Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  Incredulous, she murmured, “And is that the only reason? Goodness! I’d thought perhaps some member of your family had run off with his wife, or stolen his fortune, perhaps.”

  He hesitated, and said reluctantly, “Well, there was another incident. Something that—er, happened at University. It was foul luck I should have been the one to see— At all events, it wasn’t a matter to be avoided. When I was called in and questioned I had either to lie about a good man, or tell the truth about a bad one.”

  Dimity thought shrewdly, ‘Somebody was cheating, I’ll be bound!’ “Then you had no choice,” she said.

  “His large lordship was of a different opinion. He had offered me a rather astonishing sum to keep still about the matter. When I refused—” his eyes became distant, “you’d not believe the venom … the threats.”

  “Good gracious! Do they fancy themselves above the law?”

  “When it suits them—decidedly.”

  She was silent, thinking that it must have been hard to withstand so intimidating and powerful a man. “Sir Anthony,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I must reimburse you, sir! You paid for my shoes.”

  “There is no great hurry, Mrs. Deene. I am not like to be rendered destitute before we return to The Palfreys.” He glanced at her and added a sardonic, “Am I?”

  Why she ever lowered herself to sympathize with the impossible creature was beyond believing. She put her pretty nose in the air and disdained to respond.

  Her nose abandoned its lofty tilt a few minutes later when she noticed that the countryside looked vaguely familiar. The Gothic church tower, for example, that loomed above the trees in the valley below them, was very like to the one she had glimpsed last night at Palfrey Poplars. Dismayed, she asked, “Are we not going ho— back to the house?”

  “I’ve to make a quick call in the village. It should not take longer than five minutes.”

  She reined up. “I will wait for you here.”

  “No, do come. The village is called Palfrey Poplars and truly is a quaint and lovely old place.”

  It was as much as she could do to resist, but she dare not run the risk of being recognized, and thus said, “Yes. So I see. But an you do not object I shall wait under these trees.”

  The smile faded from his eyes to be replaced by one of his long enigmatic looks. He drawled, “How odd. I’d have thought you might wish to see some more of your nephew’s future holdings.”

  She glared at him. He inclined his head and rode off without another word, his back ramrod stiff in contrast to his usual easy posture.

  Slipping from the saddle, Dimity muttered maledictions upon Sir Anthony Farrar and his black moods and acid tongue. She glanced to the lovely old village and wondered if her letter had been put on the mail coach yet, and whether Tio still lived … Sighing, she tethered the mare to a low branch and the animal at once started to graze.

  Farrar had reached the village. A small girl in a bright yellow dress ran out of a cottage, reaching up eagerly, and he bent to take her up in front of him. Dimity lost sight of him as he rode under the chestnut trees that edged the lane and her eyes drifted to the church. She was mildly surprised to find that it stood in ruins, looking to have been burned, a condition the darkness had concealed. The sun was hot and she retreated to the shade, found an obliging root, and sat down, contemplating the verdant scene with appreciative eyes. It was easily recognizable now as the village Farrar had depicted in his painting, and she envisioned him working at his easel, probably with the benefit of advice from that cantankerous old gentleman who had argued with her last night about the Portsmouth Machine. She smiled faintly. At least, the captain had the loyalty of his own people.

  The birds twittered drowsily, and two butterflies danced among the leaves. A group of boys at the gawky age raced, laughing, up the slope and plunged into the copse of trees that ran along one side of the lane. How peaceful it was; how delightfully rural and innocent and unspoiled.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Farrar. He had seemed to have himself well in hand until they’d met his military friend—or ex-friend. The mask had slipped then. The stricken look she had seen in his eyes haunted her. Rather hurriedly she thrust the memory away and concentrated on home and her family, only to be at once seized by guilt. No matter how she tried, she was not despising Farrar as she should. And it was not, she thought defensively, merely because he was an extreme attractive man. From the cradle she had been brought up to both expect and respect valour in a gentleman; to be repelled by a craven. Anthony Farrar made no least attempt to deny or explain away his cowardice, yet against all sense and every proper feeling, she found herself beset by a deepening sympathy with his personal tragedy; a resentment even, against those who (very rightly) judged and scorned him. She thought miserably, ‘I must be a very weak and silly woman,’ and gave a deep sigh.

