the tavern’s nicest bedchamber. Still incapable of rational thought, she was ministered to by the host’s wife and her kindly maids and persuaded to drink a hot posset. Snuggling into a cozy bed, she fell fast asleep.
The sun was high when she awoke. She was still fuzzy-headed, but able to stand and walk about. The maids assisted with her toilette and helped her downstairs where Carlton joined her for a light breakfast. His swollen knee was bandaged but otherwise he seemed quite cheerful. Be
fore she had entirely comprehended what was going on, Dimity found herself standing outside in the bright morning, her cloak around her, and a hackney carriage waiting.
A nervous, wispy little man introduced himself as the coaching agent, and said he had come over from Winchester. He apologized profusely for the inconvenience, and assured “Mrs. Deene” that people waiting for passengers from the wrecked stagecoach had been notified of the situation. She would be driven into Winchester where, if no one was waiting to receive her, the coachman would arrange transportation to her ultimate destination.
Dimity, very stiff and sore, was helped into the carriage and they set forth, the two horses stepping out briskly.
For a few minutes she was silent, striving to collect her scattered wits. At length, she turned to the child beside her. He gave her his angelic smile. Baffled, she said, “Never mind all that innocence, young man. Some explanations are in order. Why did you tell all those people I am your poor aunt? Are you not in the smallest grieved by her—her death?”
He regarded her owlishly. “She might not be dead.”
“What?”
“That trooper who said she was, din’t look as if he knew his business. You c’n tell if someone’s dead by holding a mirror to their mouth. I saw Jermyn do it once, when—”
Horrified, Dimity cried, “My heavens! Then we must go back at once! Poor lady, she will be beside herself with worry for you.”
“No she won’t,” he said unemotionally. “If she’s not dead she’s going to die. Prob’ly without waking up. ’Sides,” he added, watching her thoughtfully, “if you go back, that captain will want your papers.”
Staring at him, awed, Dimity asked, “How old are you, Carlton?”
“I’m almost seven. But I’m very bright. Jermyn said I was bright. He said—”
“Six…” she breathed. “Only six. And you can speak of your aunt’s death without a vestige of sorrow.”
His face crumpled suddenly. Great tears swam in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
‘Poor little child,’ thought Dimity. ‘It was likely the shock, and now I’ve brought it home to him again.’ She fumbled for her handkerchief.
Carlton held up his bandaged finger. “I’ve got it,” he said, and dabbed the encompassed wound at his tears, then grinned up at her. “Was that better?”
She drew back with a shocked gasp. “I begin to think you are a very naughty boy!”
Sobering, he watched her. “If you send me back, I’ll run away.”
“Why? Mrs. Deene is your aunt.”
“Aunts are horrid,” he declared. “Don’t you get any.”
“I have five, and they are the very dearest creatures. Well—four are,” she amended, Aunt Miriam’s sour features drifting into her mind’s eye.
“Do they box your ears an’ twist your arms an’ lock you up in dark cupboards all day if you do wrong?”
“Good heavens! Is that what your aunt did?”
He nodded.
“But—surely her husband would not allow—”
“She hasn’t got one.”
“Oh. Then you certainly should not be returned to her!” She bethought her of the laws of the land and retrenched, “That is to say—when we get this all sorted out, if your uncle will not have you, we’ll try to find you a home with some of your other relations.”
“Haven’t got any.” He saw pity come into the face he had decided would suit him for an always-aunt, and enquired, “Have you got lots ’n lots of relations?”
“Yes, I am very fortunate to have grandparents, and many aunts and uncles and cousins. But most of all, I have my brothers. They’re twins and—” She paused, wondering how Piers and Peregrine were, and whether Tio was alive on this beautiful summer morning.
The boy was silent. Glancing up, she saw another tear trickling down his smooth cheek. He gave her an oblique look, then dragged a sleeve across his eyes.
She asked gently, “What is it, dear?”
“Nothing,” he replied, his chin jutting. “I was jus’—jus’ playing.”
She took his hand. “I think you were not—that time.”
He jerked his head away and looked out of the window. Dimity turned his chin and smiled into the veiled green eyes. “You can trust me,” she said. “I won’t tell.”
He looked down, but, clinging tightly to her hand, muttered, “I jus’ thought—how fine it must be to have relations. I never had no brothers or sisters, or no one. Jus’ me.” He swung his head up to glare at her fiercely. “An’ that’s jolly good, too. I—I know how to go on.”
But his tender mouth trembled. Suddenly he was no longer a Machiavellian imp, but just a scared, lonely little boy.
Dimity pulled him into a hug and kissed his curls. “You have not ‘just you’ any more,” she said. “You have me.”
