On hearing that raucous declaration, Piers Cranford came near to tumbling from his perch, my Lord Glendenning swore under his breath, and Dimity uttered a faint squeak of fright.
Captain Lambert tossed a florin into the cash box on the booth, tendered the painting to Father Albritton and, with an exaggerated bow, said loudly, “A work of art, it ain’t, sir. But if it keeps out your draughts, ’tis money well spent.”
There was much laughter at this.
Farrar, who had held his breath for a moment, managed to look affronted, although he was hard put to it to keep from joining in the hilarious mirth emanating from a nearby oak.
Father Albritton accepted his gift with grateful humility and, bearing it off, was approached by the ragged individual who had spoken of fair play. “It’s a good thing you warned me that Farrar would deliver the—message,” murmured the young priest. “Even so, for a moment I thought we’d lose that one.”
The Honourable Trevelyan de Villars cringed and extended one grubby palm fawningly. “They came for a happy occasion,” he said, low-voiced, “not a lynching. But did you notice the bloody-minded individual had a London accent? Odd, eh?” And in a loud whine, “A penny, your Eminence? A groat, only…?”
Albritton thrust a hand into his pocket and dropped a farthing into de Villars’ slim hand. “At all events, we’ve got it, by Jupiter!” he whispered, exultantly.
“Do not be counting your chickens, Saint Nipcheese,” cautioned his irreverent friend. “Only see where Lambert treads now.”
Albritton turned his fair head and caught a glimpse of the captain deep in conversation with Phillip Ellsworth.
“I’d give something to know what that sly duo is about!” muttered de Villars. “And were I you, dear Charles, I’d make off with that work of art before someone as astute as Mariner Fotheringay graces the scene.”
“He’s hot after our courier who carries the list.”
“Haiwell?”
The priest nodded and murmured apprehensively. “Poor fellow, what a chase he’s led them. If he’s to reckon with Fotheringay now—may God help him!” A church deacon was approaching, and he added kindly, “Now be off with you, my son, and strive to live to better purpose!”
De Villars crouched, mumbled, and as the priest walked on, made a derogatory gesture but pocketed the farthing nonetheless before slouching off.
Meanwhile, Leonard had arrived and, assisting Farrar to add a small chest to the booth, scolded, “Sir, you should not have come here! You do but ask for trouble!”
His butler, thought Farrar, had no suspicion of just how deadly was that trouble. He said, “’Tis my church we hope to restore. The least I can do is—” He caught his breath suddenly, and was still.
Glancing at him, Leonard turned to see what had brought about that arrested expression and stifled a groan of apprehension.
My Lord Hibbard Green approached, one hand bandaged. Catching sight of Farrar, he paused and stood motionless, his little eyes glinting hatred.
Word of the duel had gone out, and those standing nearby waited expectantly, their eyes flashing from his lordship to the younger man who, despite his height and the proudly erect set of his head, looked slight and vulnerable by contrast with the great bulk of the baron. After a moment of rigid immobility, however, the peer moved on, the disappointed crowd dispersed, and the danger was averted, much to the relief of the three who had watched tensely from their leafy vantage point.
The afternoon grew warmer and more people came. Soon, all the booths were well stocked and business was brisk, the food stands, as always, being heavily patronized.
Lady Helen arrived, a picture in ecru muslin with lace scallops, and took her place at the stand where lemonade and jam and custard tarts were offered.
Wrenching her yearning gaze from her beloved, Dimity turned to find Piers watching her, a worried look in his blue eyes. “Dearest,” she pleaded, “could I not, just for a moment—”
Aching for her, and for poor Glendenning, Piers said gruffly, “By all means—do you wish to betray him, and all of us!”
Dimity sighed and bowed her head, helpless.
With typical gallantry, Glendenning murmured, “No call to be so harsh, old fellow. She—loves him.”
Dimity’s hand went out to clasp his own. “Dear Tio. I—truly, I wish—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, patting her hand gently. “I know, Mitten.”
