The rider looked their way and started the big horse to intercept them, and this time he obliged his mount, coming at the gallop. The carriage slowed and stopped. Dimity, quaking with nervousness, heard a deep voice raised in question, and the mumble of the coachman’s reply. The rider, who had been temporarily out of her range of vision, came up to the open window and looked in.
He could not be Anthony Farrar, as she had first feared. Her brothers had unfailingly referred to him as a “miserable little worm,” and this man was tall and well-built, with the lazy graceful carriage of the athlete. She eyed him uncertainly as he bent to look in at her.
She guessed him to be in his late twenties. He wore no hat, and his thick hair was powdered and tied back. The sun-bronzed, fine-boned face was enhanced by a pair of vivid green eyes wide set under heavy, brown eyebrows. The nose and chin warned of inflexibility; the mouth was generous and well shaped, but with a haughty droop. He said with a sneer, “Mr. Deene allowed you to face it out alone, I take it.”
Irritated by both look and manner, she said, “Then you should not, sir.” The green eyes widened and the sardonic mouth relaxed slightly, and she went on, “I am a widow.”
“Regrettable,” he said, the ice returning full measure. “I’d prefer to have dealt with a male rascal.”
He made no attempt to keep his voice low, and Dimity heard Carlton’s wrathful squeak and the muffled rumble of a man’s laugh. “Since I mean to deal only with Captain Farrar,” she retorted disdainfully, “your preferences are not pertinent.”
He drawled, “I have been remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Anthony Farrar.”
Dimity gave a gasp. “Miserable,” certainly. But—“a little worm”? Piers and Perry must have been wits to let! Feeling decidedly hardly done by, she exclaimed an indignant, “Oh!”
Carlton’s voice called, “Sir—are you my Uncle Anth’ny?”
Farrar had been about to speak, but at this he closed his mouth with a snap and glanced up at the box. “Most decidedly—not!” he declared unequivocally. And bending to the window again, added, “Take my advice, ma’am, and go home. There are no pullets for plucking here!”
“How fortunate,” Dimity retaliated. “I had scarce expected an eagle, but to have to fleece a pullet would be extreme degrading.”
He looked briefly surprised, then amused. Resting one hand against the side of the coach, he leaned nearer. “You’re a pretty doxy, but—”
The grey, who had been behaving quite well, suddenly screamed and, head down and legs stiff, shot straight into the air and spun around twice. Farrar, caught off-balance and unprepared, was hurled from the saddle. He landed hard, as his mount thundered in the direction of the house.
Watching, astonished, Dimity waited for her antagonist to get up, but he continued to lie sprawled and motionless. She thought without great satisfaction, ‘The horrid creature has broke his neck!’ and wrenched at the door.
As she struggled to let down the steps, she heard a man shout a frantic, “Captain!” and then she was out and running to kneel beside Farrar.
The coachman flung himself down beside her. “My Gawd! My Gawd! Is he dead?”
With the experience gained from watching the twins somehow survive numerous brushes with an early grave, Dimity pressed her fingers below the strong jaw. “The heartbeat is steady. He is likely just stunned. Have you water anywhere on the coach?”
“Not water, ma’am.” He turned to the carriage and shouted, “Jim! Fetch the brandy!”
The footman jumped down, pulling a flask from the pocket of his wide-skirted dark red coat.
The coachman glanced obliquely at Dimity. “Had a long wait last night,” he grunted, by way of explanation. He slid an arm under his employer’s shoulders. “I’ll hold him up, ma’am. P’raps you can get some of this into him.”
Farrar’s powdered head rolled limply. Dimity thought that he looked dead, but she tilted the flask carefully. For a moment the amber liquor trickled from the sides of his mouth. Then he coughed, the long lashes blinked and the green eyes peered dazedly at her. He was perfectly white, but a smile of singular sweetness curved his lips.
He murmured faintly, “It’s all right, dearest … only…” Comprehension seemed to dawn. The words trailed off. He narrowed his eyes, frowningly, then reached up to thrust her hand away. “What … the deuce?”
“Polly had a tantrum, sir,” offered the coachman.
