Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  “Head?” groaned Peregrine. “Is it still on the end of my neck, then?” Clutching it, he swore. “That black-hearted rogue! What did he hit me with?”

  “The hilt of his sword, milor’. And tried to murder the tall, fair gentleman.”

  Starting up, Peregrine gasped and sat down again. “Oh, burn it! Who’s dead?”

  “The fine Gorgio in the olive coat, maybe. Sir—you wish to see the horse?”

  “Not … right at this minute,” sighed Peregrine, content to sit and wait until his head fell off and rolled past the foot Florian was tightening.

  “He is a very fine horse, milor’. There, I’ve done. We could—”

  “Devil we could. Help me up.” Florian obliging, Peregrine muttered curses but began his painful hobble to join his friends.

  Supporting him, the gypsy boy persisted, “This is not comfortable for you, sir. Only give me a shilling and I will buy a piece of oak and carve you a wooden peg you will go along with much nicer.”

  Very far from comfortable, Peregrine halted. “Oh, all right, blast it. Reach my purse from that pocket and find your confounded shilling. How long will it take you to make me a peg leg?”

  The thin face brightened. “An hour, milor’. Two, perhaps. But I would have to fit it properly.” He saw Peregrine’s hesitation and said eagerly, “I could stay outside, sir. I wouldn’t prig nothing, I swear!”

  “Oh, stow your clack,” said Peregrine.

  * * *

  Having endured one of the most miserable nights of her life, Dimity rose early, dressed herself, and crept into the hall. Lady Helen’s door opened as she approached it, and my lady came out and waited for her.

  “Have you breakfasted, my dear?” she asked gently.

  “I think I could not eat a bite, ma’am.”

  “Nor I. But I have ordered some coffee.” She took Dimity’s arm and they went down to the breakfast room, not speaking.

  Because of the chill in the air a fire had been lit and the room was pleasantly warm. Lackeys hurried to pull out chairs and the two ladies sat down, saying little until coffee was steaming fragrantly in their cups and the servants had departed.

  Helen searched the wan face opposite, and murmured, “Is pushing, I know, to ask but—you have become fond of my nephew, I think.”

  Dimity flushed but answered proudly, “Extreme fond, ma’am.”

  “He is a handsome young fellow and can be very charming, but,” Lady Helen sighed, “I do hope he has not attempted to fix his interest with you.”

  “I only wish he had.”

  Dismayed, my lady took Dimity’s cold hand. “My dear, you must realize—he cannot.”

  “I own that—that his future is—”

  Helen interpolated with heartfelt sympathy, “Miss Cranford—he has no future.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Horatio Glendenning, fully dressed and looking much more his customary blithe self, came to join them and, immediately noting Dimity’s stricken expression, kept up a steady flow of small talk while the servants came hurrying to bring him slices of cold pork, mustard pickles, and hot muffins. When they were alone again, he said, stirring his coffee, “D’you know, I’d never realized what this waiting is like. You poor creatures have the worst of it at such moments, be dashed if you don’t. Though I suppose—” He was interrupted by the sound of carriage wheels and Carlton’s voice upraised in excitement.

  Dimity had managed to regain her composure, but now her heart gave a great jump of fear. She was scarcely aware she had moved but found herself standing at the top of the steps leading to the lower hall, clinging to the rail with hands clammy and icy cold, her breath fluttering in shallow, nervous little gasps.

  Chandler’s voice, angered, said, “…may believe that between Dr. Steel and Cranford and me, the whole ton will hear what those murderous varmints attempted!”

  Two men were entering the house, but Dimity saw only Farrar. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw her, and he halted, the very special smile that she now knew was hers alone, softening his mouth. “All present and correct,” he said lightly.

  Relief was making her feel dizzied. She tried to be sensible. “Thank heaven! Where is Peregrine? Was he able to second you?”

  “Very ably, ma’am.”

  Chandler grunted a shamefaced, “Compared to some. Your brother went off with a gypsy lad, Miss Cranford, who offered to sell him a horse.”

  She stared at him. “At a duel?”

  “This was not your polite, well-conducted affair of honour,” he remarked dryly.

