Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  Scarcely a figure to alarm, yet a certain Captain of Dragoon Guards stationed at the side of the room whistled soundlessly and stepped back into the shadows; the prisoner, trapped in an unending nightmare of thirst, pain, and despair, stiffened, stood straighter, and a gleam of hope dawned in his dulled eyes; Mr. Peregrine Cranford gasped an exultant, “Now, by Jupiter, only look who’s come, Mitten!” and his sister, half blinded by tears, whispered a heartfelt, “Thank God!”

  The King’s Magistrate did not appear to share such sentiments. Indeed, a dark scowl had descended on his brow and a slow flush warmed his unfortunate features. “Your Grace honours us with his presence,” he snarled, “but you will forgive an we respectfully request silence. The prisoner is about to hear his sentence.”

  “Oh, by all means, my lord,” murmured the Duke of Marbury, glancing with a twinkle at the awed faces of those about him. “I would not be here at all, you know, save that the king has charged me with the onerous duty of ensuring that justice, as he—ah, perceives it, is being enacted in his courts.” He moved in his casual fashion to where the clerk sat, and smiled upon him until that gaping individual recovered sufficiently to relinquish his chair and back away.

  My lord, about to respond, was obliged to wait until the dolorous howl of a large dog somewhere outside the courtroom had ceased. It was well known that Marbury had the ear of His Majesty, wherefore his lordship rephrased the irate and perhaps unwise remark he had been about to utter. “I was not aware,” he said, “that your Grace had been appointed to such a post.”

  “You surprise me,” said the duke mildly. “A notice was, I am sure, sent to all magistrates. Perhaps you have not kept abreast of your correspondence, my lord?”

  Green, who very seldom read anything that his overburdened secretary could deal with, blew out his cheeks and replied in rather resentful fashion that his calendar was very full and there were not enough hours in the day to read every scrap of paper that crossed his desk.

  “’Tis precisely because you are so overworked, my lord,” Marbury said earnestly, “that I am come. To help you.”

  “You are too kind. As soon as this case is disposed of, I—”

  “With this case,” Marbury interpolated. “You see—there are certain facts relating to the accused, of which I think you may be una—” Here, having for the first time looked squarely at the dock, his Grace checked. For a taut moment he sat very still and many of those present found themselves holding their breath. “I see,” he resumed, his voice having a slight edge now, “that you have been extreme conscientious in your handling of the prisoner.”

  “We do not coddle traitors, sir, if—”

  “Might one enquire,” went on his Grace, as though Green had not spoken, “why Sir Anthony is gagged?”

  “Because he has a foul mouth,” said his lordship awfully. “And I will not have ladies offended in my courtroom.”

  “Untrue!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  His Grace, having a fair notion of who had dared such an accusation, did not turn towards Peregrine, but nodded to the guard. “Remove the gag, if you please,” he said politely.

  The guard glanced to the suppressed fury that was the King’s Magistrate. This dandified shrimp might be a duke, but my lord Green would make mincemeat of him if he thought to come it over— At this point, having had no instructions from the judge, he turned his gaze again to the duke and, meeting the light blue eyes, received the horrifying impression that he had been pierced by a lance levelled from the back of a fast galloping warhorse. His fingers shaking in their eagerness, he untied the gag.

  Farrar drew in a grateful breath, coughed, and staggered. Chains clanked. The duke’s eyes opened a shade wider and he turned to the bench, eyeglass levelled, incredulity in every line of him.

  “I think you do not apprehend, my lord Duke,” rasped Green, “that this is a most desperate and despicable rogue who not only betrayed his country, but has done bloody murder upon his own kinsman!”

  Marbury pursed his lips. “Despicable, indeed,” he agreed. “How say you, Farrar?”

  Striving desperately to defend himself now that hope was re-born, Farrar could no longer find the strength. His voice rasped incoherently. Lifting a feeble hand to his throat, he tried in vain to make himself heard.

  “I think…” said the duke, very softly, “the prisoner does not constitute a major threat in his present … condition. Perhaps you will be so good as to remove the chains.”

  “I presume you are aware, your Grace, that this is my Court, and that you are impeding the execution of the king’s justice!”

