Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  Dimity swept him a curtsey. She rose to discover a glazed look in Mr. Chandler’s grey eyes and Captain Sir Anthony’s jaw at half mast. Uneasy, she said, “An I offended, sir…”

  “No, no! Not at all, ma’am,” replied Farrar, laughter dancing into his eyes. “I perceive you to be a woman of many—er, parts.”

  His gaze seemed incapable of moving from one such part.

  With a gasp of fright, her hand flew to her bosom. Her curtsey had been a nice flourish, but a major error. The balky clasp of the ugly little brooch had parted. The scarf was hanging uselessly on her skirt. Instinctively, she grabbed for it. The brooch had fallen also, and the pin jabbed her finger spitefully. She gave a little jump of pain and shock. Another error. With unspeakable horror she felt something snap. She could breathe! And then, pop! pop! pop! pop! went the four buttons poor Rodgers had battled so hard to close.

  In another second, her skirts would plunge.

  There was really only one possible thing to do.

  She fainted gracefully into Gordon Chandler’s ready arms.

  V

  Alarmed by her beloved master’s distress, Shuffle stood with her front paws on his muscular thigh, her tucked-in tail quivering anxiously, adoration apparent in every inch of her golden body.

  “It-it is quite … all right, old lady,” gasped Farrar, mopping at his eyes with one hand and caressing her head with the other. He looked up from the hay bale in the barn that was serving him as a chair, and went on breathlessly, “’Pon my oath, I’ve not laughed so much in months. No, really Gordie, however did you keep your countenance? Had I not departed—”

  “Departed, is it?” His shoulders propped against a post, Chandler said, grinning, “Man, you ran like a rabbit!” And at once bit his lip, appalled by his faux pas.

  Appearing not to notice that unfortunate choice of words, Farrar said, “’Twas either run, or laugh in the doxy’s face! What on earth compels women to persist in squeezing themselves into garments four sizes too small, and crippling their feet with shoes that make ’em look downright deformed? I’ll wager Madam Deene’s toes were curled halfway to her instep in those gaudy atrocities! And as for her quarter-deck! Heaven help us! I fancied we were going to have a bacchanalian revelation at any second! Jove, what a disappointment!” He lapsed into hilarity again. “And—and then,” he wheezed, “to see you struggling upstairs with—the wench! Burn it if it wasn’t like—like the climactic scene of … a poor farce! You, bearing the lightskirt up to your bed and … and staggering every step!”

  “I was not staggering!” protested Chandler. “Though she’s no skin and bone wisp.” He smiled reminiscently. “All womanly curves and softness, rather.”

  Farrar’s mirth eased. “Never say you’ve formed a tendre for the vixen? ’Ware, Gordie! I’d not want that one for my peculiar!”

  “Which is as well, for I fancy you’d get your come-uppance did you suggest it.” Sobering, Chandler murmured thoughtfully, “She’s no opera dancer, Tony.”

  “She’s not preparing for her presentation, either. Can you not picture her making her curtsey to the world?” He chuckled. “Come to think on it, she’d best not! Not in those gowns, or the world might see more than it bargained for!”

  Chandler knit his brows. “Yet the habit she had on yesterday was very well cut, did you notice? And although her hair was disarrayed by the time I saw her, it was not in that—er, unfortunate style she affected this morning. Her speech is cultured. And did you mark her hands?”

  “Aye. Both of ’em. Deep in my purse!”

  “No, I mean it. They are white, and quite lovely. Certainly well manicured. If she’s ever scrubbed a floor or cooked a meal, I’ll shave my head and wear a French peruke!”

  Farrar stood, laughing at him. “You have formed a tendre for her! Our chaste Gordon has at last—”

  “Now blast your ears, Tony! If you’re spoiling for a mill—!”

  “Well, compared to Quentin, you are chaste.”

  Chandler responded in French, the kennel language making Farrar chuckle again.

  A groom led a fine mare from the barn, and as the two men started towards it, Farrar said with genuine regret, “Must you go? It would be nice to chat of old times for a week or two.”

  ‘Yes, I’m very sure it would,’ thought Chandler, and said, “I’ll try to come up again before I go home. But I’ve business in Town I’ve already kept waiting too long.”

