“I said,” Dimity replied, her cheeks rather pink because of the look in his eyes, “that Mrs. Deene is rather a—formidable lady, I would think.”
“Is she, indeed? It would be interesting to know if that is the reason why that young rapscallion did not remain with her.”
“As a matter of fact, he was most willing to leave her and told me he would as soon have me for an aunt instead.”
“So would I,” said Farrar, foolishly. Then, colouring up he added, “By the way, ma’am, may I ask—what is your real name?”
Her real name … Oh, dear! “It is Dimity—Clement.”
“Aha! Now I understand the ‘Mitten’! And—is it—Miss Mitten?”
“Yes,” she said, miserable suddenly because she must still lie to him about her true identity, and even more miserable because if he learned her real name he would know how her brothers despised him—how she should despise him. She stood and took his arm. “Now, come. I must get you home.”
Farrar leaned on her heavily as they returned to the trap. It was a battle to climb in, and when it was accomplished he sat in a strange sort of daze. He was not too dazed, however, to be enchanted by the glimpse of her lovely ankles as she clambered up beside him and took the reins. He leaned his head against the back of the seat and gazed dreamily at her.
“Miss Mitten,” he murmured.
Dimity turned to him, a kindness in her face that made his heart leap. He knew he was a prize fool. It seemed that on at least half the occasions when he’d seen her, some rake had been exploring her bosom. She had lied to him from the beginning. There was no reason to believe that this time she had told him the truth—that she was not, in fact, a quick-witted mercenary adventuress. Yet, how sweet the rich curve of her lips; how dainty the shadow of the thick lashes on her delicate cheekbones; how enchanting the slant to those liquid hazel eyes.
“Yes?” she answered. It was so very difficult to keep in mind that this man was a coward, responsible for the loss of many lives and for her beloved Perry’s maiming, and even believed by some to have deliberately engineered his own cousin’s death. ‘It is a filthy lie!’ she thought fiercely. But then she was frowning because for a soldier to panic and run from the battlefield, deserting his comrades, was a dark and shameful thing, but for an officer to surrender to fear, to abandon his men to their fate while he fled to protect his own skin—that was vile; a deed beneath contempt. And she wished she did not like him so very much.
Thus the thoughts of two young people sitting in a trap in the peaceful quiet of a summer morning, while the breeze played softly among the tall grasses, the warm sunlight bathed them with its golden rays, and the roan horse began to graze once more.
“Miss Mitten,” said Farrar again, a husky note to his voice now. He dragged himself up and slid an arm around her shoulders. “Do not … drive up to the front,” he said, one finger tracing the lovely curve of her ear.
“As you … wish…” she answered, shivering.
He was tilting her head towards him. His eyes were a tender caress, his lips were coming ever nearer. She closed her eyes and swayed to him, and was kissed gently, then less gently, and then with a passion that left her breathless. She drew back, flushed and guiltily happy, and touched his mouth, her fingers feather-light. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“But what a delicious hurting,” he whispered, kissing her fingers. “Mitten…” He was very tired, and let his head droop onto the dimpled shoulder once more.
“Yes—Anthony?”
“Don’t tell Lady Helen … your real reason for—for coming to The Palfreys.”
She frowned a little. Her real reason … “Why?”
He closed his eyes contentedly, his reply so low that she had to bend to hear it. “I do not want you … to leave us.”
She smiled and took up the reins again.
As it turned out, she had no choice in the manner of their return. Younce had spread the word of the battle at Fayre Hall, and as the trap approached the drivepath some half dozen grooms, footmen, and the captain’s valet galloped to surround them.
Jordan, anguished, said, “Oh ma’am, we have been so very worried. If you will stop, I’ll wipe the master’s poor face.”
“No,” said Dimity.
“But—he’s all blood! If Lady Helen—”
She gave him a steady look, then started the roan once more. The men formed an escort on either side, Jordan faintly smiling.
