Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  The palms of her hands were wet. She had to force herself not to shake. “It was an unpleasant journey from start to finish, and I quite understand the confusion. Perhaps you would wish to see my nephew…?”

  “Thank you, I should. May I?” He stood and crossed to tug on the bell rope.

  After a moment a lackey appeared and was sent off to find Carlton. He was only gone a short while but it seemed to Dimity an eternity, during which she responded somehow to the captain’s small talk and prayed Carlton would not be trapped into betraying her. She felt a little sick when the lackey returned with the boy leaping boisterously beside him.

  “Aunty Cathy, may I—” Carlton began, then halted and stood mute, his gaze on the military magnificence.

  The captain, who had remained standing, regarded the child sternly. “Come here, boy, and tell me the truth. Is this lady your aunt?”

  Carlton marched to gaze up at Holt angelically. “I ’spect she must be ’less she ’dopted me for a nephew.” He turned to Dimity. “Did you ’dopt me, Aunty?”

  Marvelling at the little rascal, Dimity rose. “I certainly did not,” she said truthfully. “But if the captain wishes to, he may!”

  Holt smiled uncertainly, still staring at the boy, who giggled and went skipping off in the direction of the kitchens.

  “If I can be of any further assistance, Captain,” said Dimity, weak with relief, “you must not hesitate to call on me.”

  He stood there looking at her in a considering way. Then he gave a short bow. “Thank you. I apologize for having troubled you. Good day, ma’am.” He strode briskly down the steps and across the lower hall where a lackey waited to open the door.

  Dimity wandered after him and stood on the terrace watching while a trooper came up leading his mount. When they had ridden out of sight, she walked slowly into the house and across the hall. She was, she realized, more than ever on borrowed time. She must find Mr. Rafe Green and deliver the cypher before poor Mrs. Deene recovered consciousness or Holt would be back, and next time with a troop, to carry her off to the Tower. She shivered, then it dawned on her that she was standing still and that Farrar stood at the top of the steps, eyeing her speculatively.

  She stared at him in silence.

  A dark flush appeared under his tan. “I suppose,” he drawled, “you are thinking I just lived up—or down—to my reputation.”

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she thought, only to be reminded of the terrible risk he had taken for Shuffle, and how neatly he had disposed of his unpleasant cousin.

  Watching her expressive face, he asked, “Am I such an enigma, ma’am?”

  She walked slowly up the steps. “I think perhaps you are.”

  He bowed. “The discovery is mutual.”

  She thought, ‘Oh, not another battle!’ and said with a shrug, “I cannot guess why you would find me an enigma, sir.”

  “Can you not?” He started across the music hall beside her. “I might list a dozen reasons, but—just for an example, I had not realized the trouble you have with your ears. You are a little deaf, I think.”

  “I am no such thing!”

  “No? And yet I called you by name this morning, and you did not respond, although I said ‘Mrs. Deene’ quite loudly.”

  He looked so bland, but he was watching her narrowly. Had he really called her, or was this just an attempt to trap her into a mistake? A series of loud thuds announced Carlton’s unique method of travelling on one foot. “I was probably thinking of something else,” said Dimity, keeping her eyes on the boy.

  “And just now I said ‘Mrs. Catherine,’” he murmured. “Twice.”

  “Ah. Well—you see, I am seldom called by that name. My brother—”

  “Brothers,” he corrected gravely.

  “—call me … Mitten.”

  Carlton came up with them in time to hear that, and protested indignantly, “Ooh, Aunty! You said I was not to tell anyone that is your—”

  “Yes, I know.” Her back to the wall, Dimity still struggled gamely. “It is—er, a silly name, to be sure, but … well, I am used to it, you see.”

  They walked to the stairs, Carlton following, jumping in and out of the sections of the great stained-glass window that the sunlight painted on the floor.

  Farrar mused, “Kitty, Kate, Cathy, would seem logical. But—Mitten…?”