  Farrar drew him to a halt. “At Boudreaux House, perchance? Have a care, you clunch. Don’t let Treve de Villars embroil you in his treasonable plottings.”

  “Treve saved my brother’s life. He may embroil me in whatsoever he wishes.” But Chandler read concern in Farrar’s eyes and gripped his arm, saying with a smile, “Never worry so. I tread carefully.”

  “You’d best tiptoe, old lad. The ground becomes a bog around those who aid rebels.”

  Chandler mounted up, and Farrar added more revealingly than he knew, “You will try to come back?”

  “Aye.” Chandler raised his gauntletted hand in farewell, then brought the mare to a canter. He did not look back. He knew that until he was out of sight Farrar would stand there, gazing after him.

  * * *

  For the sake of appearances, Dimity was obliged to remain in her bed for the balance of the day. Lady Helen came in several times and said it was perfectly understandable that she should be unnerved, and she must not think of getting up. If Dimity was unnerved, it was by the waste of precious time and by her inability even to try to cope with Mrs. Deene’s wicked wardrobe. She asked about Carlton and was informed he was “with Farrar,” that his care had been assigned to Cissie, who was very good with children, and that she was not to worry. She dozed and had a nightmare in which Farrar lured Carlton to a lonely copse and strangled him. Waking, shaken and not at all sure her dream had been so outlandish, she looked through periodicals, and fretted until evening. But even then she was forbidden to get out of bed. A tray was brought up and Rodgers sat beside her with the announcement that she had been instructed to remain until Mrs. Deene fell asleep.

  To her great relief, Carlton stuck his head around the door, said he hoped she was feeling better, and before she could reply, gave a whoop and went galloping off. So Farrar had not murdered the boy. Yet.

  Determined to wait out the abigail’s vigilance, then get up and see what could be done about the gowns, Dimity lay down and feigned sleep. She was more affected by the series of disasters than she would have admitted, however, and between her aches and pains and her troubled thoughts, she fell fast asleep and did not waken until Rodgers brought in her hot chocolate the next morning.

  She felt much better for her enforced rest and insisted she was eager to get up. Rodgers helped with her toilette, wrapped her in Mrs. Deene’s lurid dressing gown, and ushered her along the hall to my lady’s parlour. It appeared that Lady Helen had been called to see a sick tenant, and Dimity was not sorry to find she was to breakfast alone. Carlton was nowhere to be seen, and as soon as she had enjoyed tea, some delicious scones, and a slice of cold ham, she went back to her bedchamber.

  She was delighted to find it empty, her bed neatly made, and the room tidied. She flew to the press and took down the blue gown. Sitting in the middle of the bed, she peered hopefully at the waistband. Someone had sewn the buttons back on, probably believing they had been torn off when she “fainted.” She turned the great skirt inside out, and her hopes plummeted. The gown was cheap and poorly made, with small allowance in the seams. Even if she could enlarge the waist, it would not help much, for there was no turn-up at the hem of the skirt, the lower edges having been rolled. She thought despairingly, ‘Besides, it must be a mile wide and would take days to sew!’ Thanks to Tio, she had funds, but if she asked to be taken shopping and purchased more tasteful garments it would very likely raise suspicions about her identity. Nor dare she claim that her luggage had been mixed up, for it would take very little to send Farrar over to the Winchester coachin
g station, and if he started poking about, heaven only knew what it might lead to! Lady Helen had been kind; perhaps she could beg the loan of a fichu at least. The thought was scarcely born than it was discarded. Lady Helen was nobody’s fool; she would know that the woman who had bought such gowns was not the type to cover what they were designed to display! She gave a small moan of frustration. There was nothing she could do! She would simply have to endure these dreadful clothes for a day or two, until she could find Mr. Green, pass on Tio’s cypher, and go home!

  The cypher!

  She jumped from the bed, knelt beside it, and reached under the mattress. It was silly to be frightened because she did not at once find it. Groping blindly, she thought, ‘Do not lose your wits, Mitten. It is, after all, quite small.’ Two minutes later, she was tearing sheets, blankets and eiderdown from the great tester bed, and in another minute, had hauled the mattress to the floor. The cypher was gone! Stunned, she stood amidst the debris, biting at her knuckle. It must be here!