  Some ten minutes later, Farrar came into view again, the same small girl on his saddle bow. He set her down in front of Pruitt’s Sweet Shoppe, and she made him a deep, wobbly curtsey. He doffed his tricorne and bowed to her, and she ran with a swirl of skirts into the shop.

  Farrar started up the hill, holding the grey to a canter. Dimity waved, and saw the white gleam of his smile. Seconds later, the shouts rang out.

  “Dirty coward!”

  “Yah! Boo! Lily Liver Farrar!”

  “Run, Sir Shivershakes!”

  Sickened, Dimity thought, ‘Oh, my God!’ and scrambled to her feet.

  Farrar came on steadily, with no indication that he heard those contemptuous howls. They increased in volume and became profane. Dirt clods and rocks flew through the air as he drew level with the copse. The stallion was struck and reared in fright. Farrar whirled the big horse about and sent him charging straight into that rain of missiles.

  Dimity was already running to the mare. She used the root for a mounting block, gained the saddle, and started down the hill as Farrar emerged and came towards her at an easy canter. His hat was gone and there was a red mark on his cheek. His face was flushed, but he met her eyes steadily. She could not seem to find appropriate words and at last gulped, “They were just—children.”

  “Children with a good aim. How stupid I was to ask you to accompany me. You did well to refuse, ma’am.”

  She gave a gasp of rage. The man was insufferable! “You may be sure,” she replied hotly, “that had I dreamed that would happen, nothing would have kept me from accompanying you!”

  He gave her a brief, cynical glance.

  A renewed outburst of shouts shattered the deep hush.

  “Coward! Coward! Deserter!”

  “Stinking murderer!”

  Farrar’s eyes flickered and his jaw set tight. Silent and grim, he started off.

  Riding beside him, Dimity fairly seethed with fury. How dare he think she had been afraid to go with him? The beast deserved every bit of the day’s unpleasantness. That fine looking young major had been more than justified in giving him the cut direct; the boys were perfectly right in their shouted abuse, their rain of stones. The twins would be in high gig when she told them about the shaming of Anthony Farrar, and she could only be delighted that she had been a witness to it all.

  She clung with firm determination to those sentiments. For about a mile.

  * * *

  The Palfreys was wrapped in a sleepy hush when they rode into the stableyard. Dimity felt hot and sticky. Farrar, who had not spoken for the rest of the way home, looked haggard, and it occurred to her belatedly that he was probably in pain. At once, she felt wretched. With all that had transpired she’d completely forgotten his hurt. Small wonder if he’d been snappish and sarcastic, and she’d not so much as asked how he felt, or considered that he was a master at concealing his feelings. Contrite, she advised him that he would do well to go and lie down upon his bed.

  “Such solicitude, ma’am,” he drawled in his cynical way.

  “I know. I’m a conundrum.”

  “A very charming one.”

  How
different the tone. Astounded, she looked quickly at him, but he had turned from her and was watching Carlton, who raced up, curls rumpled, nankeens grass-stained, and Shuffle panting in hot pursuit, her ears flying.

  “Did you bring it, sir? Did you?”

  Farrar avoided Dimity’s puzzled gaze and, taking a small package from his pocket, handed it down to the boy.

  Carlton gave a shrill squeal and jumped up and down several times.

  “Never mind all the fireworks,” growled Farrar, dismounting rather wearily as a groom assisted Dimity from the saddle. “What d’you say?”

  “Thank you, Sir Uncle! Thank you! What happened to your face?”

  “Sunburn. I lost my hat. And do not call me ‘uncle,’ you finagling young reprobate.”

  Markedly undaunted, Carlton laughed, waved his package at Dimity and raced away.

  Frowning, she said, “Captain, there is absolutely no need for you to—”

  “You will pray excuse me, Mrs. Deene,” he interrupted, bending to caress the ecstatic dog, “if I go and replace Shuffle’s bandages. She’s managed to tear them almost clear.”

