Love Alters Not
Page 10
“He din’t beat me. He give me ten of the best. With a switch he cut in the garden. It hurt, but I din’t cry or nothing.” His chin lifted proudly. “He said I was pluck to the backbone!”
“Oh.”
He took her hand and jumped several steps. “Aunty Mitten, if a man’s a coward, is he a coward all over? I mean—when Sir Uncle stuck his arm in front of that horse dog’s great big teeth…”
Dimity frowned, troubled. “Yes, dear. I know what you mean.”
VI
Dimity’s attempt to avoid the eyes of the servants was foiled at every turn. Lackeys gawked at her in the side hall; footmen stared in the music hall, and when she crept, shoeless, up the stairs, she was sure she must have encountered every single maid in the great house. Slinking into her bedchamber, she found Rodgers sewing tapes onto the waistband of the orange gown that Dimity prayed she might never have to wear. At the sight of her, the abigail gave a squawk of horror. Relying on Farrar’s discretion, Dimity explained that she had slipped on the wet bank and her slippers had fallen into the stream and been ruined. Rodgers was suitably sympathetic, but when Dimity said that she would be obliged to wear her habit, she was informed it had been sent out to be cleaned.
“Sent … out…?” she gasped, paling.
“Ahem yes, ma’am. There’s a woman in the village does our fancy cleaning and pressing. Her la’ship calls it lah blanchey divine, or something.”
“La blanchisserie de fin,” moaned Dimity, regarding the orange atrocity with despair. “I had hoped to change into my habit, but now I shall have to keep to my room, I collect. Certainly, I cannot wear a gown and—and my riding boots!”
Rodgers sympathized and went running to beg the loan of some slippers from milady’s dresser. She returned with a pair of brown kid shoes that were not too hopeless a fit, Lady Helen’s foot size being closer to Dimity’s than that of Mrs. Deene. Adjusting the orange gown about Dimity’s waist, Rodgers promised the riding habit would be available in time for madam to drive into Salisbury tomorrow, and with that Dimity had to be content. She was able, at least, to supervise the dressing of her hair, but since the neckline of the gown was slightly less décolleté than that of the blue, she did not dare attempt to wear a scarf or borrow a fichu, and the afternoon had become too warm to justify a request for a shawl.
Lady Helen waited in her parlour and, upon hearing the tale of the ruined slippers, agreed at once that Mrs. Deene should be conveyed to Salisbury next day, if Farrar had no objection. In return, she asked that she be told what had happened in the woods this morning, “For I can tell that, as usual, the servants know more of what goes forward on this estate than do I!”
They were served a light and delicious meal, during which Dimity offered a considerably expurgated version of what had transpired. When she described the confrontation with the mastiffs, my lady was aghast. “But, how dreadful! I’d a word with Farrar just a few minutes ago. In fact, he said he would send for his solicitor so that we might meet this afternoon to discuss your claim.” She frowned. “He looked rather pale, now that I think of it, but said nothing of the other business.” She bit her lip and lapsed into a troubled silence.
“They seemed bitter enemies,” said Dimity cautiously.
My lady nodded and murmured in an absent way, “He blames Anthony for—for Harding’s death … They were so close…”
Dimity sipped her tea and wished she might soon be gone from this beautiful, tragic estate. Happily, none of it was her concern; still, she found herself saying, “Sir Anthony’s arm looked ugly. It was rather brave, I thought. To try to protect his dog like that.”
Lady Helen stared at her blankly, then appeared to return to the present.
“I only thank heaven that Shuffle was not seriously hurt. Farrar has taken a deal of abuse since Prestonpans, and has borne it well enough. But—if the dog were to be— Oh, it does not bear thinking of! He has a nasty temper at times. There’s no saying what he might do!”
Dimity thought of Piers and how he had grieved when old Scamp died. She said, “One could scarce blame him for being enraged. It was a vicious attack, and he is very fond of her.”
“Yes. She is all he has, you see.”
Piers’ words echoed in Dimity’s ears again: “I’d sooner be old Perry doing the hop, than Tony Farrar, hale and hearty…” and she wondered if her brother had guessed how well justified were his words.
