Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  “Ar. Well, let’s find you some slippers. There was a nice blue silk pair here somewhere…”

  The “nice blue silk pair” were strained to the limit when at last they were on Dimity’s cringing feet. They were also covered with spangles and beads that sparkled so they must only attract attention to the dreadfully inadequate length of her skirts. ‘If,’ she thought cynically, ‘the gentlemen are able to tear their eyes from my naked bosom!’

  Staring, Rodgers uttered a faint “Ahem” and enquired if madam’s abigail was coming.

  For the first time, it dawned on Dimity that Mrs. Deene had been travelling with neither footman nor abigail. “Yes,” she lied. “That is to say, she was with me but sprained her ankle, so I sent her home. My dresser will arrive in a day or two.”

  She saw by the slight lift of Rodgers’ eyebrows that she had overdone it. Had the woman said a scornful “Dresser!” her disdain could scarcely have been more plainly expressed. The mirror revealed a creature who was at best vulgar, and at worst, a person of ill repute. ‘I cannot go downstairs like this! I cannot!’ thought Dimity in despair, and with a near sob of relief, remembered the scarf the gypsy boy had used to cover her basket. She had seen it yesterday morning, lying with the pile of luggage that had been salvaged from the wrecked stagecoach and, for no reason she could have told, had picked it up. She tottered to the chest and found the scarf, neatly folded, in the second drawer. “It’s a touch chilly,” she advised the staring abigail, draping the shawl about her shoulders. She opened the jewel box and, stifling a groan, selected the least offensive brooch and used it to pin the shawl in place. The brooch was small and the clasp difficult and when at last she had it closed, Rodgers’ eyes were rounder than ever.

  “But—ahem—but it’s … red and white, ma’am!”

  “Yes,” said Dimity, who could have wept. “Lovely. Well—off we go!”

  Rodgers hurried to open the door. Dimity hobbled in her wake and thought with a pang that she now had some slight idea of what it must cost her beloved Perry to walk. “By the bye,” she said, pausing in the hall. “When is the fair held?”

  “It’s been and gone, ma’am. Won’t come back till next summer.”

  “Oh,” said Dimity, hollowly. Tio had certainly said there was a fair. Perhaps he’d not known the actual date of its arrival.

  The abigail said with faint reproof, “Ahem—her la’ship’s been waiting and waiting, Mrs. Deene.”

  Meekly, Dimity followed her. She had noticed little of the house on her arrival and was impressed now by the beauty of it. The corridor they followed was wide, the ceiling high-vaulted, the wainscoted walls topped by a magnificent carved frieze. Dark wood floors gleamed with the patina of age and polish, and were strewn with richly coloured rugs. Little chests and tables held porcelain and crystal objets d’art and there were several fine oil paintings. They passed five closed doors, Dimity’s feet protesting every step of the way, and when they approached the spiral staircase, she saw that behind it, rising majestically through both levels, was a splendid stained-glass window. The corridor widened on the far side of the landing, but the vaulted ceilings continued, a feature, she was later to find, that obtained throughout The Palfreys, the most elaborate examples being the beautifully carved lierne vaulting in both the music hall and the chapel.

  The prospect of another meeting with the irascible Farrar did not enchant. Dimity asked, “Is the captain’s suite in this wing?”

  “On t’other side of the stairs, ma’am. This side is reserved for her la’ship and her guests.”

  It would be interesting to know if Lady Farrar had always led so separate an existence, or if the present arrangement had been inspired by her infamous nephew’s disgrace, but one could not, of course, ask such a question.

  Rodgers scratched on the second door from the landing. It was swung open by an elegant footman wearing the dark red livery that Dimity vaguely remembered having seen yesterday. He gave a slight bow, but not before she had seen a look of shock come into his eyes.

  He led the way through a charming little anteroom and opened the far door. “Mrs. Deene,” he announced, and held the door a moment longer than was necessary, yearning to see Lady Helen’s reaction to the glory of her guest. He was disappointed. My lady, wearing a pale mauve morning dress, her powdered hair stylishly arranged and adorned by a lacy violet cap, was seated at a desk in the pleasant parlour, reading a letter. She turned, smiling. For a split-second her smile was rather fixed, then she rose and came forward, holding out her hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Deene. I do hope you are better today.”

