He was remembering more now, and he turned away from her. “It is none of my affair.”
“True. But it is very much mine. I know that my presence at The Palfreys is a threat to your—er, birthright. But—on my honour, I had no intent to hurt you. Or to distress Lady Helen.” And even as she spoke the words, she knew they were useless, for how could he help but scorn such a declaration under the circumstances?
He stared dully at a ladybird busied about some small task in a cleft of the bark and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
The weary apathy, so at odds with his usual vitality, frightened her. She trod nearer. “May I ask you something?”
He sighed, and said in wry understatement, “I seem to have a slight headache. The fruits of my overindulgence.”
Dimity came quite close, found a suitable root, and settled herself on it.
Farrar eased his way down, and stretched out his long legs.
“Why,” she asked, “did you not tell her?”
At once, his thick lashes were lowered. He pulled up a weed and began to inspect it. “Tell her—what?”
“What you said about Quentin Chandler. I gather that Captain Otton harmed him in some way. Did they fight a duel?”
He gave a faint, mirthless smile. “They did, as a matter of fact. But that’s not what I hold against him.”
“It is something very bad?”
“Yes.”
“What?” He frowned but did not answer, and she leaned closer and said intensely, “Sir Anthony, this is the fifth day I have been here, and I am not blind. You love her very deeply. If you told her the truth, perhaps she would have a chance to understand, but—”
He made a small gesture of finality. “No. I cannot speak of it in honour.” His lip curled. “I have a little left, you see.”
“You have a great deal.”
His head turned against the tree and he looked steadily at her. “What a very bewildering creature you are. I wish I could understand you.” He shrugged. “But it makes no difference. This has been coming for a long time. It was inevitable, I suppose. I just…” his voice cracked and he turned away. “I just hoped she wouldn’t believe … that. But—it doesn’t matter now.”
Dimity gripped her hands and shifted her attack. “How old were you when you came here?”
“Five.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
He hesitated, wondering why she wanted to know. But his brain was still clouded with the fumes of the brandy, and his head ached, and if he talked, he didn’t have to think. “Walter was seven,” he began, haltingly. “He was to go off to school the following autumn. In early spring our parents were killed. A ridiculous accident—my father had insisted on taking the reins of his new coach, and he rushed the horses over icy roads. The coach overturned. Went into the river. It wasn’t a great shock to us. Neither of us had known them very well. I believe my father spoke to me occasionally. Mama was always off to a soirée, or a musicale, or some such thing. We were sent to live with my uncle.” He stared broodingly at his weed.
“But you did not stay together. Was your uncle not in good financial colour?”
He smiled faintly. “He is the Earl of Elsingham.”
“My heavens! Then could he not have kept you together?”
“Certainly. Only he had no use for me. Nor I for him, for that matter. He was not unkind, do not mistake. It was just—he was exactly like my own papa. He ignored us. Walter didn’t mind. He thought the castle splendid, as it is you know. Our governess was bored with everything except the first footman who was a very grand fellow. There was so much I wanted to know. To do. Most of all, I suppose, I wanted to be with someone. Someone who talked. Or who would listen. And who would read to me.”
Dimity thought of her own wonderfully full and merry childhood and, perhaps for the first time, knew how richly she had been blessed. She thought, ‘How perfectly dreadful!’ and prompted quietly, “So you asked to come here?”
“No. The Farrars came down to visit. Sir Gilbert was the best kind of man and he and I were friends at once. I thought Helen the most exquisite lady I’d ever seen. She was so beautiful. She still is, of course, but—in those days…”
“I can imagine. And she was kind to you?”
“She was an angel. They had a boy of their own—Harding. They thought I would be a companion for him, but—well, he was older and went away to school. Then my uncle’s health began to fail. I remember how worried Helen was, but somehow she found time for me. We walked every day, and she taught me so much. She has a great eye for beauty. She would point out the reflection of sunset in a puddle, or the dappling of shade along a lane; the sheen on a dragonfly’s wings. She opened a whole world of wonder to me. She read to me—night after night. And we talked, and talked, and talked.” His eyes had softened as he spoke, and his smile was very tender. “I used to think of her as—my Madonna.”