The solicitor was not expected for another hour, so she decided to find out how Shuffle was faring. As she went downstairs she was again struck by the beauty of the music hall. She paused to gaze admiringly at the high-vaulted ceiling, the graceful sweep of the long room bathed in the warm glow of sunlight from the stained-glass rear window. The sense that she was not alone caused her to turn suddenly, and she surprised a look of contempt on the face of a footman. ‘He likely thinks I am admiring my new property,’ she thought. Embarrassed, she enquired about the spaniel and he told her with wooden courtesy that the farrier had come and the master was with him in the stable block.
Outside, the breeze was lazy, the sky very blue, and the sunshine warm. Distantly, fine horses grazed or were being exercised in lush meadows. Closer at hand, the stable block was set amongst wide-spreading oaks some two hundred yards from the house. Grooms laboured industriously in well-kept loose boxes and a spacious barn. A boy came running and conducted Dimity to a neat tack room. Shuffle lay on the floor looking forlorn with a wide bandage about her shoulder and another around her head. Her tail quivered as Dimity entered, but she did not bark or stand.
A blistering flood of curses disturbed the quiet. Blinking in the sudden dimness, Dimity saw Farrar sitting on a long table, his bare left arm extended. A fat, red-faced man was engaged in pouring something over it while grinning broadly. She crept forward, saw the torn flesh, and gave a gasp of revulsion.
The farrier paused, staring at her uncertainly.
Farrar’s head jerked around. He stood at once. “Do I keep you waiting, Mrs. Deene?” His voice was as cool as it had previously been impassioned. “My apologies.”
“That is—dreadful,” Dimity faltered. “You must see a surgeon at once!”
Amused, he said, “And that properly put you in your place, Jenkins. Oh, bind it up and have done, man! The lady is of a nervous turn of mind. The wonder is that she has not fainted at so gruesome a sight.”
Dimity frowned at him, but despite the teasing words he was pale and his face shone with sweat. The farrier took up some rough bandages. “Wait,” she said, and went to inspect the wounds. Farrar held his arm rock steady and was silent, watching her. The flesh around the deep gashes was already bruising, and she guessed that by morning the arm would be black from wrist to elbow. She nerved herself and grasped his wrist.
He gave a startled gasp and pulled away.
Alarmed, the farrier said, “Easy, ma’am! That arm is so sore as Hades, whatever Sir Anthony do say.”
“Those gashes should be stitched,” she said, stepping back. “And there may well be a bone broke in the wrist. Only see how ’tis swelling.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Farrar, breathlessly indignant. “After your gentle touch, I’d not doubt—”
She interrupted with a serene, “Nonsense. But if you fear the surgeon, by all means let your farrier try for himself.”
Eyeing his employer uneasily, the farrier reached out. “Like hell!” snorted Farrar, swinging his arm away. “Do as I tell you! Bind it up!”
Dimity shook her head, but she felt a little sick and turned to the door.
Farrar called, “I shall join you in only a few minutes, Mrs. Deene. Pray try not to faint again before then.”
She swung around, vexed, but he was smiling at her, a twinkle in those long green eyes. For some idiotic reason, her cheeks grew hot. To conceal this embarrassment, she bent to stroke the spaniel, then went out, hearing the farrier say primly, “Now no more swearing, if you please, sir. Me ears is offended by bad language of a Tuesday.
”
Farrar laughed, but Dimity paused and stared worriedly at a swooping bird. Tuesday already, and she had fled the dragoons on Saturday night! If Tio was alive, her brothers would find her, she was very sure. If, on the other hand, the valiant Glendenning had died … She closed her eyes and sent another prayer winging heavenwards for his sake. But—if he had died without being able to tell them where she was, the twins must be frantic. She must not delay another minute. She would have to send off a letter. But—how? If she sent one with the maids, she could scarce specify that the bearer must be illiterate. And if anyone read the direction and relayed it to Sir Anthony, she was undone. Both Piers and Perry were known to him. He would put two and two together and likely turn her over at once to that unpleasant Captain Holt. She dare not risk that! Not with the deadly cypher still undelivered! She went into the house and walked slowly along the side hall. There was a way, of course. It would be risky, but it was the only thing she could think of …
She heard singing, and when she reached the music hall she found Lady Helen seated at the harpsichord, while Carlton knelt at her feet, gazing up at her in awe. She played well and her voice was sweet, but the key was minor and the words sad. Dimity was in time to hear the last two lines:
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one.