  She turned to Farrar. “And—you are quite all right, sir?”

  He had determined to be calm, but when his eyes met hers he found there such a tender look of concern that words failed him, and he could not tear his gaze away.

  A small hush fell and deepened. Glendenning had to turn from that silent embrace, the knife in his breast the sharper because the lady he had loved for so long could find only heartbreak with the man to whom she had so obviously given her heart.

  Lady Helen had come to the top of the steps, and Farrar drew a deep breath and forced himself to go to his aunt.

  “Is Rafe killed?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  She nodded gravely. “And you are not hurt at all?”

  “He’ll tell you no,” said Chandler. “But the truth is—”

  “That I took a small scrape,” Farrar interrupted. “So if you will excuse me, I’ll let my man maudle over me for a minute or two.” He bowed and left them, studiously avoiding Dimity’s eyes.

  My lady said that now all the male dramatics were done with, perhaps they might return to normality, and that she must consult with her housekeeper about items to be donated to the bazaar for the restoration of the church. “Farrar will bear the lion’s share of the costs, of course, Miss Cranford, but the people like to think they help, and it is good that they should do so. An I know men, they will have much to discuss that cannot be said in front of ladies, so perhaps you would care to join me?”

  Longing to find out more about what had transpired at the duel, Dimity knew she could not properly refuse, and accompanied my lady to the kitchens.

  XVI

  A dressing taped over the cut across his shoulder, and wearing a clean shirt, Farrar hurried downstairs. He was turning towards the breakfast room when he heard a woman’s shrill voice speak his name in anger. With an uneasy premonition of her identity, he walked to the front doors.

  Leonard’s quiet but frigid tones were drowned by the strident response. “No least use for you to deny him! I know he’s here, and you may tell him that the hussy who is passing herself off as me—”

  Farrar intervened coolly, “Is there some difficulty, Leonard?”

  The butler turned a troubled face. “Sir—this person—”

  “So you are my poor sister’s brother-in-law!” A handsome dark lady, wearing a gown that might more properly have been donned for an afternoon social event, elbowed her way past Leonard and the footmen. The butler exclaimed angrily, but at a nod from Farrar led his minions away, the ears of all three straining to hear what transpired.

  “No matter what you may have been told, I am Mrs. Catherine Deene,” announced the new arrival, her rather hard brown eyes sparking. “And fine Turkish treatment I have had from you, sir! I wonder you are not ashamed to stand there and look me in the eye, with all that has been going on in this house.”

  “Indeed?” Farrar bowed her to the music hall. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me. Although,” he went on, following as she flounced past, “to the best of my knowledge I have no sister-in-law. Nor can I perceive why the running of my household need concern any but myself.”

  Mrs. Deene’s eyes narrowed. A regular top-lofty article was this noble deserter, but he’d soon find he’d not come it over her! “Hoity-toity, aren’t we?” she sneered, settling herself into the chair he indicated. “You may be sure I am concerned as to the morals of a house into which my sweet n
ephew has been kidnapped!”

  Farrar infuriated her by laughing softly. “You are talking nonsense, Mrs. Deene, as you are perfectly aware. However, I am glad that you have found the time to come and take the boy away.”

  “Why should I take Carlton from what is rightfully his?” she riposted, the picture of abused innocence. “Do you think to bully a poor defenceless widow, Captain Farrar, I must say ’tis conduct unbecoming an officer and—” she paused and finished with a faint sneer, “…a gentleman.”

  Silent, Farrar looked at her. She flushed, fidgeted, and her eyes fell before that steady gaze. To be disconcerted was an unfamiliar emotion, and she said plaintively, “I’d think you would be kinder to a lady who has been very ill.”

  He went over to tug on the bell pull. Leonard appeared almost at once, and was instructed to send in a glass of ratafia for the lady. “And find Master Carlton so he may accompany his aunt.”

  “Accompany me where, pray?” she demanded, mustering her forces once more. “You have given house room to that scheming trollop who kidnapped my nephew and impersonated me, and I—” She paused, drawing back a little in her chair, alarmed by the sudden steely glint in the green eyes.