  “Sir,” she said firmly, “I do not care to be borrowing your aunt’s things, and I certainly cannot wear riding boots with my gowns, so—”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured, “’twould enliven—”

  “And so,” she went on, cutting off such deliberate provocation, “I should like very much to go into Salisbury tomorrow and buy myself a pair of slippers. Your aunt said it might be possible.”

  “I make it a point never to contradict my aunt, can I avoid it. Besides, it chances, I have occasion to ride into Salisbury first thing in the morning. There are papers Norris wants, as you heard.”

  She came to a halt, regarding him uneasily. “I have no wish to impose on—”

  “’Twill be less of an imposition do you ride with me, rather than obliging me to call up coachman and carriage, Mrs. Mitten.”

  Why she should blush when he spoke her name she could not imagine, but she knew she was doing so and, flustered, said, “Yes. That is true, I fancy. And you could go about your business whilst I made my purchases, so—”

  “Certainly not! I cannot have you wandering about, unescorted. Whatever would people think of you?”

  Her blush deepened as his eyes slid to her bosom and remained there. She put up a hand, ostensibly to adjust the necklace she wore, but contrived to cover the attraction. Farrar shifted his gaze to the ceiling and went on, “I shall accompany you to an emporium where you may make your purchase. In return, perhaps you will come and hold my hand while the surgeon stitches up my arm.”

  Startled by the reminder, her eyes shot to his sleeve. “I see you changed your coat. Did your aunt bandage your arm for you?”

  “My valet. He is a man of many talents.”

  “Had you cut it? Is that why you must see a surgeon?”

  A slow and devastatingly attractive smile was levelled at her. “No. I thank you. But my man is in a fidget about it. Shall you mind if we ride? I prefer never to drive if the weather permits a gallop.”

  She managed to wrench her gaze from the smile that had also crept into his eyes, and mumbled that she would be glad of a ride.

  “Very good. Shall you require a pair of spurs, Mrs. Mitten?”

  Again, to hear him speak her name was disturbing, and she wished she had not felt obliged to divulge it. She said rather sharply, “No. I have my own, thank you.”

  “So you have. I noticed them when you first arrived. I remember thinking how unusual it was for a lady to wear spurs … while riding in a stagecoach.”

  VII

  Phillip Ellsworth did not reappear at The Palfreys, with the result that they sat down three to dinner in the beautifully scaled small dining room. The sun was setting, bathing the clouds with crimson, orange, and gold, laying its mellow light on lush meadows and darkling woods, and sending pink rays slanting through the tall windows. It seemed to Dimity that there was no room in the old house that was not a delight. She marvelled anew that, knowing she constituted such a threat to the owner, or that Carlton did, they were treated so civilly, but she suspected also that it might well be a trick, to lull her suspicions and catch her in a mistake that would disprove Carlton’s claim. She dared not think there was a more sinister motive for their having been allowed to stay, but that melodramatic solution lingered at the edge of her mind. For all his cowardice, in some ways Farrar was a man to be feared. Whether he was capable of murdering a woman and child she could not quite decide, but his Parthian shot with regard to her spurs had frightened her. Clearly, he suspected something. ‘I must,’ she thought, ‘be very, very careful!’

  Lady Helen, wearing a dark brown velvet robe volante, was voicing her disappoint
ment because Ellsworth had left. Irritated, Dimity frowned at Farrar, but his slight shake of the head was an unmistakable request for silence, and she said nothing. His aunt treated his few attempts at conversation with polite indifference, and talk languished. Driven by desperation, Dimity began to speak of music, whereupon my lady bloomed, her pale cheeks brightening and interest bringing a shine to her big eyes.

  When the meal ended at last and they left Farrar to his port, Lady Helen led the way to the withdrawing room at the south end of the house. It was a large chamber, but warm and comfortable nonetheless. The butler carried in the tea tray and, in response to an enquiry from Dimity, informed her that Carlton was fast asleep in the pleasant room near her own that had been assigned to him.

  Dimity murmured, “He must have been tired out. I fancied he would come in to say goodnight, but I’ve not seen him since Captain Holt left. It is good of you to let Cissie be his nurse, ma’am, but—”

  “She’s a very reliable girl, I assure you.” Lady Helen began to pour the tea. “And although she had some difficulty finding him, I doubt he was too late to bed.”