Dimity thought, ‘You still do.’ “And your cousin? Harding?”
There was the smallest pause, then he said, “He was a good fellow, but we had very little in common. Harding was two years ahead of me at school. I never saw him. When we came home for the Long Vacation or at Christmas, he had his friends, and I had mine. My uncle had died by the time I went to University. When I came down, Harding felt—” He checked, his lips tightening. “I bought a pair of colours.”
“Because you longed for army life? Or to leave the field clear for him?”
He turned his head toward her. She asked gravely, “Was he terribly jealous?” He looked away, frowning, and after a minute she prompted again, “Lady Helen said you both joined together.”
“That was later. I sold out in ’43. I had a feeling something was wrong at home. I was right.” For a minute he looked very grim. “My aunt is a sensible lady, but she has no head for business. Harding was hopeless at finance. It took quite a time to get things straightened around.”
She asked shrewdly, “Did he resent that you were able to do so?”
“No, of course not. He was glad, in fact, that—” He hesitated, then went on rather lamely, “that I was home.”
She smiled. “Rather than being the dashing soldier, off at the wars?”
Again, the muscle in his jaw rippled, but he said nothing.
“So when the Uprising started you went back into uniform and he joined also. Why? Trouble at home?”
He smiled faintly, then muttered, half to himself, “To an extent he always had wanted to be in uniform. I warned him it was a hard life, but—he laughed at me, and said I was trying to keep him out of the fun, and that it would be pretty much a shout and a flourish and the Scots would run.” His smile very cynical, he said, “As it turned out, in that particular battle, the Scots shouted and—we…” he bit his lip, but finished doggedly, “ran.”
“Was he a good officer?”
A sudden twinkle brightened the brooding green eyes. “You have made me talk much too much, Mrs. Deene. Perhaps you will answer some questions now. For instance, what your real—”
The question was never to be finished. The quiet was rent by a terrible and familiar outburst: Savage, deep-throated barks; an anguished yelping.
Farrar was racing into the woods, pistol in hand, even as Dimity scrambled to her feet.
She followed, holding up her skirts and running as fast as she was able, her high heels sinking into the thick carpet of fallen leaves and twigs and mosses. She heard a shout and blood-chilling worrying snarls. She was very close now, but found her way blocked by a deep declivity and had to make a detour around it. The sounds had ceased; all sounds had ceased, and her heart shrank within her. Had those two savage animals killed him? Was she about to come upon a ghastly scene…?
The shot fractured the sudden hush and brought a chorus of cries and flutterings from frightened birds. Terror-stricken, stumbling, out of breath, Dimity came at last to a little glade, and she halted, mute with horror.
There was no sign of the mastiffs. Farrar was kneeli
ng, the pistol in his hand still sending blue wreaths of smoke curling upward. As she stood there, frozen, he bowed lower. For a hideous moment she thought he had shot himself. Then, she caught a glimpse of the small broken shape before him; a little golden tail that would wag no more. And with a sob, she ran forward.
Still on his knees, he lifted his head, his face working and tears bright on his cheeks. “Do you want to see?” he asked hoarsely. “Do you want to see? Look, then! Look!”
Dimity allowed herself one quick glance, and spun away, her hands over her eyes. Somehow, she managed to say in a thready, far-away voice she scarcely recognized, “Come home. I’ll send one of the grooms.”
“Like … hell! If I—if I hadn’t been … babbling to you … she’d not have wandered off. Poor little Shuffle. My poor little Shuffle…” Racked with grief, he averted his face.
Her own tears falling fast, Dimity quavered, “Sir Anthony … do not—”
“Go!” he shouted, rounding on her. “Take your lies and your scheming and—go! Damn you! Get out of my sight!”
She fled.
In a little while, she heard her name called, and the butler, his face white and drawn with fear, ran towards her. “I—heard a shot,” he panted, coming up with her. “The—the master…?”