  He beat a hurried retreat, leaving Dimity to walk into the house wishing most devoutly that she had never set eyes on The Palfreys.

  Inside, all was cool and silent. A lackey came soft-footed to take her parcel, hat, and whip, and followed her upstairs with them. There was no sign of Lady Helen, who was probably, thought Dimity, laid down for an afternoon nap.

  Once alone in her bedchamber, she unwrapped and admired her new shoes, chuckling when she recalled the plight of the unfortunate clerk. She opened the clothes press and tried to make a choice between Mrs. Deene’s surviving gowns, deciding eventually upon a jonquil satin not quite so lavishly endowed with frills, flounces, and bows as the rest, if equally sparing of bodice. Her habit was uncomfortably warm, and she decided to bathe and change early for dinner.

  Rodgers soon answered the bell, but looked dubious when Dimity said that if convenient she would like to have a bath. Sir Anthony, it appeared, had just sent in a similar request, and it would take some time for sufficient water to be heated for a second bath. Dimity decided on a wash instead, and the abigail went off, returning a short time later with a tall copper ewer of hot water, and the news that Master Carlton begged admission.

  The boy entered, clutching a crayon and a piece of paper, and asked, “How do you spell ‘house,’ please Aunty?”

  Dimity told him and added, “Carlton, have you been pestering Sir Anthony for things?”

  “I asked you for a ’lowance, an’ he said no.”

  “Rightly so. But what was it that he bought for you today?”

  “Oh. Jus’ artist stuff.” He gave her his dazzling smile. “I like to paint, like he does.”

  Dimity regarded him thoughtfully, and dismissed the interested abigail, then asked casually, “Have you seen him paint, then?”

  “Lotsa’ times,” he said importantly.

  She refrained from pointing out that this was only their fourth day at The Palfreys, perhaps because it seemed so much longer, and asked a few more questions, from which it developed that “Sir Uncle” had a studio on the other end of the hall, and that he had a lovely, painty old shirt that he wore, “an’ he gets paint all over him when he does it!” which last fact she deduced to have been sufficient of a lure to capture the boy’s wholehearted interest. “Is he working on a picture now?” she asked.

  “He’s jus’ started a new one, but it doesn’t look like much.” He shifted from one foot to the other, and was apparently unable to restrain a small leap. “I ’spect your water’s getting cold,” he suggested helpfully.

  Dimity had come to know that angelic look. “Carlton…? What are you about?”

  “I want to go and paint.”

  She smiled, sent him off, and began to unbutton her habit. Lady Helen had been right. He was indeed forming an attachment for his “Sir Uncle.” The boy was a rascal, but had a very endearing way with him. ‘What a pity,’ she thought, ‘if it is all bogus, and he is just another child being used by unscrupulous adults.’

  IX

  Since Farrar had had the good sense to retire to his bedchamber, one could but hope, thought Dimity, going slowly downstairs, that he would rest at least until dinner time. At the foot of the stairs, a lackey carrying a pile of books, stood aside, waiting respectfully for her to pass. She smiled at him and wandered across the tranquil music hall. That she should be so comfortably ensconced in the home of her enemy was a continuing amazement, but it did little to diminish her growing sense of depression. She seemed to be failing in every possible way. She had not even been able to see Mr. Green.

  The butler approached, bowed, and ushered her to the breakfast parlour where a light luncheon had been set out and one cover laid.

  “Oh, this is kind,” she said. “But perhaps you should send something up to Sir Anthony.”

  His politely indifferent features seemed almost to threaten a smile. He said in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, “A tray was sent to his room, ma’am. Does he come downstairs we can certainly put out another cover.”

  She allowed him to seat her, but said that she sincerely hoped Sir Anthony would not come down. “He has had an unpleasant time of it today, and—”

  Leonard had picked up the teapot, and his hand jerked. His eyes, a pale blue, darted to her with undisguised apprehension. She guessed that Farrar would not wish her to mention his humiliations, and said quietly, “I meant because of his arm.”