* * *
By four o’clock it was apparent that the bazaar was going to be a huge success. Charles Albritton, carrying his painting into the vicar’s study in the old church, was assured by a beaming deacon that they were bound to reach the goal that had been set for the event. “Apart from that, Reverend,” said the old gentleman, “there’s a poor fellow waiting in the choir loft. He says you spoke to him earlier and so convinced him of his need to repent that he is eager to confess his sins and learn how to become a better Christian.”
“Praise heaven,” said Albritton, mentally asking his Heavenly Father’s forgiveness for such duplicity.
He went at once to the hushed sanctuary and climbed the winding stair to the choir loft. De Villars sprawled on the time-darkened wood of the rear pew, and greeted him with a sober look. “I thought you’d never come! I must be off, Charles.”
Knowing this man, Albritton sat down and asked, “What’s amiss?”
“Hibbard Green has come. He’d spot me in an instant, and my life—our lives—would be worth not a groat. He has not the mercy of a cat with a cricket! You’ve found the cypher?”
“I’ve not had time. It’s concealed somewhere in that painting, I gather.”
“Is it so? Well, have a care, friend, and be very secret with your search. Now,” de Villars stretched, “fare thee well.”
“A moment, I beg you. Treve—the man who will decipher the messages—do you know when he will come?”
“No.”
“Or—his identity?”
The sardonic sneer that often characterized this brave man was very pronounced. “Oh, yes. And—no, Charles, I’ll not tell you.”
Albritton said with a slow smile, “You’ve no liking for my involvement, have you? When I was your hapless slave at Eton I’d not have dreamed you ever could be so solicitous of my welfare!”
“No,” retaliated de Villars with a grin, “because you were the laziest new boy ever passed through those hallowed portals, and had I not exercised my rights as a senior to bring you into line—” He broke off with an impatient gesture, and regarded the younger man worriedly. The truth was that Albritton had been one of Eton’s most brilliant scholars, but because he was as shy and frail as he was quick to win the admiration of the faculty, he had become the target of a jealous bully. De Villars, in all the glory of his senior year, had intervened to protect Albritton, his well-meant effort resulting in the new boy’s having been brutally beaten. Furious, de Villars had dealt with the bully and undertaken the instruction of his protégé in the art of fisticuffs. By the time de Villars had left the school a fast friendship existed between the two, but they had drifted apart in the intervening years, and only recently learned that they both worked to aid the persecuted Jacobite fugitives. The discovery that his old friend had become a man of the cloth had shocked the cynical and worldly de Villars, and he made no secret of his wish that Albritton get out of so dangerous a game as treason.
Now he said slowly, “Charles—I wish to God you’d let be. Jacob Holt is liable to put two and two together does he lay eyes on you, and—”
“Your risk is greater than mine. you and your uncle Boudreaux are known Jacobite sympathizers, and now that you have found your lady and are soon to be wed, one might think—”
“Have done! Have done!” De Villars lifted his hands resignedly. “You’ll no more convince me, than I you.” He stood. “You know where to reach me at need.”
“Yes.” Standing also, the young priest said, “Tell me this, at least. Do I know this fifth courier, Treve? The man who wi
ll decipher the messages, I mean.”
De Villars hesitated, then nodded. “You do. And I’ll tell you this, Charles, I think they must all have run mad in Scotland, for ’tis the most damn ridiculous piece of folly imaginable. Oh, your pardon! I forget you’re a priest and I in a house of God. But—only wait. When you meet the courier, you’ll be as disgusted as I!”
* * *
Farrar had stayed close to the booth in case trouble should threaten his people, although it appeared the cypher was safely delivered at last. He knew better than to help as he had done in happier times and stood alone a short distance away. All about him was talk and laughter, prospective purchasers chatting pleasantly enough with his servants but, save for when Roger Steel wandered over, or one of his own villagers shyly greeted him, he remained shunned and silent, a pariah who watched the colourful, carefree throng expressionlessly and with seeming indifference, but who inwardly longed to be a part of it. His thoughts turned often and wistfully to the love he had so nearly won and to the what-might-have-been, but as the slow moments slid past, he never dreamed that a few short yards away the girl he had enshrined in his heart watched him, grieving to see him so ostracised, yet proud also, because he bore his punishment so well.
