Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  “Bring him up to scratch?” prompted Rodgers breathlessly.

  “Er, yes. Every time, he becomes tongue-tied. So I went to a good witch I heard of, and she said if I would sleep with part of his love note under my mattress for three weeks, without once breaking the routine, he would offer next day.”

  “Lawks!” gasped Rodgers, eyes enormous. “And you went and burnt it, Cissie Simpkins! Do he live hereabouts, Mrs. Deene?”

  “No.” Struck by an idea, Dimity regrouped hurriedly. “Well, not very near. If I tell you his name, will you promise to keep it secret?”

  Again their hearts were crossed.

  “His name,” Dimity imparted, “is Mr. Green. Do you know of him?”

  They looked at each other.

  Cissie, wiping away tears of fright, asked, “Does ye mean—Mr. Rafe Green, ma’am?”

  Dimity stifled a sigh. “No. His name is not Rafe but—”

  “That’s true,” said Rodgers. “But it’s what everyone calls him, isn’t it, ma’am? ’Cause he don’t like his own name, I mean.”

  Cissie put in importantly, “So he uses his middle name, which is Ralph, only they all call him Rafe.”

  “Well, Mrs. Deene knows that, silly,” said Rodgers, nudging her. “A lady certainly knows what her gentleman friend’s name is!”

  “I should hope so.” Dimity’s heart had given a great leap. She thought, ‘I’ve found him! Praise heaven, one part of my wretched puzzle is solved!’ Almost she asked for his direction, only at the last instant recalling she would also be expected to know the address of her “admirer.” But that should present no problem. She would ask in the stables as soon as the opportunity arose.

  The two maids stared at her radiant face and drew their own conclusions.

  Rodgers said briskly, “Well, you’ll want to run quick, Mrs. Deene. I fetched some tape up. I can sew it on your waistband if you like, so you can tie it closed. Might serve better than them buttons, and it won’t show under the bodice.”

  In very short order, Dimity was hobbling down the back stairs.

  “Rafe Green,” murmured Cissie, leaning against the bedroom door. “Shy?”

  “And—tongue-tied,” said Rodgers, and they both giggled.

  “What if he comes here to pay her court?” said Cissie, with a suddenly scared look.

  Rodgers folded her arms. “I’d give a month’s wages to see it!”

  “Not me!” Cissie shivered theatrically. “Lordy, Lor’! Not me, mate!”

  * * *

  The debris atop the ash pile looked huge, and although Dimity was inexpressibly relieved to find it had not yet been lit, it presented a daunting challenge with the mass of crumpled letters, newspapers, tree prunings, torn upholstery (which she recognized with a flutter of guilt as having been part of the doomed carriage), and all manner of crushed boxes and odds and ends. Cissie had said she’d put the invaluable cypher in a wastebasket. Dimity selected a sturdy branch from the prunings and used it to sift through the mass. She soon realized she dare not venture into the ashes wearing her stockings and the horrid slippers and, with a guilty glance around, took them off and placed them where she might quickly retrieve them if the lackey came to burn the rubbish. The sun rose in the sky and grew warmer; she knew that she might very well have been missed by now but, desperate, she sought on. If only the cypher was not so small! She saw then an empty hair powder box. That should be from the right area! The box was farther on the heap than she had yet ventured, and she trod cautiously in amongst the rubble. There it was! Lying half under a broken comb. She thought, ‘How could I have been so fortunate?’ and reached out, leaning perilously.

  “Cinderella…?”

  The sardonic drawl was unmistakeable. Her heart jumping into her throat, Dimity tried to grab and turn at the same instant, and inevitably lost her balance. She fell, face down. Dry ash and bits of flotsam flew in all directions. So did her skirt. With a muffled sob of chagrin she snatched the cypher and thrust it in her bosom, then turned around.

  The Craven was standing directly behind her. She fancied at first to see a certain wariness in his eyes, but there could be no doubt of the mirth which followed that expression. Without much success, she tried to look indifferent and poised.

  Surveying a most unladylike creature in a filthy gown, a streak of soot between her breasts, her feet bare and black, her chin and eyebrows elevated despite the smutty face and the ashes adorning her hair, it was all Farrar could do to keep from howling with glee.