He sniffed and said a rather muffled, “Till we get to The Palfreys.”
“Well, you’ll have your uncle, then.”
He drew back. “I don’t want him! He doesn’t want a nephew. She said he din’t. And ’sides, if I get a uncle I want a real man. He’s just a yellow coward!”
‘Now, why did the wretched woman tell him about that business if she hoped Farrar would take him?’ thought Dimity. “Well,” she declared, “if Captain Farrar won’t acknowledge you, I shall find a good home for you, Carlton. You have my word on it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Man to man? Honest and true? No ratting?”
“Word of honour.”
“An’ you won’t marry with some rich gent and forget me? You won’t go away an’ leave me? Never?”
“I cannot promise that much, I’m afraid. When Captain Farrar finds out I’m not really his sister-in-law, he may very well hand me over to the Watch!”
“’Course he won’t. He don’t know what my aunty looks like. He never met her.”
“Are you sure?” asked Dimity, hopefully. “Is there no one at The Palfreys who will know I’m an impostor?”
“What’s that jawbreaker?”
“I mean, who will know I’m not who I say I am.”
“Oh.” He considered this. “I don’t think so. Aunty Cathy wrote to him, but she never met him. She said they was all too hoity-toity to want anything to do with us. ’Sides, I shall tell him you are my aunty. Don’t you never worry.” He patted her hand manfully. “I’ll take care of you!”
Smiling at him, Dimity had the uneasy feeling that to be taken care of by this strange little boy might be a mixed blessing.
Surprisingly, when they reached Winchester, the chariot from The Palfreys was waiting. Carlton scrambled onto the box, and Dimity was settled into the luxurious interior. A wooden-faced footman placed a fur rug over her knees and as the vehicle began to roll smoothly along the highway she leaned back against soft cushions of rich red plush. Within twenty minutes they had turned onto a private road and passed through wide iron gates. Everywhere she looked now were signs of prosperity; well-thinned woods, neatly scythed sweeps of lawn, charming landscapes.
And what on earth was she doing here? She sighed miserably. ‘I have gone mad, is what it is,’ she told herself. She had started out simply to help Tio. Now, she carried a scrap of parchment that spelled death most terrible for anyone possessing it; she had assumed another lady’s identity and stolen her belongings; she intended to try and hoodwink a man of foul repute who might very well be murderously inclined towards her; she was likely to be accused of kidnapping a small (and decidedly dishonest) boy; and on top of all else, she had no doubt but that her poor brothers were nigh frantic with worry for her safety.
She sighed again. Her best hope, of course, was that Perry and Piers would find Tio and take care of him—if he wasn’t dead, which God forbid! And then Tio would tell them about the paper he’d thought he was entrusting to Perry, and they would all come and get her out of this dreadful dilemma!
Rather belatedly, it occurred to her that the message itself might contain a clue to the whereabouts of Mr. Decimus Green
, and she retrieved it, unfolded it carefully, and read:
4
All is quiet in the city.
See the pigeons in the square,
Indignant. Waiting for their corn or bread.
Is it not strange, and dead?
Enthralling to see the streets so bare.
On mansion and hovel drifts snow, so white.
One will bring food to the pigeons tonight.
“What absolute nonsense!” she muttered. “How can this poem be so dangerous when it makes no sense at all?” But Tio had said something about a cypher. In that case, the meaning would be concealed. She stared down at it. Such a scrap of a thing to cause men to be hunted and tortured and killed. And women, mayhap. She shivered. But however reckless and improper the things she had done, they were justified; Tio had said many lives were at stake. She would not let him down! And if, in the process of delivering this message of death, she could also avenge herself on the evil Captain Anthony Farrar, why so much the better!
Having restored the parchment to her bodice, she glanced out of the window again. The drivepath was turning in a gradual easterly swing, and above some distant woods she could see chimneys and a high-peaked tower with a large weather vane atop it. Charmed, she turned to the left-hand window. Some distance ahead of them a rider was cantering down the steep slope of a hill. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent grey, but not too well broken to judge by its caperings. The rider swayed with lithe grace to the movements of his fiery steed, glancing back from time to time to where a golden spaniel followed, all ears and feet.
At the foot of the hill, the horse shied and launched into a gallop. The rider pulled him in sharply. The grey reared, forelegs flailing, then bucked furiously and for some seconds did all he might to unseat the man. The spaniel trotted up and sat down, watching pantingly. The grey made a bared-teeth grab for his owner’s knee, and the heavy riding crop was brought down hard. The horse shook his head and stood quiet, but stamped at the ground as if to express some vestige of defiance.
From the box, Dimity heard Carlton scream, “Jolly good, sir!”
Love Alters Not Page 4