  Dimity dropped a curtsey. Before she could respond, however, a shout rang out, and Carlton came limping from an adjacent room, his curls neatly brushed, and his blue eyes alight. “Oooh—you do look nice, Aunty,” he declared enthusiastically.

  Aware that her face was scarlet, Dimity thanked him and bent to receive his kiss. “How is your poor knee?”

  “Very good, thank you. Isn’t this a fine place? Yestiday I went for a ride on a real pony. One of the grooms took me. And I watched my uncle fence with Mr. Chandler. Mr. Chandler won,” he added scornfully.

  Lady Helen said, “Captain Farrar was badly wounded, Carlton, and is still not quite himself.”

  “Yes, I know. My aunty told me. He was shot in the back ’cause he was running away like a rat. Aunty said he left all his men to be killed while he saved his own skin. Why did he do that, Lady He’n? A man wouldn’t’ve done it.”

  Dimity scarcely knew where to look, and was horrified to see Lady Helen’s serenity crumple into an expression of anguish.

  A deep voice drawled, “I hope I do not interrupt a private discussion?”

  ‘Oh—no!’ thought Dimity, and wished the floor might open and swallow her.

  With the sublime insensitivity of childhood, Carlton said an obliging, “I was just telling Lady He’n that my aunty said—”

  “I heard.” Farrar sauntered into the room, his gaze fixed on Lady Helen. “Sound familiar, ma’am?”

  Glancing to him in abject misery, Dimity was slightly taken aback. Today he had not allowed his man to apply powder and she was surprised to find that his hair was very fair, in startling contrast to his tan. He wore a leathern riding coat and an open-throated white shirt. Knee boots and corded breeches completed his attire, and spurs jingled softly as he stepped past her. He made no acknowledgement of her presence, his entire attention on his aunt.

  Lady Helen’s response was slightly uneven. “Yes, the … boy has difficulty with my name. It reminded me—” but she broke off with a small, dismissing gesture, and did not finish the sentence.

  Farrar nodded, turned his head, and enjoyed his first clear look at Dimity. His control was remarkable, but she saw the long fingers of his right hand stretch out for an instant. “Well,” he remarked breathlessly, “you are looking ro—bust this morning, Mrs. Deene.”

  Oddly, his sarcasm was a relief. “You are too kind,” Dimity murmured, dropping a graceful curtsey.

  “Very true,” he agreed, his fascinated gaze on her décolletage. “I expect you want to get—to it.”

  She stared at him.

  The side of his mouth twitched. “One presumes you intend to produce your documentation,” he drawled. “Before you leave us.”

  “Oh,” she said, wondering if it was really possible that the papers had not already been thoroughly examined.

  Misunderstanding her silence, Carlton put in helpfully, “They were in my aunt’s reticule.”

  “I know, dear,” she said absently.

  Lady Helen directed a swift glance at her. “There is no hurry, Farrar,” she said in her calm fashion. “Mrs. Deene is to breakfast with me, and since it will take some days to prove or disprove her—ah, claim, I think it only proper that she should stay here.”

  Dimity gave a gasp of astonishment.

  No less incredulous, Farrar said, “You cannot be serious, Au—ma’am? These two are little better than—”

/>   “How do you know what we are?” interpolated Dimity, frowning.

  His gaze raked her up and down with such contempt that it was as much as she could do not to slap his arrogant face.

  “If that is Walter’s son,” he sneered, jerking his head at the child, “I’ll—”

  My lady’s hand dropped protectively to Carlton’s shoulder as he backed against her skirts. “If we prove that he is not, he will be sent away, of course, but—”

  “To prison,” snapped Farrar, eyes narrow with wrath. “Together with his alleged—”

  Lady Helen’s voice rose. “But so long as there is the chance that he is Walter’s son, he has as much right as—any of us, to live under this roof.”

  Farrar still faced her, but it seemed to Dimity that he had flinched slightly. Certainly, his gaze fell away. After a tense, hushed moment, the battle of wills was conceded. “As you wish,” he growled. “On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he come with me. Now. I waited out your aunt’s recovery, my lad, but I’ve a few things to say to you.”