That their coming had been observed was evidenced by the fact that the front door flew open as they drove up. The change in motion woke Farrar, and he sat up straight as Carlton, closely followed by Lady Helen and Leonard, ran onto the front steps. “Oh—blast!” groaned Farrar.
Carlton advanced in a series of leaps, his eyes blazing with excitement. “Did you strangle the life out of him, sir?” he shrieked. “You look drefful so I ’spect he’s dead and wallowing in his gore! I hope you stamped on his horrid face!”
“You bloodthirsty little fiend.” Farrar’s eyes flashed to his aunt, who stood pale and motionless, her hands pressed to her throat. He said, “I’m quite all right, ma’am,” and started to climb out of the trap. The Palfreys tilted crazily when his feet hit the ground, and Leonard darted to fling an arm around him.
Dimity called, “It’s his head. He beat Mr. Green fairly, but they struck him down with a pistol butt!”
A growl went up from the men. Lady Helen reached out as Farrar was aided up the steps, but then stood aside.
Jordan assisted Dimity from the trap, and Carlton, racing back from having escorted Farrar into the music hall, grasped her hand. “Are you badly hurt, Aunty? You’re all over gore!”
“I know, but it’s not mine.” She drew level with my lady and said, “Your nephew was superb, ma’am.”
Jordan ran past and followed Leonard and Farrar to the spiral staircase.
Lady Helen said, “I heard—Leonard told me—about the poor little dog.”
“It’s the wickedest thing I ever heard of,” said Carlton. “I hope Sir Uncle cut his throat! I hope he pulled his heart out and fed it to the toads!” And he went leaping off in pursuit of the returning warrior.
“I am absolutely appalled,” said my lady. “If Rafe holds Anthony to blame for my son’s death, he should have challenged him honestly, not set his dogs on that dear little animal! It is disgraceful! Disgraceful!”
“No, ma’am,” Dimity said coolly. “It is attempted murder.”
Lady Helen gave a gasp.
“Mr. Green had trained his mastiffs to attack Sir Anthony,” Dimity went on. “I suppose poor Shuffle, being so constantly at his side, and being caressed by him, carried the scent those dogs had been made to hate.”
“Oh! How frightful! And—and now, there must be a duel … of course.”
Dimity nodded, and wondered if it was possible that next time Mr. Green would fight fair. She doubted it.
* * *
Not the man to raise a fuss over an injury, Farrar refused the services of his doctor. Between lack of sleep and the severe blow to his head, however, he was obliged to bow to the proprietory bullying of his valet and take to his bed.
Also exhausted, Dimity was aghast to find herself trembling, weak in the knees, and tearful. Lady Helen, who had accompanied her to her bedchamber, took charge. Dimity was bathed and tucked into bed with a warming pan at her feet. The chef was required to send up a brandy posset, and when she had drunk this concoction, the window draperies and bedcurtains were drawn and she was told to go to sleep and assured that no one would disturb her.
The door closed, and she snuggled deeper in the blankets and started to say her prayers …
Disturbed by something, despite my lady’s promise, she opened her eyes.
Carlton, kitten in hand, peeped at her through the bedcurtains.
“Hello, Carlton,” she said, yawning.
He looked solemn. “Aren’t you ever going to wake up?”
She stretched. “What time is it?”
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He pulled back the curtains and sunlight flooded the room. “I think it’s ten o’clock nearly,” he said, peering doubtfully at the little gold and silver clock on her bedside table.
He was wrong, of course. It had been later than that when she fell asleep, surely? She took up the clock and sat up with a rush. “Good heavens! Is it still Thursday?”
“’Course not. It was Thursday yesterday.” He asked apprehensively, “Are you cross? They said I must not come in.”
“I am cross because I have slept such an age. I must get up now, so run along.”
He looked doleful. “Why do grown-ups always say ‘run along now’ just when you don’t want to run along? But if you want to run along, you are made to sit still?”
“I know. Life is full of horrid things like that,” she told him, smiling. But he looked so troubled that she relented, and patted the bed invitingly.