  He finished pouring her tea without speaking, but his lips were tight and as he replaced the teapot, he said in low-voiced anger, “Those dogs should be shot!”

  “You are very attached to your employer,” she murmured.

  He looked at her steadily. “Very attached, Mrs. Deene.”

  “And you resent me. Naturally. But—am I mistaken, or have you pardoned me a little?”

  She puzzled him. She did not, as he had told the housekeeper, “fit the mold.” Just now, her smile was charming and her pretty hazel eyes very kind. Unbending slightly, he answered, “I am sure you must believe what you claim, ma’am. I don’t understand it all, nor is it my place. But—I heard him laugh yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in—in an age … And my lady came down to dinner last evening. If you knew what that meant to the master.”

  Frowning, she asked, “Does he always dine alone, then?”

  “From the day he was well enough to come downstairs, ma’am, no one has shared this table. Save for when Mr. Chandler comes to visit.”

  “But—but he has other friends, surely…?”

  He shook his head. “Mr. Chandler has been the soul of loyalty. I think many of the other gentlemen would have stuck by the master had he only denied the—er, charges. But…” he shrugged. “I suppose—you cannot really blame them, but—how he endures it I cannot think. Another man would travel, but no matter what they say, Sir Anthony is a courageous gentleman. He stays here and faces it.” He sighed and added heavily, “He is the most solitary man I ever have seen.”

  Gathering her rather shaken sensibilities, Dimity said, “Well, at least, he has Shuffle.”

  The smile dawned then, quite transforming the gaunt features. “Yes. He has Shuffle, thank God! More tea, Mrs. Deene?”

  He poured her a second cup and took himself discreetly away. It was peaceful and pleasant, but somehow the silence seemed oppressive now. Dimity found herself picturing Farrar eating in here all alone, day after day, night after night. She rose without finishing her tea and wandered into the fragrant gardens.

  Lost in thought, she paced along the brick pathway until her troubled reflections were put to flight by the appearance of a large poster clumsily supported by two sticks stuck in the lawn. Intrigued, she approached this flimsy arrangement and read the message that had been painted in oils, every word a different colour:

  A wavering arrow pointed to the east side of the mansion. With growing trepidation, she fol
lowed the instructions.

  * * *

  The hot water was relaxing, and Farrar leaned his head against the back of the hip bath and closed his eyes. ‘Had I dreamed that would happen, nothing would have kept me from accompanying you.’ How white and enraged she had looked. And how regal. She was a larcenous adventuress; a threat to all he held dear. It was utter folly to be thinking about her all the time. To even—Frowning, he tossed his head impatiently, but there was no point in denying her desirability; nor his attraction to her. She was the most brave, infuriating, beautiful, impossible, bewitching female he had ever met. What the deuce was it all about? God knows, he was not a fool, nor lacking experience with women. He’d had his share of affaires de coeur both in England and abroad. Even fancied himself in love a time or two. But never had he encountered the like of Mrs. Catherine Deene, with those long, slightly slanted hazel eyes that seemed always to hold a dance of mischief, and that yet could be so kind, so very tender and understanding. He reached to the chair nearby and with great care took up the small, stained square of lace-edged cambric that he had stolen from the boy. There was a beautifully embroidered letter “D” in one corner of the handkerchief, and if one sniffed very carefully, one could breathe the lingering essence of a sweet perfume. Carlton had said proudly that his kind aunt had bound a cut on his finger with “her own” handkerchief. Another little proof of the fallacy of it all! The “D” could stand for Deene, of course, but it was unlikely. Ladies usually had the initial of their Christian name embroidered on their personal linen …

  He jerked awake just in time to keep his left arm from sagging into the water. Steel had said he must keep the wounds dry for a day or two. He replaced the handkerchief on the chair and applied soap to sponge.

  Did she really care for Green? Why would she have kept quiet, had that been the case?—unless theirs was a secret relationship. But if that were so, why mention it at all? Unless she’d been too dazed that first day to know what she was saying … Scowling, he began to apply the soapy sponge to his broad chest.