Piers, who had stayed on for his sister’s sake, now murmured, “Come, Mitten. It’s done, thank heaven.”
“Thanks to Farrar,” put in Glendenning.
“Thanks to Farrar,” Piers acknowledged. “But we’ve far to go and I fancy Perry is pacing the floor, worrying.”
Dimity dreaded to leave, but Piers had been deeply opposed to her coming at all, and every minute they stayed was an added risk, for Tio especially. Gathering her courage, therefore, she took one long look at the man she loved, then allowed herself to be lifted from her perch. Piers had been afraid they might attract attention, but no one paid the least heed to the three, and they started to move casually in the direction of the lane.
There was some small disturbance ahead now, people halting and craning their necks, then hurriedly moving clear.
Piers glanced uneasily to Glendenning, only to find that his lordship had wandered off and was inspecting some pasties a village belle offered for sale from a much depleted tray.
Dimity whispered, “Oh, God!” and clung to his arm.
He spun around.
Captain Brooks Lambert, six troopers following, marched purposefully towards them.
Praying, Piers slipped his arm around his sister and drew her back.
He felt positively weak when the soldiers went on past, not so much as deigning them a look. “So that’s why Tio left us,” he muttered. “The silly chawbacon thought they’d come for him and feared to jeopardize us. How typical that— Oh, the devil!”
Dimity was already running, pushing her way frenziedly through the excited and converging crowd. Sprinting in pursuit, Piers caught her and gripped her elbow hard.
“Ain’t no call to shove, young no-manners,” complained a wizened elderly man in a spotless smock.
“Sorry,” gasped Piers. “Women! They’ve more curiosity than the cat!”
The old man sniffed and grumbled on, but Dimity heard not a word, her attention fixed on Farrar.
He had been talking with his aunt when the troopers started through the crowd. He glanced at them, saw Lambert’s gloating smile, and knew. His face became paper white. He stepped a pace away from Lady Helen, but he said nothing.
The troopers closed in behind and beside him. As he was pushed roughly away from the booth, he saw a girl in the forefront of the crowd; a shabbily dressed country lass with great hazel eyes having a slight and fascinating slant to them. He thought, ‘Mitten! Lord, no!’
The crowd hushed, the only sound the distant wailing of an infant.
“Captain Sir Anthony Farrar,” barked Lambert, eyes glistening, “I arrest you in the name of the king, on charges of cowardice in battle, deserting your command in the face of the enemy with resultant heavy loss of life, and suspicion of the murder of Lieutenant Sir Harding Farrar.”
This recital of infamy drew a chorus of shocked cries and exclamations of horror from the onlookers.
Wishing he had died at Prestonpans, Farrar thought of Helen and turned to see her weeping in Roger Steel’s arms. Instinctively, he tried to go to her.
“Chain him!” snapped Lambert.
Indignant, Steel protested, “There’s no need for that, surely!”
Lambert gestured to his sergeant. Iron manacles connected by a heavy chain were locked around Farrar’s wrists. He stared down at them disbelievingly. Then he was being marched through the crowd, the chains clanking their message of shame and disgrace. The word spread and was embellished, and the rage of these simple, God-fearing people mounted. Flanked by his escort, Farrar looked neither to right nor left, but tried to shut out the faces distorted with anger and disgust, the shouts of condemnation of the murdering aristocrat’s wickedness, the derisive catcalls, the fists that were shaken, the contemptuous women’s voices shrilling “Shame!” and the many less polite epithets hurled his way.
Egged on by judiciously placed rabble-rousers, several men broke the military line. Fists flew, and, powerless to defend himself, Farrar sank under them.
Dimity saw his head disappear in the maelstrom, and it was fortunate that the uproar drowned her shriek of terror. Frantic with despair, tears streaking her face, she fought wildly to get clear as Piers and Glendenning stepped in front of her, shutting off her view. Piers grasped her wrists hard. “Mitten!” he hissed. “I know how you must feel. But there’s Tio here, besides you and me! If we’re recognized, we’re as good as dead! For the love of God, compose yourself!”