She pointed towards the glade. “Stay with him, Leonard. No matter—what he says. Please, stay with him.”
* * *
How it could possibly be so, Dimity could not understand, but when she went into the house the case clock was striking half past five. She walked wearily into the music hall and started up the stairs, but glancing towards the lower steps, saw someone huddled there. She crossed the big room quickly. Farrar’s valet was awkwardly asleep on the second step. She woke him and told him quietly what had happened. He stared at her, aghast, then ran across the hall and sprinted up the spiral staircase. Dimity went over to the wing chair beside the fireplace and sank into it. She fell asleep at once, and awoke reluctantly when a rough hand shook her.
It was broad daylight, and Farrar bent over her. He had shaved and changed into riding dress. He was pale, his face set and harsh, but he had regained control.
“Anthony,” she murmured, her hand going out to him.
He stepped back. “It is my understanding, madam,” he said in a voice of ice, “that you wish to pay a call on Mr. Rafe Green.”
So the maids had chattered despite her dire warnings. Her heart sank. How he must despise her! “Yes,” she whispered helplessly.
“Come, then.”
She stood. The jonquil gown looked as though several horses had rolled on it. She knew her hair must be a fright, and she had not washed, nor dusted her face with powder for hours and hours. “I will only be a moment,” she said. “What time is it?”
“Eight. And I cannot wait a moment.”
“Nor I pay a call at this hour! Looking like this!”
His mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “Make up your mind, ma’am. ’Tis now or never.”
He meant to be rid of her. Heavy-hearted, she followed him to the side hall, aware that awed servants watched and whispered, and wondering if she was to be allowed to see Mr. Green and then be handed over to the military. If that was the case she would have no recourse but to throw herself on Sir Anthony’s mercy and tell him the truth of it all. “I must change into my riding habit, sir,” she said, feeling like a doomed prisoner being taken to her execution.
“No need. The trap is waiting,” he said relentlessly, and opened the door.
A groom sat in the trap, reins in hand. Another man clung to the head of Farrar’s grey stallion and threw a desperate glance at his employer.
“Fresh, is he?” enquired Farrar, handing Dimity into the trap.
“As a—bloomin’ daisy, sir,” gasped the groom.
Farrar swung into the saddle and took the reins. “Stand clear!” he called, and the man leapt away. The grey shot into the air and bucked, startling the well-mannered roan between the shafts of the trap. Farrar pulled the rambunctious stallion down with an iron hand. “Drive Mrs. Deene to the Hall, Younce,” he called, and was off at a plunging gallop.
Dimity did not see him again as they drove through the brightening morning. The trap followed the estate road for a while, then turned northward. The groom looked miserable, and Dimity, busied with her own sad thoughts, was silent. At least the cypher was safely in her bosom. She would give it to Mr. Green as soon as she ascertained that he was the proper recipient. Then, she would return to The Palfreys and tell Sir Anthony of her part in this horrible business. She would not dare speak of the cypher, of course, but certainly she should be able to invent some plausible tale to account for her need to impersonate the real Mrs. Deene. Perhaps, when he understood that she had been helpless, he would not be so contemptuous of her. If only she could make him listen … He was obsessed just now with his loss. Poor little Shuffle … She sighed, and wondered if Anthony would kill the man who owned those mastiffs.
XI
Dimity had hoped Farrar would accompany her, if only to ensure that she gain admittance to Mr. Decimus Green’s home. That kindness having been denied, she realized that she would present more than a figure of fun to Mr. Green; very likely he would judge her as fast as she was unkempt. Her best hope was that he was not of the same stamp as Ellsworth and Roland Otton, who had both obviously decided she was a wanton and behaved accordingly. With luck, Mr. Green would turn out to be a gentleman who, however repulsed by her appearance and by the want of manners that sent her to his door unescorted at this hour, would not abuse her.