  Carlton turned white and began to tremble.

  Dimity said, “If you mean to beat the child—”

  He turned a blazing glare on her. “I’ve a Halifax gibbet in the dungeons,” he sneered. “It seems the quickest way to get rid of the brat.”

  “Farrar!” exclaimed my lady, angrily.

  Carlton stepped forward and stood with head thrown back as he watched the tall man’s wrathful countenance. “All right, sir,” he said. “You can gibbet me. I ’serve it for scaring your horses, but I din’t mean it, you know. I only wanted to crack that whip.” His eyes pleaded for understanding. “It did crack goodly, din’t it?”

  Remorseless, Farrar jabbed a finger at the door and followed as the child crept out.

  Dimity turned to Lady Helen only to find her face averted and her head bowed. Distressed, she said, “Dear ma’am, I am so sorry. This is dreadful for you, and my naughty little nephew makes it worse. I will take him away at once. The—the captain would not really…?”

  My lady made a furtive movement with her handkerchief and managed a shaky smile. “I do apologize. It chances the child reminds me of—someone…” The words trailed off. Her green eyes, paler than her nephew’s but remarkably handsome, had turned to the side. Dimity followed her gaze to the portrait of a young man that hung above the mantel. The artist had captured with lifelike realism the faintly bored smile, the gleaming curls of the dashing French peruke that tumbled attractively about a proud, aristocratic face. There was a look of Lady Helen there, although the fine eyes were deep blue, set off by high-arched brows. The features were regular, but Dimity thought them less finely chiselled than Farrar’s, the chin not as firm, the mouth a touch too voluptuous. Still, there was no denying he was a very good-looking young man, and she asked, “Your son, ma’am?”

  Lady Helen nodded. “My only child. Harding Bradwell Farrar. A rather wild boy, but—so very lovable.”

  “I’ve a brother who is rather wild, but I wouldn’t change him for the world,” said Dimity loyally. “How proud of him you must be.” She saw at once the look of consternation and, too late, recalled what Mrs. Deene had said of Farrar’s cousin.

  Lady Helen sat in a brocaded wing chair and confirmed sadly, “He is dead, ma’am.”

  There was nothing to do but feign ignorance. Dimity sank to her knees beside the chair, expressed polite sympathy, and enquired as to whether it had been a long illness.

  My lady’s eyes hardened. “It was at Prestonpans. Harding and Anthony joined up together and were in the same Battery. Anthony was in command when—when Harding was killed.”

  So that was what Mrs. Deene had meant! Dimity thought, ‘My God! What a tragedy!’ and murmured numbly, “How perfectly ghastly for you.” Lady Helen watched her with a puzzled expression, and she went on hastily, “I did not know. My sister had not mentioned it.”

  “But, of course. ’Twas my understanding she died some years ago.”

  ‘Oh Mitten, do be careful,’ thought Dimity, aghast. “Yes. I’m being silly,” she mumbled. “But—I was so shocked.”

  “I see. You have heard something of Farrar, I think?”

  Dimity nodded.

  “And you wonder, perhaps, if I hold him to blame for Harding’s death?”

  Yearning to be elsewhere, Dimity said, “Yes— No! Oh, dear! I-I really—”

  “What would be your judgement, Mrs. Deene?”

  What would be her judgement? She held Farrar to blame for Peregrine’s injuries. Indirectly, of course. But—this…! And why would Lady Helen ask such a question? She faltered, “I-I could not possibly answer. But—if you—That is to say … Oh, ma’am, however can you allow him to stay here? Could you not ask him to-to find other accommodations?”

  Lady Helen stroked her hand absently. “He was such a dear little boy—who would have guessed…?” She sighed. “But to answer your question, my dear, I cannot ask him to leave. You see, The Palfreys belongs to him.”

  “To him? But I had understood you took the captain in when he was a small child and his parents died.”

  “Quite true. But the property is entailed, do you see? Gilbert, my late husband, was the fifth baronet. He adored Anthony, and divided his fortune into three equal shares; one third to Harding, one third to me, and the final third to Anthony, each share to revert to the title-holder should the others die unmarried.”