  Marbury said nothing, but the fingers of one hand snapped like a pistol shot in the quiet room. The guard was not a man of powerful understanding, but he had detected a shift in the balance of power; he fairly jumped to unlock and remove the manacles, and when the prisoner sagged weakly, his was the strong arm that supported him.

  “Is there,” enquired that cool, resonant voice, “a doctor or apothecary present?”

  Steel sprang up. “Here, your Grace! And if I dare remark it, the prisoner has been most cruelly treated and—”

  Up went that slender hand again. “My dear sir, you may remark whatever you wish. Later. For the present we must not impede his lordship’s justice any longer than is necessary. Do you be so good as to tend to Sir Anthony’s immediate needs, and we will proceed.”

  “He has asked for water, your Grace, but was denied. Indeed, I think he has been denied all night.”

  “Then by all means give him some,” said the duke, still smiling although the smile no longer reached his eyes, which seemed to Hibbard Green to glitter most unpleasantly. “A little brandy would not come amiss, doctor, are we to hear from him today.”

  “Now, by God!” snorted the magistrate, rising.

  The Counsel rose.

  The Court rose.

  The duke did not. “I do apologize, my dear Green,” he said in his amiable way. “You were about to pronounce sentence, I believe you said.”

  “I was.” Green, Counsel, and Court sat down again. “If you have no objection,” he added with heavy irony.

  “But, my dear, none in the world.”

  “Thank you. Foreman, you were saying that—”

  “Only—I think you have forgot a witness,” put in the duke meekly.

  “All the witnesses have been heard, your Grace,” said Mr. Eccles with an expression of sad resignation. “To no avail, alas.”

  “Well, of course not. For you have left out the most important one.”

  A flurry of excitement stirred the onlookers, who were having the time of their lives.

  Lord Hibbard, who was not, opened his mouth to protest.

  “And I am assured you are the most just of men,” murmured the duke, “and would not ever wish that a helpless prisoner be deprived of his rights…”

  Green glared, chewed his lip, and said nothing.

  The duke took a folded paper from his pocket and offered it to the clerk.

  Hurrying to take and open it, the clerk stared, gasped, and turned terrified eyes to the bench.

  “You can—read…?” asked the duke, curious.

  For a moment it seemed that the clerk could not, for on his first attempt his voice was as faint as that of the prisoner. He cleared his throat and said failingly, “Call … Major Horace Rhodes!”

  Farrar, who was beginning to feel less dazed now that his terrible thirst was eased and the brandy was burning through him, choked on a mouthful, dropped the glass, and reeled up from the chair Steel had dragged in for him. Gripping the bar, he gasped, “Oh … my God!” and stared, his face between the bruises, white with shock.

  Amid a flurry of neck-craning and excited comment, a tall man in regimentals limped in, leaning heavily on a cane.

  Almost as pale as her love, Dimity sat very still, her mind spinning.

  “He’s—dead!” a woman shrieked, crossing herself.

  “Burn it, but he’s not!” Peregrin
e exclaimed joyously.

  Lady Helen, a flush lighting her cheeks, uttered an odd little cry, and sat up very straight.

  “My lord,” enquired the duke with gentle deference, “is it your wish that Major Rhodes be sworn?”

  The magistrate’s wishes at that moment had very little to do with Major Rhodes, but he bowed to the inevitable and the major was duly sworn.

  Mr. Eccles jumped up and asked shrilly for some proof of the gentleman’s identity. Major Rhodes handed Counsel several documents and his calling card. My lord Duke commended the prosecutor for his astuteness.

  “I am Counsel for the Prisoner, your Grace,” gulped Mr. Eccles, scarlet.

  The duke lifted his eyeglass and surveyed the learned gentleman. “Dear me,” he murmured. “Perhaps we may hear your deposition, Major.”

  Horace Rhodes, keen of eye and ramrod stiff of back, was a career officer who had been in the army for twenty-eight years, having purchased a cornetcy at the age of twenty-two, but exchanging to the artillery five years later, intrigued by the big guns. He had not been acquainted with Captain Anthony Farrar prior to his appointment to the Battery and had been pleasantly surprised to find him a steady and reliable officer with a good head on his shoulders and a nice touch with the men.