The drive took a little over half an hour. The morning was mild, but the sun had not yet warmed the air and, with no shawl to cover her bare arms and shoulders, Dimity was shivering by the time they reached the lodge gate. The gatekeeper came out in response to Younce’s hail, shrugging into his coat, and with eyes becoming very wide when they beheld Dimity. The young female was most certainly not dressed for driving, besides which he considered Farrar’s groom a poor substitute for a chaperone. He opened the gate, however, after exchanging some witticisms with the groom, and stared derisively as Dimity was driven past.
They followed an ill-kept drivepath that wound through sadly neglected grounds. It was some minutes before the house came into view; a sprawling grey stone edifice rather too blessed with architectural extravagances in the Italian style to suit Dimity’s taste, but quite well maintained, which must be no mean task in view of its great size. Her heart sank when she thought of facing the butler who would likely open the door and at once deny his master to such a poorly bred female. She was grateful when they pulled up before the massive front steps and Younce tossed the reins to a goggle-eyed stableboy, jumped down to help her dismount, then walked close behind her up the steps.
They passed between two stone lions who turned their lofty noses and wide empty eyes upon the simple trap as though disdaining anything less than a coach of State. Dimity began to wish she had approached via the tradesman’s entrance, but she was reminded suddenly of the occasion on which she and her brothers had been invited for the first time to Glendenning Abbey. Perry had said nervously that he was terrified of Tio’s illustrious sire and Tio had laughed and told him that if ever he was afraid of a man, he must picture him clad only in his underclothes. Fortified, she waited as the groom tugged on the bell chain.
After a moment the door was opened to reveal an inscrutable and elegant individual who, with increasing horror, surveyed her from head to toe. The dark brows lifted, and the door swung an inch or two closer to being shut as he enquired in frigid accents, “Are you perhaps lost, madam?”
“If this is Mr. Green’s residence, I am not,” she said, managing to sound cool. “I am quite aware that I present an unfortunate appearance, but there has been an accident. I bring a most urgent message to your employer. Please announce me to him at once.”
Her unruffled manner and quiet, cultured voice, were points in her favour apparently, because after a br
ief hesitation she was admitted to a great marble hall. A part of her mind registered the fact that it was cold and smelled damp, but then she was dealing with the butler’s inevitable question by admitting that she had neither reticule nor card case with her, but that she was Mrs. Catherine Deene.
She fully expected to be denied, but although he looked most shocked, he eventually pursed up his lips and took himself off. He had a long way to go, for she heard his footsteps echoing into the distance. She waited, shivering, and uncomfortably aware that an upstairs maid who peeped at her from a railed balcony that ran along the far end of the hall, had evidently beckoned a friend, for stifled giggles could be heard. She was relieved when the butler trod his stately way back to her, and announced that Mr. Green was about to depart for an early ride, but could spare her a few minutes. The elevation of his nose clearly implied that this was a regrettable lapse, but he conducted her across the hall, along a dim, echoing corridor, and into a beautifully appointed study, at which point he gave her the barest of nods and left her alone.
Dimity glanced around curiously at well-stocked bookshelves, a large desk, and a reference table that had an unused appearance. There was a particularly fine print above the fireplace, showing a Saxon settlement with huts and arable lands and animal pens clearly and neatly laid out. She was studying this when a high-pitched voice behind her said rather irritably, “Well, ma’am? What—”
She spun around and recoiled with a shocked gasp. The tall young gentleman who faced her, impeccable in a dark blue riding coat and corded breeches, was the owner of the mastiffs.
An incredulous smile dawned on his face. “Well, well. We meet again!”
She said numbly, “You—are Mr. Rafe Green?”
“Assurement, my delectable creature…” Clearly captivated by the enchantments of her bodice, he advanced with a glint in his rather protuberant eyes that she did not at all care for. Stunned, she thought, ‘Oh—Lord! No wonder Anthony was so furious with me! He must have thought I knew this horrid creature that day in the clearing!’ Green was bearing down on her. He reminded her of someone, but she could not think who it was. She retreated quickly, stammering, “And—and you are familiar with—the fair, sir?”
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