“Like hell,” snarled Farrar, and clambered to his feet, leaning on the coachman for a second and swaying unsteadily. He staggered towards the chariot, swearing under his breath, fury in every line of him. “You young … makebait! I’ll break your damned neck!”
“Oh, no you will not!” Dimity ran to grip his arm.
A sudden sharp crack. A yell from the coachman. From the corner of her eye Dimity saw the open carriage door whipping at her. She was seized in an iron grip and thrown aside. Falling headlong, she gasped as something knocked the breath from her lungs, and, terrifyingly close, she heard the pound of hooves, the rattle of wheels, the creak of springs and leather.
“Hey!” roared the coachman, waving his arms madly and sprinting in pursuit of his purloined vehicle, followed by the footman.
“Get off!” wheezed Dimity.
Dragging himself to all fours, Farrar knelt above her. His splendid riding coat was ripped at the shoulder; his hair, having escaped its riband, hung untidily about his face; mud smeared one cheek and blood from a small cut on his forehead crept down the other. “That damnable little bastard!” he gritted between his teeth. “I’ll murder him!”
A distant corner of Dimity’s mind registered the awareness that this cowardly yellow dog was extremely good to look at. He had, however, lost considerable of his consequence. In fact, the elegant lord of the manor was now a muddy mess. Suddenly, it seemed enormously funny. She tried to restrain herself, but failed utterly.
Looking down with incredulity at the girl beneath him, Farrar saw a pale oval face, delicate features, a pair of laughing hazel eyes that had a slight and very fetching slant to them, all set off by a mass of tumbled rich brown ringlets. “I trust,” he snarled, coming painfully to his feet and helping her up, “you will find it funny when that imp of Satan runs my team into the bridge. The rains have caused the river to overflow and the ground is like a swamp there. Only let one wheel leave the drivepath and there’ll be the devil to pay!”
Dimity’s merriment died a sudden death. “Oh, heavens!” she exclaimed. “You—you mean that Carlton is driving?”
“Not with expertise,” he snapped, starting away. “I assure you, madam, that if my horses are hurt, you and that little hellion will find yourselves clapped up for the next twenty years!”
Without waiting for a response, he ran off in pursuit of the disappearing carriage. Dimity followed, seething with rage. The man was beyond belief! Little Carlton had no more notion of how to handle that spirited team than would a sparrow. ’Twould be a miracle was he not killed, and all Farrar could think about was his horses! She halted as she heard a distant crash followed by an outburst of shouts. Her heart seemed to freeze. Farrar was running with a long, graceful stride.
She tried to run also, but her head, which had ached since the accident with the Portsmouth Machine, was pounding dreadfully, and she was stiff in every limb. She found herself thinking inconsequently that Piers would be glad of Farrar on the village cricket team and brought herself back to reality with a jerk. Piers would strangle him with his bare hands, is what he would do …
She heard hoofbeats, and turned to find that another horseman was riding toward her. He reined in the black mare, lifted the tricorne from his powdered head and watched her with concern in his fine grey eyes. He had a pleasant rather serious face and a kindly mouth, and she liked him at once.
“Ma’am?” he said tentatively. “Are you all right? I—Jupiter, but you’re not!” The dark brows twitched into an anxious frown as he sprang from the saddle to take the hand she
held out. “Whatever has happened? You are all mud!”
“An accident,” she mumbled. “Captain Farrar went on ahead. The horses—er, ran away.”
A look of awe came into his eyes. “Tony lost his team? Well, I’ll be—” He broke off abruptly. “An I lift you, ma’am, can you ride?”
Dimity was feeling a little odd. “I think,” she sighed, “it might be better was I to ride with you, sir.”
He at once lifted her to the saddle, mounted up behind, and slipped a strong arm around her. They started off at a walk.
“You are very kind,” said Dimity. “Thank you, Mr.…”
“Chandler. Gordon Chandler. And ’tis my very great pleasure, ma’am.”
“My name is Mrs. Deene. Could you please go a little faster? My nephew was driving, you see, and he is only six.”