  At his most cynical, Farrar drawled, “My dear ma’am, do you say you desire to accept the hospitality of a craven deserter?”

  Her high colour deepened and once more her gaze flickered and fell. “If Miss Clement told you I said that—”

  “In view of the confusion as to her identity, Miss—er, Clement felt obliged to act as your emissary and has handed me the documents you brought to prove your claim, so—”

  “That wicked little slut!” she shrilled, springing up with remarkable agility in view of her infirmity and rather belatedly clinging to the chair. “I warn you, Captain! I’ll have the law on you if you’ve tampered with them papers!”

  “But of course we shall have the law in this, madam. My solicitor has your proofs and is in the process of conducting enquiries to prove—or more probably disprove—your claim.”

  “If only one of them papers is missing, Captain Sharp,” she flared, her accent slipping disastrously, “you’ll be sorry, I promise you! And as for that baggage what you’ve had in keeping here—”

  “Miss Clement has been in the care of my aunt, Lady Gilbert Farrar. As soon as she was able to tell us her true identity, her brothers and her betrothed were notified, and came to conduct her back to her home.”

  “A likely story,” she sneered, but sat down again as Leonard returned with a tray on which was a single glass. He tendered it, his manner so icily disdainful that Farrar had to repress a grin. Her eyebrows and little finger elevated, Mrs. Deene took up the glass, and when the butler had withdrawn, she said with less force, “Where is my dear nephew? If one hair of his sweet head has been harmed, I warn you—”

  “How odd,” Farrar interposed, “that I had fancied you would thank me for having cared for him during your absence. Indeed, I have wondered why the boy would have been so willing to accompany a lady he certainly knew was not his aunt.”

  Her eyes narrowed vengefully. “I suppose the little ingrate claimed I was harsh with him!” She saw Farrar’s lips tighten into a thin hard line and, recognizing her error, cooed, “But of course he did not. The poor baby was likely terrified of being left all alone in the world with his dear aunty dead—as he was deliberately misinformed—and so fell in with the Clement woman’s plans! You may be sure I have informed the authorities of her wickedness, and she will be hauled into court when the time comes!”

  Farrar thought, ‘Hell! We must get Mitten out of this!’

  Mrs. Deene said a triumphant, “Don’t like that, do you, your mightiness? Formed an attachment for the little doxy, have you? It don’t surprise me, considering as—”

  “Farrar,” Lady Helen made her graceful way from the rear hall, “I wonder if—”

  “I shall attend you in a moment, ma’am, an you will wait in your parlour,” he interposed swiftly.

  “What he means,” Mrs. Deene explained with an angry titter, “is that he don’t choose to introduce me. I am Mrs. Catherine Deene, whose sister was cruelly abandoned by Mr. Walter Farrar, and I—”

  “Have come to take back the child?” enquired Lady Helen, advancing with a relieved smile. “Oh, I am so glad. I am Lady Farrar, and although I sympathize with your predicament, it has really been most inconvenient to have the boy here. Farrar, do pray have the goodness to desire one of the maids to pack his things at once.”

  Farrar, who suspected that his aunt had become very fond of Carlton, hid his surprise and crossed to the bell pull. Reaching it, his hand was arrested as a piercing shriek rang out.

  Carlton came into the room, a mottled red and white, and looking utterly miserable.

  Mrs. Deene, who had sprung up, spilling her wine, retreated behind her chair. “Carlton! My God! What have they done to you?”

  “Hello, Aunty Cathy,” the boy said feebly. “I’m not very ill, you know. The gardener says it’s only measles, and—”

  “Measles! Oh, you stupid boy, of all times—” and then, with a crocodilian smile, “Not that it is your fault, dearest.” She turned to my lady. “Small wonder you were so eager to be rid of him! For shame, to throw a sick child into the gutter!”

  Inwardly amazed by this unexpected development, Farrar pointed out that measles was no longer considered a very severe ailment, “For not nearly so many die of it as were used to do. Caught as an adult, of course, it can be extreme dangerous, but an you have already had the disease, chances are you’d not contract it again.”