‘Oh dear!’ thought Dimity, clapping her hands. “How well you play, ma’am.”
Carlton turned eagerly. “Can you play, Mi—Aunty Cathy?”
Lady Helen glanced at him.
Dimity’s heart gave a thud. Carlton flushed scarlet and looked frightened. She managed a laugh. “Because we are not so fortunate as to have such a beautiful instrument, you must not give up hope, Carlton. As a matter of fact, I can play, a little.”
Lady Helen stood at once and begged that Mrs. Deene honour them. “It would be so nice to hear someone else again,” she said. “My son used to play, but Anthony does not, although we would often sing together … long ago.”
Dimity struck up a merry air. “In that case, let us sing now. If you do not know the words, Carlton, just sing ‘la la la.’” Her voice was not remarkable, but she could hold a tune. Carlton joined in lustily, and very soon my lady’s voice rang out sweet and true with the words of “It Was a Lover and His Lass.” On the final chord, Dimity exclaimed, “Now, weren’t we splendid!” and my lady laughed and said eagerly, “Yes, indeed we were! May we try it again?” They were halfway through when a pleasant baritone joined them. Dimity swung around on the bench, and the singing faded away.
Farrar stood at the top of the steps, staring as if he could not believe his eyes, but his was not the voice she’d heard. A newcomer was striding across the room; a tall, good-looking young man wearing a neat wig and a burgundy coat of velvet, the great cuffs heavy with gold lace. He flung his arms wide and with a joyous cry of welcome, Lady Helen ran into them, to be swept up and kissed heartily.
“Beautiful as ever,” he declared, in an unusually rich speaking voice. “I vow, my best loved aunt, you grow younger each time I see you! And how glad I am that you have put off your blacks.”
Lady Helen flushed guiltily. “It is not quite a year, I know, but Farrar worried I was—was becoming melancholy. It is wrong, but—”
“Not at all. He was right, for once.” Despite the endorsement, there was contempt in that fine voice.
Lady Helen made haste to present her guests, and Mr. Phillip Ellsworth’s wide-set blue eyes appraised Dimity with a faintly incredulous admiration, and lingered a moment too long upon her décolletage. She made him a slight curtsey, inclining her head in an effort to limit his view. He touched her hand to his lips with pretty gallantry and, holding it there, his eyes sparkling, declared her to be a most welcome addition to The Palfreys, adding, “For my poor aunt needs something to lift her spirits.” Releasing her, he smiled down at Carlton, who had stood when my lady did and now made a stiff, shy bow.
“The very Young Pretender,” murmured Ellsworth, flicking one of the boy’s fair curls. “He is certainly the image of what Farrar once was, my lady.”
It was innocent enough, yet in the very way he ignored his silent cousin, in the slight curl of the lip as he made the remark, Dimity read a calculated insult and wondered irritably why Farrar did not have the gumption to throw him out the window as Piers would likely have done.
The family solicitor arrived at that moment, bowed to Lady Helen, and remarked testily that he had driven up behind Ellsworth, and that if young people today had any manners they would use some patience instead of crowding their elders off the road.
Ellsworth caught Dimity’s eye and made a wry face. He apologized to the frail but crochety looking old gentleman, but his elaborate periods were cut short. Mr. Norris, it would seem, had little time to waste on frivolities and would be grateful could they get to business at once.
He fixed Ellsworth with a piercing stare and barked, “In private!”
For a second Dimity thought to see resentment in Ellsworth’s eyes, then he turned to Lady Helen and said that had she no objection, he would walk in the gardens while waiting for the meeting to end.
My lady clung to his arm and begged him not to rush away again, and he kissed her and sauntered out, almost colliding with Farrar, who stepped aside then led the way to a pleasant panelled study on the east side of the house, next to the library.