Chandler whispered a startled expletive and brought the mare to an easy lope. In very short order they reached the curve in the drivepath beyond which chariot, coachman, and Captain had disappeared. Dimity blinked at the distant scene and uttered a moan. A small knot of people stood on a picturesque old wooden bridge; nearby, the wreck of the chariot hung crazily against what was left of the railing. As they drew nearer, she could see no sign of the child. Farrar and the coachman were inspecting the knees of a trembling horse, and the footman and three more men were gathered around another.
“Carlton…” whispered Dimity, appalled.
“Easy, ma’am,” said Mr. Chandler. “Hey! Tony!”
Farrar turned his dirty, bloodied face and Chandler muttered, “Good God!”
“Where is my nephew?” called Dimity.
The response was so impolite that it was as well she had brothers.
Shocked, Chandler said brusquely, “You forget yourself, Farrar! The lady has—”
“Hah!”
“Is … is he—dead?” quavered Dimity.
One of the grooms offered, “I see a little boy run like a rabbit into the house, sir.”
“Oh … thank God!” said Dimity.
“But not with a loud voice,” snarled Farrar.
Chandler gave him a stern look and guided his mare around the carnage. They crossed the bridge in silence. Dimity felt drained and very weary, her headache seeming to worsen with every step the mare took. She did not realize she was drooping until Mr. Chandler’s arm tightened around her. She leaned her head gratefully against his shoulder and was drowsing when a shout roused her.
The Palfreys was set in the lee of a gentle slope. It was a very large two-storey house built entirely of cream-coloured stone, with many big square-headed windows and a steeply gabled roof. There was an air of French Gothic about it, with its Norman tower, tall elaborate clusters of chimneys, and the gargoyles that were placed at intervals all along the north front above the ground floor. The west face had several smaller individually gabled windows under the eaves, indicating at least a partial third floor. Dimity, hazy but impressed, thought the house quite beautiful.
A stable boy came running as Chandler rode up, and simultaneously the front doors were swung wide. A tall, elegant butler, two footmen flanking him, walked onto the short terrace.
Chandler called, “Give a hand here, Leonard.”
The butler gestured and the footmen hurried to oblige. “The lady has had a nasty accident,” Chandler went on. “Easy now.” He guided her down, then dismounted to slip an arm about her waist and support her up the three steps.
Carven into the lintel above the front doors the name of the house appeared above the likeness of two spirited horses, each brave with saddle, bridle, and tasselled trappings. Dimity peered up at the carving and when she lowered her eyes found herself in a wide, cool hall fragrant with the perfume of the great bowl of flowers on a side table.
“What have you done to my aunty?” Carlton’s indignant tones shrilled through the vastness as he appeared at the top of four broad steps at the rear of the hall.
Farrar’s deep voice growled, “Nothing to what I’m going to do to you—you despicable little varmint!”
Carlton squealed, and fled back the way he had come.
“Do not dare to strike him,” cried Dimity, whirling on the enraged man as he made to step past her.
“Strike him? Strangle him, more like! Do you realize what he—”
Chandler interposed, “Mrs. Deene has suffered sufficient of a shock, Tony. There is no need—”
“Oho! Easy said when you’re not one of the little bastard’s victims!”
“Moderate your language!” gritted Chandler angrily. “There’s a lady present!”
“I wish I may see one!”
“Then I invite your attention, Farrar!”
The female voice was deeply musical, but held a rim of ice. Dimity saw Farrar stiffen. Following his gaze, she saw the woman who had come to the top of the steps with Carlton peeping from behind her skirts. Auburn hair touched with silver and high-piled on her head made her seem very tall. She was generously formed and statuesque, and she wore a graceful negligee of striped blue and white silk with a long blue cape. Like some feudal queen, she stood there, surveying them all with proud hauteur.
“I cannot think it necessary,” she continued, “that we terrify children in this house; whatever else we may have come to.”
Farrar walked forward. “I think you do not comprehend, Lady Helen. The brat came damn near kil—”
One white hand lifted. “Pray make an effort to remember that you are no longer in the barracks room.”
His jaw set, but he said in a milder tone, “My apologies, but—” one finger stabbed at Carlton, “a man don’t hide behind a lady’s skirts. Give it me!”