  “Surprised…?” murmured his Grace.

  Major Rhodes looked at him levelly. “I was unacquainted with Anthony Farrar. I had, however, met Lieutenant Sir Harding Farrar,” he hesitated briefly, “and his mother.”

  “And you expected the cousins to be of similar temperament?”

  The major shrugged. “I’ve known cousins be as close as twins. These two weren’t. Fortunately.”

  Lord Green said bitingly, “If his Grace is done with cross-examining the witness, perhaps we may continue with the deposition!”

  With an apologetic smile Marbury sketched a bow, and the major resumed. “I do not propose to bore your lordship and this Court with a recapitulation of the Battle of Prestonpans. Nor of the trials that beset us from the very start. Suffice to say it was a disaster. My own personal disasters were many. I was extreme fortunate to have so splendid a second-in-command as Captain Farrar. I relied on him heavily.”

  “How shocked you must have been when he deserted,” sneered Lord Green.

  “After you were killed, my dear Rhodes,” inserted his Grace sweetly.

  “Neither of which happened,” said the major, with a faint grin.

  Farrar reeled and through a wave of blinding dizziness clutched the rail convulsively.

  Dimity’s heart gave a great leap, and her breath was snatched away.

  “Aha!” whispered Peregrine.

  “In that event,” cried Lord Green, purpling, “one might expect Captain Sir Anthony Farrar to have protested his innocence!”

  “One might indeed, my lord,” said his Grace. “But, pray continue, Major.”

  “We were under heavy attack,” the major went on, “when one of my officers lost his nerve and ran. You may suppose this to be a common occurrence. I assure you it is not, especially in the case of a well bred-up young gentleman instructed from childhood in the Code of Honour. I have seldom been more shocked, but—if there was a second crime involved, it was—alas, my own.” His eyes fell. He hesitated and said in a less crisp voice, “I knew the boy’s mother, and what it would mean to her to have her son desert under fire, so I—I took a risk I’d no right to take.” He turned to where Farrar watched him with bewildered intensity. “I sent you after him, Captain—don’t you recall?”

  “You … sent me?” gasped Farrar. “I—no, I … seem to have lost—so much after I was hit. I thought it was … because I just didn’t want to—to remember. I thought I’d run after him because—”

  “Of your love for your aunt,” put in his Grace.

  Another buzz of comment shook the spectators. Farrar peered at Lady Helen. She was staring at him wide-eyed. Dimity turned and slipped an arm about her.

  The gentleman in the front row who had defended Farrar earlier, said a hushed but audible, “Then—it was Harding who ran!”

  “This is all very dramatic,” rasped Green with a curl of the lip, “but makes no sense whatsoever. Farrar would have us believe that although his mind was clouded from shock he remembers that he ran not for his own safety, but to bring back his fleeing cousin! And all these months he has said not one word about this, but nobly took all the blame to himself? Now come, your Grace! If you mean to imply that he would be willing to carry filial loyalty to the extent of suffering shameful execution rather than upset a relation, I say pshaw, sir! I say rubbish!”

  “I agree,” said the duke. “Can you explain it for us, Captain? Tell the Court what you do recall.”

  “I remember seeing Harding run,” Farrar said slowly, groping his way back through the misted memory. “I went after him. I was hit. Afterwards, nothing is very clear. While I was in hospital … I was told people came to see me, but—I cannot seem to recall that period. When I was sent home, I began trying to—to put it all together. I thought I’d gone after Harding because I wanted to spare my aunt from being hurt. The colonel who came from Whitehall told me Major Rhodes had been killed just before I deserted and—”

  Major Rhodes flung up a hand imperatively. His voice harsh and brittle, he snapped, “One moment! Do I understand you to claim, Captain Farrar, that you were officially advised I had been killed? Some while after the battle?”

  “Yes, sir.” Farrar blinked at him. “By letter, and—and by the colonel’s visit to my home.”

  Puzzled, Marbury intervened, “But why should they have said you were slain, Major?”