The old man of the law stamped over to the desk, set down his carpet bag, and adjusted his untidy scratch wig. When Lady Helen and Dimity were seated, he occupied the big leather chair while Farrar took up a position behind his aunt. Dimity thought he looked tired and rather worn but there was no sign of bandages and he gave not the least hint of discomfort.
Carlton whispered a plea to be excused. The old gentleman barked out a demand that he remain, and the boy crept over to stand very close to Farrar, this surprising Dimity and bringing a momentarily intrigued expression into the solicitor’s faded brown eyes. Putting on a pair of scratched and dusty spectacles, Norris peered over them at Dimity. She met his gaze through a long pause, wondering what he intended to ask her, and grateful that she had looked through the papers and was fairly familiar with their contents. To her surprise, however, the first remark was directed to Farrar.
“I thought you said—” he barked.
“I did,” interpolated Farrar hastily. “I may have been—I think I was mistaken.”
“Natural enough.” The shrewd gaze returned to Dimity. “You need not look at me as if I was your enemy, miss.”
“Mrs.,” she corrected demurely.
“You wear no ring. Don’t look as if you ever wore one, moreover!”
She had already anticipated such a comment, and countered with the only excuse she could think of. “We were only married a year when he died, and my husband desired that I remarry.”
“Generous of him. Why haven’t you?” He sneered unpardonably, “Nobody asked you?”
My lady looked shocked, and even Farrar blinked, but Dimity guessed that this crusty old creature was trying to fluster her. The real Mrs. Deene, she thought, would be considerably flustered by such tactics. She sighed. “That is the whole trouble, sir. Lots of nobodies.” She caught the veriest hint of a twinkle and added, “I expect too much, I fear. My grandpapa says they do not make men like they used to, and so far I have to agree with him.”
Norris threw back his head and gave a cackle of mirth. “Very true, m’dear. Very true!” He recollected why he was here, cleared his throat, threw an apologetic look at Farrar, and went on briskly, “Well, I cannot fritter about like this. I do not mean to ask you a lot of questions, madam. If you’re an impostor, as I suspect, you’d tell me a pack of lies at all events, and you’ve likely got the boy well primed.” He shot a beady-eyed glance at Carlton. “Ain’t that so, Master Shiver?”
“Yes,” said Carlton, and clinging tightly to the skirt of Farrar’s coat added, “An’ I always shiver when I’m cross.”
Carlton gave Dimity a worried look and departed. Dimity extracted the sheaf of papers from Mrs. Deene’s reticule and handed them to Farrar, who in turn passed them to Norris.
The solicitor waded through certificates of birth and baptism and marriage; a family tree, letters from Mr. Walter Farrar to Mrs. Walter Farrar, and a few letters to Miss Mary Arnold from Mr. Walter Farrar, dated prior to their marriage in 1738. Without warning, he rasped, “And how did you like Harrogate?”
Dimity had never been to Harrogate and racked her brain frantically for any scrap of information about that much maligned city. The shrewd brown eyes were fixed on her. “Well, madam, well? Says here your sister was wed there. I take it you attended her?”
She nodded and alleged that she had preferred High Harrogate to the Low Town. She was indebted to her maternal grandmama for the remark, that venerable dame having once journeyed thither to take the waters. It was all Dimity could remember, and she was relieved when her reply appeared to satisfy Mr. Norris, who addressed no further questions to her, and at length told Farrar that everything looked above board, “But,” with a sinister scowl at Dimity, “that don’t mean a fig. It will all have to be looked into, which will take some time.”
Momentarily dismayed, Dimity reflected that it made no difference, for as soon as she could deliver that dreadful cypher, she would leave, and write Sir Anthony— That is to say, she would write Captain Farrar a letter explaining that she had no real knowledge of the matter, but that if Carlton did not prove to be the genuine heir and my lady did not keep him, she would like the boy sent to her at Muse Manor. The thought of home brought a nostalgic yearning …
“Are you gone off to sleep, ma’am?”
She jumped. They were all staring at her.
Norris snapped, “Your name is Mrs. Deene, I believe?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “My apologies if my attention wandered. I was—er, wondering for how long I shall have to impose on Sir Anthony’s hospitality.”