  Shuffle darted forward, barking shrilly at the apparition.

  Dimity said crossly, “Oh, be quiet, do!”

  The dog sat down and looked at her, tail wriggling.

  “You have made a remarkably rapid recovery,” said Farrar, his voice none too steady.

  “I come of sturdy stock,” she declared, inwardly ready to sink.

  His mouth quirked in a way she thought revolting. “So I—ah, see,” he said, running mirthful eyes over her.

  Dimity ground her teeth and glared at him.

  “Perhaps,” he went on, all innocence, “you would wish luncheon cooked and served out here in the—ah, fresh air? You are partial to spitted roast pig, perchance.”

  She began to assess the merits of cannibalism, and said regally, “Something of mine was accidentally thrown away. I was trying to find it.”

  He lifted his brows and reached out to her. Disdaining his aid, she put down one hand to brace herself. Unhappily, it landed in an empty (almost) tub of lard. She withdrew it with an “Ugh!” of disgust.

  Momentarily overcome, Farrar was obliged to turn away. He wiped his brimming eyes and, regaining control, took a long stride, grasped her arm, and hauled her up. Dimity ignored the great show he made of wiping his hand on a snowy handkerchief, and Farrar ignored her rather ostentatious taking up of the sturdy branch with which she had poked at the ash pile. He kept well clear of her disastrous gown, picked up her shoes and slanted a hilarious glance at those bare black toes. “You could,” he pointed out in a choked voice, “have sent a lackey to find it.”

  Treading daintily through the ashes, leaning on her branch, and with the precious cypher safe in her bodice, Dimity said loftily, “I do not delegate unpleasant tasks to servants.”

  “Hmmn. Well, it is nice that you found your—er, cherished possession, but—why is that particular one so valued, I wonder?”

  She stared at him. All schoolboy innocence, he nodded to the stick she carried.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed. “You know perfectly well it was not this!”

  “But—indeed ma’am, from the way you clung to it, I thought perhaps—”

  “Very diverting,” she said acidly. “Now, an you will be so good as to go away, I will put on my shoes and stockings.”

  “No, do you really think you should?”

  Dimity transferred her glare from his smirk to her feet, and could have wept. She took refuge in disdain and walked on, employing her branch as a cane, and wondering miserably how she could possibly re-enter the house in such a condition, and what ever Lady Helen would think.

  Carlton came charging from the direction of the house and stopped dead. His small face became one big scowl, and he flung himself at Farrar, fists flying. “What have you done to my poor aunty, you wicked beast?”

  Shuffle jumped up, growling furiously.

  Farrar said, “Shuffle—down!” and held the enraged child at bay by the simple expedient of placing one hand on his lowered head.

  “No, Carlton!” cried Dimity. “Sir Anthony did nothing. I was—er, looking for something I had lost.”

  The boy lowered his fists and peered from the man’s stern face to Dimity’s dirty one. “Oh.”

  “You can do better than that,” said Farrar.

  Carlton sighed. “I ’pologize, sir.”

  “Accepted. Your aunt—er, fell and has become a trifle … dusty. Run up to the house and fetch a-ah—”

  “Sheet,” said Dimity mournfull
y.

  He shot a sparkling glance at her. “A brush and comb. And—er, a shawl.”

  “Perhaps you could ask Lady Helen if I might borrow one,” Dimity interjected.

  The boy nodded and ran off.

  “An I dare suggest it,” Farrar drawled, “there is a more secluded spot along the stream where you could wash yourself.” He indicated the north, and bowed politely.

  Yearning to escape him, Dimity said she was sure she could find the spot, but he was not to be dismissed. “You will be quite safe with me,” he assured her. “Especially since you have your branch.”

  She thought, ‘And will not hesitate to use it, Captain Infamous!’ but went with him helplessly, knowing she looked a perfect fright, and dreading lest they meet anyone.

  He led her into the trees for a short distance until they came to a clearing ending in a shallow bank above a stream which gurgled merrily over its stony bed. Dimity tried not to see Farrar’s quivering mouth as she told him with dignity that this would suit very well, and with a reluctant sigh he went away.

  She laid her branch aside, sat at the edge of the bank and plunged her feet into the clear water, then withdrew them with a small scream.