  Rhodes shrugged. “Not so remarkable on the field, Duke. I’m told I was a mess. I was hit in several places, one being a head wound that could very well have appeared to have been fatal. Not until after the battle was it found that I yet lived. No, I’ve no difficulty understanding that part of it. What baffles me is that I wrote to Farrar and—” his eyes flickered to the spectators, “—to Lady Farrar, telling them I had survived. It is very obvious now that my letters were intercepted by someone—someone,” he glared at Phillip Ellsworth “with a strong motive for mischief. At the time, when I received no answer I simply thought— Well, never mind that. Tell us more about this official visit, Captain Farrar. What further gems of wisdom had this—er, colonel to impart?”

  “He warned me to hold myself ready for court martial,” said Farrar, numbly. “I—I knew that regardless of why I ran … I should never have left my post. I had abandoned my men for personal reasons. There was no excusing that, nor any escaping the punishment. I—I could see no least reason to further distress my aunt by revealing Harding’s conduct.”

  His face a thundercloud, the major growled, “The predictable reaction of a man of honour. However, I know of no officer having been sent to see you, Farrar. Certainly his errand was either erroneous or—a deliberate and vicious misrepresentation of the facts! Do you remember his name?”

  Farrar put a hand to his temple. “Knight, I think … No! It was Light! Colonel Light!”

  Rhodes said grimly, “I think we shall require a full description of the gentleman.”

  “Though I doubt he will ever be found, or Whitehall have any knowledge of him,” the duke murmured.

  It was beginning to dawn on Farrar now, and the possibilities were so awesome, the ray of hope so unnerving, that the courage which had sustained him through this long ordeal ebbed away. He found that he was shaking and asked in a thread of a voice, “Sir—am I … are you saying I am—am innocent? That—that this whole hideous thing is—over?”

  “Not by any means!” barked Green angrily. “You have admitted you ran after your cousin, but not how he died. Did you catch him?”

  “Yes, my lord. I was trying to make him return to his post when I was hit. But, as God is my judge, I swear I did not kill him.”

  Major Rhodes looked at the duke. The duke sighed, and shook his head.

  Lord Hibbard brightened. Th
e day might yet be saved. “The murder charge against you stands, Farrar. The testimony of the earlier witnesses cannot be ignored.”

  “Athough their identities are subject to question,” said the duke dryly.

  Once again, shock ran riot in the courtroom. Pounding his gavel angrily, Lord Green roared, “I would give a deal to come at your meaning, your Grace!”

  “I make no charge for revealing my meaning,” said the duke. He stood and seemed suddenly very tall and formidable. “I put it to you, my lord, that Captain Sir Anthony Farrar has been the victim of a cruel plot. That those who conspired against him knew how highly he regarded his personal honour and, trading on that commendable trait, did all they might to destroy him. He was never held in anything but the highest esteem in Whitehall. I have, in point of fact, discovered that a letter was sent to him at The Palfreys, commending him for his gallantry on the battlefield. And that this letter also was delivered into the hands of a near relative who was staying there at the time,” he sent a glance of scalding contempt at the white and twitching face of Phillip Ellsworth, “but obviously never received by Captain Farrar!” He held up his hand to quiet the burst of indignant comment. “Am I correct, Sir Anthony?”

  His head swimming and his knees like water, Farrar leant heavily on the guard. “Quite … correct, your G-Grace,” he stammered. “But—but I still don’t understand. Everyone thought…”

  “Not everyone, Captain,” interpolated Major Rhodes, his strong face stern as he regarded the battered wreck in the dock. Tony, he thought, fuming, had been put through a year of hell that would have driven many a man into madness. God send this last ordeal did not push him over the edge! “Whoever was behind this despicable affair,” he said raspingly, “despatched messengers to the families of many of our people who fell at Prestonpans. Under the guise of exposing your ‘guilt,’ these paid agitators, who’d probably never been near a military barracks, much less fought a battle, stirred up hatred and animosity against you. Rumour, once let loose, is the very devil to silence! Your enemies knew that you had no clear recollection of what had actually happened. It was their hope, Captain, that you would become so crushed by despair, so weary of contempt and villification, that you would oblige ’em and put an end to yourself, thus effecting a perfect murder!”