  “Well, I have not had it!” Mrs. Deene cried, horrified. “And only look at him!”

  Carlton trod closer. Farrar, a certain quick-witted young lady in mind, had half-suspected that horrid rash to have been applied with his own paint brushes, but he now saw that the boy was indeed sadly afflicted, his arms and legs full of the angry spots that adorned his cheeks.

  “You have come to take me with you, haven’t you, Aunty?” Carlton sighed pathetically. “They don’t like me here, and now Miss Clement’s gone—”

  “Oh, she has, has she?” Controlling her frustrated wrath with an effort, Mrs. Deene added a cajoling, “Stay back, dear little fellow, but tell your aunty why you went off with—with that person.”

  “They said you was dead,” he explained, his trusting gaze fixed upon her. “And Miss Clement was coming here ’cause she hated Sir Anth’ny, so—”

  “Sir Anthony…?” she echoed, with a sort of gasp, her widening eyes darting to Farrar.

  “A windfall, ma’am?” he drawled sardonically.

  “So she said she’d help me if it would dis’blige him,” Carlton finished. “But I’d like to go with you, please.”

  “Of course you will go with her,” promised Farrar. “The lady is, after all, your own flesh and blood and will want to care for you.”

  “Have you the least vestige of human kindness,” cried Mrs. Deene, wringing her hands and assuming a martyred air, “you will allow me to stay here and care for the sweet baby.”

  “What? While you attempt to steal my home and estates? You give me credit not for human kindness, but for the disposition of a saint!” He saw her mouth opening for a predictable response and continued hurriedly, “We’d no choice with Miss Clement for she was carried into this house.”

  “Very clever of the hussy,” said Mrs. Deene waspishly.

  “Furthermore,” my lady interposed with a hauteur she seldom employed, “the young lady left as soon as she was able. I will thank you to do the same, ma’am. Ah, here you are, Leonard. Pray tell one of the maids to pack Master Carlton’s valise at once.”

  “No!” snapped Mrs. Deene, red with anger.

  Ignoring this unseemly interruption, Leonard said smoothly, “Is already done, ma’am. When this lady announced herself I instructed Rodgers to pack the young gentleman’s belongings. Shall I have his valise put into Mrs. Deene’s vehicle?”

  “You wi
ll do no such thing!” shouted Mrs. Deene. “I came here to fetch a well child—not one infected with a deadly disease! My solicitor means to bring you to court very shortly, after which the boy will have your valise packed, Sir Anthony Farrar! What you may do, my good man, is to have my stolen belongings made ready.”

  “That was done before Miss Clement left, madam,” said Leonard, who had received some advance instruction from his employer, and was also very much on his dignity at having been addressed as a “good man.” “Miss Clement also left a sum of money to recompense you for their use.”

  “And only proper she should do so,” said Mrs. Deene, betraying not the least appearance of gratitude. “For I shall be obliged to burn every stick and stitch of it sooner than use objects worn by a woman little better than a—”

  “An it would suit you better, we can simply burn your trunks and so spare you the task,” interjected Farrar, blandly.

  She threw him a venomous glance. “I shall leave this depraved house at once. Carlton, come outside with me. I’ll have a word or two with you, my lad. Not too close, mind!” Her look of blazing contempt was wasted on my lady, and equally wasted on Farrar, who offered a deep bow as Leonard ushered her out.

  The instant the front door had closed, Lady Helen murmured, “Oh, what a dreadful woman! And I fear she means mischief! Thank heaven Miss Cranford is still in the barn making a list of our bazaar donations!”

  “Holt has evidently not divulged her true name nor did we—for which I thank you—so can we get her away quickly, she may be safe.” For just an instant a bleak look came into his face, then he said, “Now—tell me, ma’am, have you really had measles?”

  Any demonstration of his devotion never failed to wring her heart. She turned her head from him slightly. “Yes. When I was eight, I think. And when you were ten you contrived to bring it home from school and pass it on to three of the maids and—and Harding.”

  He heard the break in her voice and said bracingly, “We must hope Carlton’s case is not as lurid and lengthy as was mine. Though, if it has rescued him from that harpy…”