  At once, Farrar was at her side. “Another cricket, ma’am?” he enquired solicitously.

  “A snake!” she lied, frowning at him and hiding her icy feet under her gown.

  He clicked his tongue. “You would do well to present your case and leave my estate at once. Lord knows what may next befall you. By the bye, if you will tell me what you did lose, I’ll send one of the gardeners to find it for you.”

  Perhaps a half-truth would be advisable, just in case the maids chattered. “’Twas a letter. I had laid it on the dressing table and we think it must have slipped into the wastepaper basket.”

  “Ah. From your late husband, perhaps?”

  Some people might judge his green eyes handsome, but she thought they held a horridly cynical leer. She snapped, “From my brother.”

  “Indeed? Now wherever did I gain the impression you had but the one sister?”

  And why was it so difficult to remember that she was Mrs. Catherine Deene—not Miss Dimity Cranford? Her heart jumping with nervousness, she managed to shrug carelessly. “I cannot think.”

  “And may I know your brother’s name, ma’am?”

  “His name is Pe—” Lord, no! She dared not name Peregrine! “Peter.”

  Up went his eyebrows. “Pepito? What an unusual—”

  “Peter!” she snarled. “I stammer sometimes.”

  “Do you? Well, that can scarce mar—” the sparkling eyes slid with much appreciation from her ash-littered and wildly disarranged hair to the dirty toe that peeped from beneath the sullied gown, “—such perfection,” he finished with a sweet smile.

  Dimity gritted her teeth but before she could give him a well-earned set-down, from somewhere nearby arose a furious uproar of throaty growls and deep, ferocious barking.

  His smile banished, Farrar whispered, “Shuffle!” and was running.

  The dogs must be very large, and they sounded horrifyingly maddened. Dimity snatched up her branch and followed.

  Farrar sprinted across the clearing and into the wood. The clamour was appalling now, the yelps of a smaller dog adding to the din.

  Shuffle tore through the trees and raced for her master, two gigantic mastiffs in hot and murderous pursuit. One of them sprang at the spaniel and she went down, whimpering piteously. Farrar ran up and kicked the brute away. The other, teeth bared, plunged at the cringing spaniel. Farrar flung out an arm to intercept it. Dimity screamed as the powerful jaws clamped onto his wrist. Her heart hammering, she flailed the branch at the dog who was growling and worrying horribly as Farrar fought to beat him away. The other mastiff hurled itself at her, and, terrified, she levelled her branch. The dog darted around her, however, and leapt at Farrar. Dimity swung the branch hard. The second mastiff gave a yelp and turned on her, but did not attack.

  A piercing whistle sounded. The dog savaging Farrar let go and bounded off. The second mastiff, who had again started for him, halted as if it had been shot, but faced him still, the hair standing up all down its back, a rumble of menace sounding deep in its throat.

  A horseman rode through the trees and reined up. “Damn your ears, Devil,” he said in a high-pitched falsetto. “Come here at once, sir!”

  He was a husky young exquisite, large of eyes, nose, and chin. The bay horse he bestrode was a beautiful animal, but so highly strung it was all he could do to control its prancing. He glanced at Farrar who stood, white and enraged, gripping his left arm. “Mauled you, did he, Anthony?” he sneered, his thick lips curving to an amused grin.

  Farrar panted, “Had I a pistol in my pocket, you’d have a dead dog! And do I ever catch them on my lands again—”

  “I’ve warned ’em against it,” drawled the exquisite. “Alas, they seem to be attracted to something here. Dogs—stupid brutes—do love anything … rotten. Indeed, had not the lady screamed, I’d—” His attention had turned to Dimity, and he checked, staring at her. “Zounds, but who is—”

  Farrar snatched her branch and slapped it at the nervous bay. A shrill whinny, a mad rear, and the horse bolted, the mastiffs following and the curses of the rider fading into silence.

  Farrar’s sleeve was torn and wet with blood. “Let me see,” cried Dimity, running to him.

  He avoided her and went to Shuffle, who lay whining softly. “My God!” he whispered, kneeling to investigate the extent of her injuries. “They’ve hurt her!”