  “I had no thought to criticize,” said Dimity hastily. “Indeed, you are much too kind to us. Is only that I know he can be a handful. Where was he, ma’am?”

  “With my nephew, I believe. He seems to have formed quite an attachment for Farrar.”

  “Oh.”

  “You are very fond of the boy,” observed my lady, passing cup and saucer. “May I ask if you plan to remarry soon?”

  Dimity stirred in milk and sugar and replied demurely that her brothers had not as yet approved any of her suitors. The thought of Tio brought the ache of worry and she went on quickly, “Dare I ask the same of you, ma’am?”

  Shocked, Lady Helen arched her brows. “At my age, Mrs. Deene?”

  “Why not? You are still young and very lovely and I fancy, no matter what you say, there have been many gentlemen paying you court.”

  My lady blushed and admitted that she did in fact have one or two admirers. “Before Prestonpans,” she added quietly.

  “But—surely, ma’am, they cannot hold you to blame for—er…”

  “No. But I was in deep mourning. And now, they will not come here, and I cannot accept invitations.”

  She looked sad, and Dimity thought, ‘How lonely she is, poor soul.’ She said bracingly, “I would not suppose a quiet dinner party, or perhaps a recital, could be judged improper.”

  “Perhaps not. But to accept an invitation pointedly addressed to me alone, would make it seem as though I too were condemning my nephew.”

  After a rather pregnant pause, Dimity said, “I know I should not ask, but—my lady, are you very sure Sir Anthony did—as they say?”

  Lady Helen stared at her teacup. “At the height of the battle, when it was clear their position was about to be overrun, Captain Farrar abandoned his men and ran to the rear. Had he not been shot, he might have fled the field.” In a low, almost inaudible voice, she added, “If you—knew what I would give to think it a lie … But, alas—it is not.”

  It was a further reinforcement of what her brothers had said, but still she persisted, “He just does not seem that kind of man. Forgive me, but—have you discussed it at all?”

  “Once. When he was first brought home he was still very ill of his wound, but in a little while I did ask him. He did not reply for quite a long time. Then he said just three words—‘Guilty as charged.’ My God!” She put a hand over her eyes for an instant. “We have never spoken of it since.”

  Farrar came in then. Dimity changed the subject hurriedly. A faint, cynical grin hovered about his mouth, and she knew he guessed they had been discussing him. He tried to persuade his aunt to play cards, but she refused, saying she intended to go early to bed. She rose only moments later, and having declined her nephew’s offer of a short stroll in the gardens, said her good-nights.

  Farrar walked into the hall to light their candles and, as my lady walked up the stairs, Dimity whispered, “Why did you not tell her, for goodness’ sake? She should know what manner of man is Ellsworth!”

  He looked at her enigmatically. “Good night, Mrs. Mitten.”

  She gave a little snort of impatience, accepted the candle he handed her, and went to her room feeling confused and irritable.

  Rodgers looked surprised when she was told she would not be needed any more, but she went off gladly enough, and Dimity settled down at the graceful rosewood escritoire. There were several sheets of fine paper in the drawer, and the Standish contained ink and a nicely trimmed quill pen.

  Having turned the pen in her hands for several minutes, staring blindly at the Standish, Dimity banished Anthony Farrar from her thoughts and started a letter to Peregrine. It was a difficult letter, and it was late by the time she had written and crossed her page. She read it over critically. There was nothing to interest the military in case it should fall into their hands. She had told him where she was and managed to convey something of her predicament without mentioning Tio or the cypher. It was a rather muddled epistle, but she found a lump of wax and sealed the sheet, hoping her brother would be able to understand this obscure cry for help. A few minutes later, her cloak wrapped about her, she was creeping across the stableyard.

  A casual enquiry to Cissie had yielded the information that there was a Receiving Office in Palfrey Poplars, located in Pruitt’s Sweets and Grocers’ Shop. A few more enquiries of the stable boy had acquainted her with the fact that the village was just four miles to the west, and that all one had to do was follow the lane that joined the estate road about a mile beyond the bridge.