  Harbouring the beginnings of a terrible suspicion, Dimity stared at her in silence.

  My lady, inwardly intrigued by that obvious dismay, went on, “The title passed to Harding, of course, and would have gone next to Walter, since he was two years older than Anthony. As it is, title, estates, and two thirds of the fortune have come to my only surviving nephew.”

  Dimity whispered, “Then—he is Captain Sir Anthony Farrar!”

  “Unless your claim is proven, my dear.”

  “My … goodness!”

  My lady bent nearer. “You surely have realized that—if Carlton is Walter’s son, then the title would rightfully be his?”

  “And,” croaked Dimity, horror struck, “The Palfreys?”

  “Yes. And the part of the fortune that is bound up in the entail, besides what came to Anthony upon my son’s death.”

  ‘He will be ruined!’ thought Dimity. ‘Oh, how he must yearn to be rid of us!’

  * * *

  “But you scarce ate a morsel,” said Lady Helen, walking downstairs beside Dimity, and watching the pale and troubled face with no little anxiety. “We can postpone this matter for a day or so and give you a chance to regain your strength.”

  Between her discomfort and the shock of learning that she had somehow been placed in the position of wresting a man’s title and estates from him, whereby—if he was as base as everyone thought him—he had very good reason for murdering both her and little Carlton, Dimity had found it impossible to force more than one slice of toast down her reluctant throat. Not that she could have eaten more at all events, for her stays were so tight she knew her poor sides must be on the point of meeting in the middle of her stomach. To add to her misery, her feet felt raw, and she could barely endure to set one before the other. The sooner she was out of this perfectly dreadful mess, the better. She thought of the cypher under her mattress, and was so distressed that a faint moan escaped her.

  Startled, my lady exclaimed, “No, really, I think we must call in our physician. Mr. Chandler will, I am sure, be willing to send him to us.”

  “Mr. Chandler is still here?” asked Dimity, clutching at straws.

  “Yes. He and his brother Quentin and Anthony have been friends from school days.”

  “And your son, ma’am?”

  “Well—no. Harding was not— He had his own friends.”

  They were halfway down the stairs at this point and, despite her misery, Dimity said admiringly, “Oh, what a very lovely house it is! See how the sunbeams come through the stained glass t
o light this painting. Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Quite one of my favourites,” my lady agreed without expression. “Anthony did it.”

  Dimity lurched to a halt, staring her astonishment.

  “He is quite a fine artist,” said Lady Helen.

  Dimity scanned the painting. It was a charming rural scene and although she knew little of art, she recognized a considerable degree of skill. The plaque on the lower edge of the elaborate frame read, “The Village Green.”

  Green. Memory triggered, she forgot to comment on the painting, and babbled, “That reminds me. An acquaintance of mine lives hereabouts, I think. Perhaps you know him, ma’am? A Mr. Green.”

  “Rafe? He was one my son’s closest friends.” My lady sighed and added regretfully, “But alas, he does not come here any more.”

  Dimity’s hopes, which had soared, crashed down again. “No. This must be a different gentleman.”

  As they reached the ground floor, Carlton, face flushed and rigid, eyes glittering, stalked past with silent dignity and went limping up the stairs. The heavy riding crop still gripped in his hand, Farrar sauntered up the steps, crossed the music hall and stopped before them.

  “Did you dare to whip that child?” cried Dimity, enraged.

  He slanted a bored look at her. “I gave him ten of the best. And daring plays no part in it, madam. You claim the brat is my nephew. At present, happily, I am still the head of this house and thus have every right in the world to discipline him. Besides which,” he brandished the crop before her outraged face, “had you one single grain of sense, you’d see that the boy wanted to be punished. Egad, but I’m almost driven to hope he is my nephew! Certainly, you would ruin him within another year or so! Already, he’s almost completely out of hand.”

  Opening her mouth to denounce him, Dimity had a sudden mental picture of Peregrine or Piers, had Carlton done one tenth of what he’d perpetrated at The Palfreys. Seething, but bowing to the justness of his remarks, she closed her lips.

  Gordon Chandler, his dark hair unpowdered today, hastened to join the little group. “Good morning, my lady, Mrs. Deene,” he said with a polite bow.