Relief dawned in his small face, and he scrambled up beside her and watched his kitten declare war on the eiderdown. It was a pretty little tabby with a white chin, a snowy cravat, and a white tip to its miniature tail.
“What do you call him?” she asked.
“Swimmer. Only Leonard says he’s a her.”
She chuckled, her eyes tender as her thoughts turned to Farrar standing roaring in that hip bath.
Carlton said, “Why is your face red?”
“I must be sleepy still. What—er, did you want to talk about?”
His expression became sombre. “You’re not really my aunty.”
“No.”
“If she comes here, you’ll go away.”
Would she go away? Had she any choice?
Having waited hopefully but received no reply, the boy went on in a miserable little voice, “And if they find out I’m not really Sir Uncle’s nephew—”
Her attention shot to him. “Aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. She says I am. But—if I’m not, they’ll put me back in the Foundling Home, ’cause she won’t want me.”
“If ever I heard such twaddle! You are her sister’s only child!” The boy looked glum, and she went on bracingly, “Besides, if your aunt does not—er, find she can take you, we shall try if we can bring you to live with us—my brothers and me.”
He said a dispirited, “Thank you. But—I’d like to stay with him.”
She stroked his curls. “With Sir Anthony?”
He nodded. “He’s like me. He’s got no one, and he’s very sad ’cause of Shuffle. I know how he feels, ’cause I never really had someone till I traded for Swimmer. Now I’ve got her, at least.”
Dimity blinked rather rapidly. “Sir Anthony has his aunt, and—”
“She ’spises him. I heard the lackey say so. They had an awful fight ’bout it.”
“Good gracious me! The menservants fought about Sir Anthony?”
He nodded. “The second footman and a lackey named Billings. Billings liked Mr. Harding, and he said Sir Uncle killed him dead.”
“That’s not true!” she declared angrily.
“Jordan was ready to scrag him, I ’spect. He said he’d tell Mr. Leonard and Billings would lose his salvation, an’ have to find another place, and the chef chased him with his chopper, an’ everyone was screaming!” He had brightened at the memory of this lovely scene. “It was great fun.”
“Yes, I fancy it was. But it was also disloyal. If a man works for Sir Anthony, he should be loyal to him. It is very bad to take a man’s pay and speak badly of— Oh! Look at your raving beast!”
Swimmer had found her way underneath the eiderdown and was rushing madly about, a small hurtling lump that suddenly became a curled up, pedalling fury.
Carlton threw back the eiderdown, retrieved his pet, and bore her off, close cuddled in his neck.
Dimity rang for Rodgers, who came in agog with excitement over the death of Shuffle and the fight at Fayre Hall. “I know he’s your friend, ma’am,” she said, brushing out Dimity’s hair. “Ahem—but, if you was to ask me, Mr. Green got a little taste of what he’s been asking for ever since they brought the master home. I wish I’d a groat for every nasty snide remark he’s made to her la’ship. Him and Mr. Ellsworth both, never letting her forget what the master done, and Sir Anthony keeping his tongue ’twixt his teeth, for her sake. Fair idolizes her la’ship, he does. James Hinkley says as they’ll go out now, certain sure. And if Sir Anthony is killed, then her la’ship will be sorry!”
* * *
Farrar slept as one dead, and awoke with a persistent headache, an assortment of unpleasant reminders of his battle with Rafe Green, and memories of the journey back to The Palfreys that brought alternate extremes of joy and despair. He let Jordan maudle over him and rendered the man ecstatic by quietly admitting to the truth of a rumour, apparently started by “Mrs. Deene,” that he had cleaned his boots on Green’s waistcoat.
In no mood for breakfast, he made his way to his studio. This spacious room, located at the end of the hall in his private wing, was well equipped with easels, benches, stacked past efforts, and several canvasses in various stages of completion. He looked sombrely at one of these, then went with reluctance to another portrait. He was not a master, but his work was very good and the painting of his lost friend was so lifelike that he could scarcely endure to look at it. He refused, however, to put the canvas where he would not have to be reminded. Shuffle was too dear to be banished. He sat back against a bench, folded his arms, and communed in silence.