“They’ll kill him!” she sobbed out distractedly. “Oh, Lord! I must go to him! I must—”
“You must control yourself,” he grated through his teeth. “For Tony’s sake! We can do nothing if we’re all in the Tower!”
The words penetrated her terror. With a tremendous effort, she choked back the sobs and wiped away her tears. “You’re right, of … course,” she gulped. “I—I’m sorry. But—what can we do? How can we help him?”
Piers met Glendenning’s gaze and his heart sank as he saw the faint, regretful shake of the head. He bit his lip, but said jauntily, “Something, love—just you wait and see!”
Farrar was up again, for despite a lucrative agreement to assist certain gentlemen in any way possible, Captain Lambert had only recently suffered a stern reprimand and he was not yet ready to risk another. Therefore, although taking his time, he rallied his men, the crowd was beaten back, and the prisoner, somewhat the worse for wear, was restored to his feet.
Stumbling blindly through the chilling sights and sounds of contempt and loathing, Farrar scarcely felt the pain of his mauled arm, or of the many bruises angry men had put on him. His hurt went deeper, for the nightmare was much worse than he had expected. In his darkest moments he had envisioned himself at The Palfreys, hearing the troop ride up, and being torn from his home. He had never imagined he would be arrested in the middle of a hostile mob and dragged away in shameful chains before the tearful eyes of the lady he worshipped.
* * *
The cell was cold and dank, moisture seeping down the ancient stone walls. There were no windows, for Captain Lambert had decreed that this prisoner was in considerable danger from the outraged populace, and must be kept isolated. Sitting on the floor, his back propped against a wall, wrists balanced on his updrawn knees, Farrar frowned at the chain that looped between the manacles and tried to remember details. He could see the anguish in Mitten’s dear face; and then fists raining at him. Everything that followed seemed blurred and unreal.
He was in gaol, of course. But whether he had been carried to the Horse Guards, or whether he was in the Tower, he had no notion. It seemed that he had been pushed into a coach of some kind … Yes, for he remembered the wheels rattling over cobblestones. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. He smiled faintly; how very blasé, to have dozed off on one�
��s way to Death …
He wondered where the trial was to be held—and whether he would be allowed to name the officers who would judge him. When he was permitted to speak, he would plead for a firing squad rather than to be hanged. He shuddered. To be denied a soldier’s death and instead hanged as a common thief was beyond bearing. They would allow him some small vestige of an honourable dying, surely…? His tired mind began to turn over names … Thaddeus Briley had been discharged as a result of wounds sustained in the Low Countries, but he would still hold the rank of major, and he was a good fellow; however revolted he might be by the charges, Thad would probably consent to serve. He frowned, remembering that someone—Gordon, he thought—had mentioned that Briley had hurt his foot, or was it his knee? and was away somewhere …
He had not heard the approaching footsteps and was startled when the door was swung open. The glare of the lantern dazzled him, and when he instinctively made to fling up a hand to shield his eyes, the heavy chain dragged bruisingly on his wrists. He sat back against the wall, blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.
“Dear me,” said Brooks Lambert. “‘How are the mighty fallen,’ to be sure.” Farrar remaining silent, he strolled into the tiny cell and went on, “My poor fellow, you do look dreadful. Have you been brought your supper?”
“I am sure you are aware I have not.”
“You misjudge me, Farrar. Really, you misjudge me. The cook here is quite competent. I know, for I just dined. I will order a tray sent in at once. Is there anything else I may do to oblige you? Only name it.”
“Some water, if you please.”
“But of course.”
Farrar could see the young captain now. Beyond his scarlet splendour, a rough-looking civilian held up a lantern whose light revealed flagged floors, and walls of stone blocks. Puzzled, he asked, “Which barracks is this?”
Lambert raised his brows innocently. “Barracks? You are not in a barracks. You are held in a keep, no less. A most—er, distinguished gaol for your kind, assure you.”
Love Alters Not Page 32