  “Lawks!”

  Dimity spun around. Rodgers stood in the open doorway, her face a study in amazement. “Ahem—whatever is wrong, ma’am?” she gasped. “Weren’t it made up proper?”

  “Did you make it up?”

  Rodgers looked offended. “I am not a chambermaid, ma’am.”

  “Do you know which chambermaid was in here?”

  “I—’spect it was Cissie.” She said anxiously, “But, she’s a good girl, ma’am. If you lay a complaint, she will lose her sittyation. I’ll make it better for ye.”

  “No, no. Just send her up here. At once, if you please. And—the fewer people know, the better. I’d not wish to cause her trouble.”

  Rodgers flew, not taking the time to close the parlour door.

  Dimity stared down at the debris for a moment, then knelt and began to pull the mattress aside so as to crawl under the bed.

  “Good heavens!” Another startled onlooker had arrived. Wide-eyed, Lady Helen said, “I had thought to find you laid down upon your bed, Mrs. Deene. Not under it!”

  * * *

  Alone in the breakfast room, Farrar glanced up from the London Gazette, put down his coffee cup and sprang to his feet. “You are going to join me, ma’am?” he asked eagerly.

  His aunt was dressed for luncheon in a charming dark blue muslin Watteau dress, the train sweeping gracefully behind her. A beautifully carved ivory cross on a golden chain hung about her throat, and her hair was powdered and swept into a high coiffure. “No, thank you,” she answered. “But—pray do not let me interrupt your reading.”

  “I had much rather talk with you. Would you care to walk in the garden?” It was a question asked out of courtesy, and he was astounded when she agreed. He sent a lackey running for a shawl and when Lady Helen looked at him with arched brows, he said, “The breeze is rather chill, ma’am.”

  They set off when the shawl had been draped carefully about her shoulders. He knew better than to offer his arm, but he sensed that she was troubled, and walked beside her in silence, moderating his stride to her dainty steps, and whistling for Shuffle who ran to join them with much flapping of ears.

  “It was nice to see Chandler,” my lady said at length.

  He was fairly certain that she did not wish to talk about Gordon, but answered politely, “Yes. He says he may come again before returning to Kent.”

  “How very good of him.”

  He flushed a little, but said nothing.

  After a pause, Lady Helen came to the point. “Farrar, have you—er, noticed anything at all—odd … about Mrs. Deene?”

  “Jupiter, ma’am, I’ve yet to notice anything normal about her! She is without doubt the most vulgar, brazen, mercenary little baggage I ever—”

  “Not—little, exactly,” she put in musingly.

  Curious, he smiled down at her.

  “Nor do I think—” She interrupted herself, “But that is no matter. What concerns me—” She shook her stately head and sighed.

  Alarmed now, he took her arm. “Aunt Helen—what is it? An she disturbs you—” Her gaze was fixed on his detaining hand. His flush deepening, he released her arm. “Pray tell me what troubles you. I’ll get rid of the jade do you but give me leave. She has no least shred of hope to win her claim, if that is what concerns you.”

  Her fine eyes lifted to his. She said dispassionately, “What happens to either this estate or the fortune concerns me very little, Farrar.”

  He stepped back with an odd, almost shrinking movement quite foreign to his normal manner and stood staring at the ground. She knew she had wounded him and experienced the usual helplessness because the need to strike at him did not alleviate her deeper pain. Stifling a sigh, she added, “I am afraid for that poor girl.”

  His bowed head lifted. Recovering himself, he echoed, “That—poor—girl? You cannot refer to our larcenous adventuress?”

  “I cannot be pleased to hear you speak so disparagingly of a lady, sir.”

  “But—but, that— I mean Mrs. Deene—who wears no marriage ring, you’ll have noted—is nothing but— Oh, now ma’am—you’ve seen what she is, for Lord’s sake!”

  “From what I have seen,” she said slowly, “I begin to think that poor creature, she is—unbalanced!”

  Farrar blinked. “She’s shrewd as any vixen if you was to ask—Oh, very well, she is a charming victim of cruel fate, an that pleases you! May I ask what has brought you to the conclusion she is short of a sheet?”