  Dimity had succeeded in the really difficult task of saddling Odin before she left Muse Manor, and was confident she could manage the far more tractable black mare she had admired in Farrar’s stables. She found the mare’s stall with little difficulty, and led her into the barn. As soon as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she was able to locate some fine saddles, several of which were for ladies. The mare was no problem. Much sooner than she had dared to hope, Dimity led her into the yard, where there was a mounting block, and a moment later she was riding along the rear drivepath and over the bridge.

  Not until she was well clear of the house did she dare bring the mare to a canter. Once again, she was out alone at night, only this time she was in unfamiliar country, mounted on a borrowed horse, trying to find a village she had never seen. At least it was a still night, the moon riding high in a sky where only a few clouds drifted; the air was clean and sweet, and there was no wind. A far cry from the wild stormy night that had begun her adventure.

  The lane joined the estate road, just as the boy had said, and the mare cantered along steadily through light and shadow, passing beneath great black trees, or between hedgerows fragrant with the wild roses that rioted there. But suddenly the road forked. Aghast, Dimity reined up. The boy had said nothing of a fork. She hesitated, torn by indecision, while the frisky mare danced impatiently. The left lane seemed to head more truly to the west so Dimity chose that fork, and to her relief chose correctly, for after much winding the lane broadened and a cluster of quiet cottages and the high Gothic tower of a church came into view.

  Somewhere, a dog barked in a desultory way, but there was no other sign of life. Dimity walked the mare along the single street, scanning each building for a sign indicating a sweet shop or grocers’. She passed a cottage with a white card in the window and slipped hopefully from the saddle. The card imparted the information that the apothecary had gone to Salisbury and would not return until Wednesday sennight. Sighing, she walked on, leading the mare. At about this time it began to be borne in upon her that she was extremely tired. It had been a long, nerve-racking day, but the succession of events being so different from her usual pursuits had kept her alert. Now, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, and with all her heart she longed for the big tester bed at The Palfreys.

  Ten minutes later, she stood forlornly at the point where she had started. T
he moon was sufficiently bright for her to have scanned every door and window but not one cottage had even faintly resembled a sweet shop or a Receiving Office. She was so tired she could have wept, and had to conjure up the memory of poor Tio’s bloodied unconscious face before she could summon the energy to try once more.

  She approached the second cottage only to halt, her heart leaping into her throat when the casement opened with an ear-splitting screech. A nightcapped head was stuck out. A cracked old voice piped, “Who be ye a’lookin’ fer, marm?”

  Grateful, she had the presence of mind to raise her voice to a disguising pitch before answering, “Pruitt’s Sweet Shop and Grocers’.”

  “They do be closed,” he cackled, and started to close the window.

  “I know, but I’ve a letter I was hoping to slip under the door. It’s very important.”

  The nightcap returned to view. “Why?”

  Why. “It’s about—ah, the accident to the stagecoach the other day.”

  “The what?”

  “The Portsmouth Machine.”

  “Why did ye not say so first time? This here be a village as is set in its ways. We don’t hold wi’ new fangled names. There bean’t no need to go changing the name o’ summat as has been called that name fer hunderds an’ hunderds o’ years. What about it?”

  “Oh—well, one of the ladies on it was thought to be dying, but now they think she will recover, so I must send word to her family.”

  “Why?”

  What a difficult old gentleman! “Because they’ll be worrying, of course. Sir, I am very tired. If you will just tell me—”

  “A’ course ye’re tired. Ye got no business capering about all alone in the middle o’ the night. None of we people would ’low our females to do so mad a thing, and so I tellee! ’Sides which, it ain’t proper manners t’be waking honest folk at this hour and jawing their ears off.” A scrawny arm was stuck through the lattice. “Give us yer writin’.”

  Dimity hesitated. This cantankerous old creature might well forget all about her precious letter once he was safely back in bed. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she called. “But I must find the Pruitts.”