Aunt Helen had presented him with the tiny puppy for his seventeenth birthday. There had been partings, of course, through which he’d been told the dog was subdued, as one waiting. Whenever he’d returned home, she had been wild with joy, and they’d been inseparable. His eventual disgrace had left him very alone, and through this long, dark year, Shuffle had been his only solace—an unwavering friend. He knew that many people would say “She was only a dog,” but to him she had been ineffably more: a beloved companion whose loss left a gaping hole in his life and a bruise on his spirit that would not soon heal. The most difficult thing to accept was that she had died not from age or illness, but because of a man’s hatred for him. Looking at her faithful eyes, he suffered the pain of knowing she would never gaze at him so again; that he must become accustomed to walking without the immediate click of her nails following; that when he sat in his favourite chair in the evening, her cold nose would not push into his hand, her warm little self would not be curled at his feet. Perhaps, there was a heaven for dogs who had given as much love, loyalty, and solace as had Shuffle. He prayed there was …
He had not realized how low his head had sunk until a stealthy sound caused him to look up. Carlton was watching him, a sympathy in his young face that brought a grateful smile to Farrar’s lips. Not a little embarrassed, he started to say something light, but the set of the boy’s chin told him that this was not a light moment, so he was still. From the corner of his eye he saw that someone else stood in the open doorway, but he did not shift his attention from the child.
Carlton came forward, Swimmer clutched to him. “Uncle Sir Anth’ny,” he said rather hoarsely, “I don’t care what they say ’bout you. I think you’re the—the bravest man what ever was. I know a cat’s not—not much use. Not like a dog, I mean. But—here—” He thrust the kitten at the man who had come to his feet and regarded him gravely. “You have her. I—got nothing else to—to…” His control broke. Farrar took the squirming kitten, and with a muffled sob, Carlton fled.
Dimity found it necessary to resort to her handkerchief. When she lifted her eyes, Farrar was holding Swimmer up and inspecting her.
He said with a wry smile, “I’ve already had one baptism of fire from you, little lass. Now it would seem I must provide for you.”
Dimity walked to him. “Have you the remotest idea of what he just gave you?”
He put the kitten on the bench behind him and reached for her hand. “I think you refer to the poor widow in the Bible.”
She nodded. �
��He gave you his—two mites. All he had. I think you will never receive a richer gift, Sir Anthony.”
There was a pink blush on her cheeks, a soft glow in her eyes that he had seen once before. He pressed her fingers to his lips. “I begin to think,” he said softly, “that I may have—”
Quick footsteps sounded in the hall. Leonard appeared in the doorway, looking worried. “A gentleman has called on a matter of—of urgent business, sir.”
XII
Farrar had a fair idea of the “matter of business” his caller had come to discuss. He told Leonard to show the gentleman to his study and, having excused himself to Dimity, repaired to that chamber. He was glancing blindly at some estimates for the restoration of the old church in Palfrey Poplars, and nerving himself to receive the dread visitor, when Leonard opened the door.
“Mr. Roland Otton, sir.”
It went to show, thought Farrar bitterly, where cowardice led one; if he’d had the gumption to ask the name of his “caller,” he might have spared himself some very unpleasant moments of anticipation. Throwing down the estimate, he sprang to his feet.
Roland Otton, impressive as always and clad in a dark brown velvet riding coat, buckskin breeches, and knee boots, strolled into the room, a faintly insolent grin playing about his lips.
“I warned you,” grated Farrar, starting around the desk.
Otton lifted a languid hand. “I am here in a matter of honour, Tony.”
“Much you know of—”
“Alas, we both are rather—ah, tattered in that regard, n’est-ce-pas? No, you really cannot throw me out, my dear fellow. I represent our admirable Rafe.”
Fists clenched and eyes glittering with wrath, Farrar checked.
“Dear me, you do look dreadful,” said Otton clicking his tongue.
“Whereas your friend Green is unmarked, no doubt.”
Love Alters Not Page 22