  “Not at all. She was fairly wallowing in them,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  “She—what?”

  “When she fainted yesterday morning—”

  “Pish! She no more fainted than I did! You likely heard that staylace snap just as I—”

  “Farrar!”

  He bowed his head to hide his quivering mouth and said a meek, “Your pardon, ma’am.”

  For a second my lady was silent, her sad eyes on the thick, crisply waving fair hair. Her hand went out as if to touch it, but was clenched and withdrawn. She went on hurriedly, “The maids told me she was feeling better this morning, but—I looked in on her just now, and—and she had torn the bed to shreds.”

  His startled gaze flashed to her. “Good God! Bed posts and all?”

  Her eyes twinkled, but she said sternly, “I wish you will not be facetious. I am deadly serious. All the sheets and bedding were strewn about the room, and she was—playing with the mattress.”

  “Playing … with the mattress?” he echoed, awed. “By Jove, then she’s off the road, all right! What did she say? Was she foaming at the mouth or anything?”

  “No, thank heaven! But she behaved most odd. She claimed she had been trying to rest and had heard a—a cricket.”

  “What ’twixt mattress and boards? No, aunt—you hoax me!”

  “An you put it together with those ridiculous clothes, and the way she faints all the time … Unless—” her expression cleared. “Of course! It must be the shock of the accidents she suffered! Why ever did I not take that into account? My apologies, Farrar, for having troubled you with it.”

  “I could wish you found more to trouble me with, ma’am. Could you spare the time to take luncheon with—”

  “No, no. I’ll leave you to your own—affairs.” She started off, then turned so suddenly that she saw the wistfulness in his eyes. “By the bye, do you know of another gentleman named Green living hereabouts?”

  He became very still. “No. Why?”

  “Mrs. Deene had thought she might be acquainted with Rafe, but evidently her friend is another Mr. Green.” She shrugged and walked on, saying, “It is of no importance.”

  For a moment Farrar stood motionless. Then, “Is it not, by God!” he whispered.

  * * *

  “The thing is, ma’am,” said Cissie, twisting nervously at the hem of her apron and watching Dimity with frightened brown eyes, “the housekeeper said as you’d had such a drefful time, and the mattress had not been turned in a while, seeing as we g
et no company no more, so she said as we should turn it, so we did, Eth and me, and if I’d knowed you did not like a mattress turned—”

  Dimity interrupted the flood. “It was most kind. Er, did you find anything underneath?”

  “No, Mrs. Deene.”

  Rodgers put in defensively, “Ahem, and we’ve not never had no crickets in our beds since I been—”

  “I did not mean a cricket. I said that to Lady Helen, but—” Dimity had no need to pretend a blush as she saw their intrigued expressions. She lowered her voice. “Surely, you found something, Cissie?”

  “Nothing ’cept a scrap o’ paper with some writings on. I can’t read, but it was too little and crumpled up to be anything important, so I burnt it.”

  Dimity felt sick and uttered a strangled shriek. The two maids rushed to support her. Allowing herself to be lowered onto the bed, she whispered, “Are you—quite sure it—has been … burned?”

  Much alarmed, Cissie gulped, “I’m that sorry, ma’am! I put it in the wastebasket, and one of the lackeys will have took ’em all to the rubbish heap by this time.”

  “Where … is that?”

  Rodgers said, “It’s round the back, on the far side of the house, ma’am. Down the hill. I’ll go at once, if—”

  “No!” cried Dimity. They were both staring. She sought desperately for an explanation. “That would—break the spell, you see.”

  “Cor,” whispered Cissie. “Is it a writing from a witch, then?”

  Dimity beckoned them nearer. “Promise you won’t tell.”

  Two hearts were solemnly crossed; two promises given.

  “If you tell a single soul,” warned Dimity, “the spell will be broken, and—and the witch said whoever breaks it will suffer a—a terrible fate!”

  They paled, and swore not to do so dreadful a thing.

  “It is,” said Dimity, improvising frantically, “a little piece of a love note. I have been a widow for some time, you know, and a gentleman has been—er, courting me, but he is very shy and every time I almost, ah—”