  Dimity knelt beside him. His hands shook. “Let me,” she said. He drew back and she explored gently, while Farrar caressed the frightened animal, an expression of stark terror on his white face. “I don’t think it’s too bad,” said Dimity. “They tore her ear and her shoulder, but it’s fright mostly. You got to her in time. How old is she, Sir Anthony?”

  “Twelve,” he answered hoarsely. Shuffle was licking his hand lovingly and he said, “I’ll carry her to the house. Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes. But you must let me look at that arm.”

  He ignored her, gathering up the dog as if she were made of glass, and walking away. At the edge of the clearing, he halted and turned back. “Thank you,” he said. “Whatever else, you’re a brave woman. If you will stay here, I’ll send the boy with the things you wanted.”

  Dimity came to her feet. “You’re being very silly. That is bleeding much too fast. I hope you mean to bring an action against that revolting man!”

  He stared at her for a minute. Then he carried Shuffle away.

  * * *

  “Well, I’m glad you wasn’t really ill, and I c’n see my aunty’s dresses wouldn’t fit you. She was thin an’ scrawny, ’n you’re—nice an’ not scrawny. I’d buy you lots of pretty dresses if I could.” Carlton eyed Dimity’s back appraisingly. “I got most of it off. Why were you sitting on the fire?”

  She twisted her neck so as to peer over her shoulder at her gown. She felt shaken and confused and rather unsteadily repeated her tale of the lost letter.

  “Oh.” Carlton sat on the edge of the bank and looked down at the stream. “Who was that man with the dogs?”

  “Somebody horrid.” She sat beside him. “What did you do all day yesterday? They told me you were with Sir Anthony.”

  “Yes. He showed me a few things. This is a nice place.”

  She sighed, troubled. “How I wish my brothers would come!”

  “Why? You got me. I won’t never let him hurt you.” He took her hand and grinned up at her engagingly.

  Touched, she said, “You’re a charming young man, Carlton Farrar. But you have been told that many times, I expect.”

  “Nobody never said it.” He drew a deep breath. “Miss Clement—”

  She glanced around uneasily. “Do not call me that!”

  “All right, but I don’t like calling you Aunty Cathy. Not when it’s just you and me.”

  ‘Poo
r little mite,’ she thought. ‘He didn’t have much affection for his aunt.’ “My brothers call me a silly sort of name,” she confided. “But you must be very careful not to let anyone else hear. It is Mitten.”

  He grinned. “That’s pretty. You’re pretty, Aunty Mitten. Do you think my Aunty Cathy was fibbing about Sir Uncle?”

  “In what way?”

  “Have you ever been bit by a dog?” He gave her a thoughtful look. “I have. It was just a little dog, but it hurt awful. That dog that bit Sir Uncle was big as a horse almost!”

  Dimity shivered. “I know. I was very frightened when he put his arm right in front of the horrid brute. I am only glad you did not see it.”

  “I did. I was watching. I shinned up a tree in case those dogs came after me. I was scared. And I’m a brave boy. Jermyn said I am.”

  Combing her hair into some semblance of tidiness, she said, “I am very sure he was right. Who is Jermyn? You’ve spoken of him before, I think.”

  “He was one of the boys at the Home.”

  Astonished, she lowered the looking glass. “The—Home? But—were you put into a Foundling Home when your Mama died?”

  “I ’spect so. They said I was ‘on the Parish.’ The other boys didn’t like me. They said I talked like a nob and that I had pretty hair like a girl.” His small jaw set. He said grimly, “I wouldn’t talk like them, so they got me down and shaved all my hair off and they cut my head, too. A lot. There was buckets and buckets of bloody gore.” His beguiling grin flashed at her again. “But I din’t cry. Jermyn said that was brave.”

  “It most assuredly was,” said Dimity, hugging him. She looked with regret at her slippers. “I suppose I must put those awful things on again.”

  Carlton picked them up for her and dropped them in the stream.

  “Carlton!”

  “Now you can say they fell in the river and go and buy some nicer ones.”

  She clapped her hands. “Splendid! You have saved my feet, my dear.”

  She finished her makeshift toilette and they started back to the house. Her thoughts busy, Dimity asked, “Carlton—was it very bad when Captain Farrar beat you with his riding crop?”