The boy took a half step and paused. “You wouldn’t really … s-strangle me, sir?”
“Give … it … me!”
Lady Helen said coolly, “My nephew will not harm you, child.”
Carlton trod awkwardly down the steps. Farrar advanced to meet him and, fearing for the boy’s safety, Dimity advanced also.
Farrar held out his hand.
Carlton crept up and, shaking in every limb, deposited a slingshot in that large palm.
“Good heavens!” gasped Dimity. “Is that what caused the Captain’s horse to bolt? He might have been killed!”
“And what a stroke of luck for you both,” sneered Farrar.
Flushing, she said, “We came here to establish my nephew’s claim, Captain. Not with intent to do murder.”
He gave her a contemptuous glare, then jerked his head around to the boy, who had not retreated but stood as one awaiting imminent execution. “What in the deuce made you think you could drive my team? Do you realize you near killed two fine horses, wrecked an extreme costly coach, and smashed my bridge?”
“I d-din’t mean to dr-drive it, sir,” gulped Carlton. “I just w-wanted to see if I could crack the whip. Like the coachman d-did.”
Farrar took another pace toward him. “You miserable little whelp,” he said through his teeth, “I’ll teach you—”
His hair wildly disarrayed, his vivid eyes narrowed and glittering with wrath, his face looking for all the world like the mask of a savage with its streaks of dirt and blood, he towered over the boy. Terrified, Carlton thought his end had come and, with a faint sob, fell in a swoon.
“Oh!” cried Dimity, kneeling by the small, pathetic figure. She glared up at the startled Farrar. “Evil, wicked brute! How could you frighten him so?”
“For Lord’s sake, Tony,” Chandler protested, hurrying to Dimity, “have done! The poor child is—”
“Is a vicious little monster who has wreaked more chaos in one hour than any—”
“There’s no need to shout. Mrs. Deene has had enough to bear.”
“If my tone of voice displeases, you are quite at liberty to leave, Chandler!”
“That will do,” Lady Helen put in, frowning at her nephew. “Whether Mrs. Deene’s claim is valid or not, and whatever accidental harm the boy may have done, we are not quite savages, I
trust! Leonard—be so good as to carry the child to my quarters.”
Farrar reddened. “Oh, I’ll do it, ma’am,” he muttered, and dropped to one knee.
“Thank you, but that will not be necessary. Leonard…?”
His lips compressed, Farrar stood and stepped back, and the butler hurried to lift the child.
“You will please to accompany us, Mrs. Deene,” said my lady in a gentle voice quite at odds with her former tone. “You have had a dreadful ordeal and are looking very tired. Gordie, would you be so kind as to help? We do not want two people collapsing due to our—brutality.”
With a troubled look at Farrar’s enigmatic countenance, Chandler helped Dimity to her feet.
It was absolutely ridiculous. The man was a murderer many times over; a foul-mouthed, foul-tempered brute of a man. But … Bound by her sense of fair play, she turned to face him. “Sir, everything you said was true. We are to blame for your injuries, your broken carriage, and the wreck of your bridge. I—I do not quite know how, but—I accept the responsibility. And—and Carlton will be punished.”
Apparently not in the slightest appeased, he scanned her with eyes which seemed if anything more wrathful than ever. “Be assured of it, madam,” he growled.
* * *
“You should not be up, Perry,” exclaimed Jane Guild laying her book aside and looking distressed and rather pathetic in her rumpled nightcap, with two scrawny, mouse-coloured braids hanging down her shoulders.
Clad in a lurid purple dressing gown and leaning on a cane, Peregrine hobbled painfully into her bedchamber. “Where—is my sister, ma’am?” he panted.
She stared at him. “If not in her room, then out riding, I fancy. It certainly is a glorious morning. Why? If you need something, dear—”
“She is not in her room,” he interrupted again. “And what’s more, it looks as if she’d left in a proper rush. Garments tossed all over the place. Lamp still burning, and nigh red hot! Not like Mitten.”
A faint frown disturbed the serenity of Jane Guild’s brow. “Good gracious, it most certainly is not!”
“Furthermore, I’d like to know why she was tearing up sheets.”
Love Alters Not Page 5
