Love Alters Not Page 2

  The storm, which had been drifting about all day, eased off during the evening, although it continued to rain with steady persistence. Dimity’s slumbers were restless, and she awoke, heart pounding, from a nightmare in which she wore Scots plaid and Butcher Cumberland and a whole regiment of dragoons were chasing her, brandishing bayonetted muskets, their bloodthirsty howls drawing ever closer. She sighed with relief to find herself safely in the dear, familiar room, then jumped as a great gust of wind shook the house and sent rain lashing against the windows. Her mouth felt like parchment. She reached for the pitcher, but South, the rather irascible woman who served as abigail to both herself and Aunt Jane, had neglected to fill it. Grumbling, Dimity settled down again, reluctant to ring for South, who would undoubtedly clump down the stairs so loudly she’d wake Perry. It was no use, however; her throat was a desert, and at last she turned up the wick on her bedside lamp, slid her feet into cold slippers and, shivering, tied her dressing gown about her.

  She lit a candle from the lamp, and went quietly into the hall. At once it became apparent that she need not have hesitated to ring for South. The wind was a gale, the rain hissed and rattled, and far off she heard the threatening growl of thunder. Even had the abigail complained all the way from the attic, she would scarce have been like to disturb Peregrine. But there was no point in calling her at this stage, and Dimity went downstairs, across the hall, and into the corridor beyond the dining room that led to the kitchen, and Cook’s quarters.

  Thunder rumbled as she opened the door. An unexpectedly cold gust of air blew out her candle, and she knew with terrifying certainty that she was not alone.

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. She stood motionless in the pitchy darkness, longing to run, yet with her feet having seemingly taken root. Another gust blew the curtains over the pump and she could hear them flapping about. The window must stand wide! Gradually, she detected the sound of heavy breathing. Perhaps, if she fainted, he would not cut her throat. But she was too stiff with fear to faint. “Piers!” she screamed silently. But even had her vocal chords obeyed her will, Piers was now halfway to London.

  By the glare of distant lightning, she saw the faint gleam of Cook’s meat chopper. She made a grab for it as a muffled and incoherent mumbling apprised her of the fact that the intruder was definitely male, and probably intoxicated. She swung the chopper high, but almost dropped it with fright when a violent sneeze was roared from only a few paces distant. Somehow, the plebeian sound reassured her a little.

  “Wh-Who’s … th-there?” she quavered. There came a sound of shuffling movements and she added in a near shriek, “Stay back! I am armed!”

  “M-Miss Dimity?”

  The voice was vaguely familiar. At least he knew her. Still clutching the chopper, she said, “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Samuels, miss. Lord Horatio’s head groom.”

  Inexpressibly relieved, she gulped, “Oh! If you but knew how you startled me!” She put down the chopper and groped her way to the window. Raindrops sprinkled her face as she closed the casement. She called, “There’s a tinder box on the mantel by the stove.”

  She heard him fumbling. He awoke a flame, and she crossed to re-light her candle and held it up, peering at him.

  Samuels, a sturdy man in his late thirties, usually very neat of person, was barely recognizable. His hat was gone; his wig, a sodden mass, straggled untidily about his face; his clothing was soaked and muddy, and he shook violently, his teeth chattering as he eyed her in apparent anguish.

  Fear knifed through her. “Dear, oh dear! Whatever is it? No—first, come and sit down, poor soul. I’ll wake the servants and get you some dry clothing.”

  “No!” He croaked the word, swayed, and groped drunkenly for the table.

  Dimity ran to pull out a chair and guide his sagging form into it.

  “Your brother. Mr. Peregrine … Please, miss—call him.”

  “I cannot. He is ill.” She started for the door, only to again be checked by his feeble demand that she not summon help.

  “I must get back,” he gasped, shivering. “’Tis … If I…” he broke into a racking spell of coughing, and sagged over the table, white and spent.

  Dimity hurried to feel his forehead. It was hot and dry, although he shivered convulsively. Again, he mumbled a request for Peregrine, and she promised soothingly to call her brother if he did as she bade him. She managed to get him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, and she guided him into Cook’s room beyond the pantry. He unfastened his dripping cloak, then all but fell onto the bed. Dimity pulled off his boots, and at last had him under the covers.

  Slightly winded, she knelt beside him. “Now,” she said urgently, “tell me quickly, Samuels. Is it Lord Horatio?”

  The groom moaned and muttered distractedly, but at last seemed to acknowledge his own helplessness. “Your brothers, miss,” he said hoarsely. “They fought for the king…”

  “They know Glendenning is in sympathy with the Jacobites,” she put in, trying to control her impatience. “What has happened to his lordship?”

  He bit his lip in an agony of indecision. “He’ll have my ears for involving you … but … Gawd! I don’t know what to do for the best.”

  Yearning to strangle him, she patted his hand kindly. “You have done your best. Have you been riding all night?”

  “Waiting,” he groaned. “His lordship went out to help a poor Jacobite gentleman who’d been hounded as far as Silchester and was too weak to keep on.”

  She felt chilled as her worst fears were realized. “When was this?”

  “Two days since, Miss Dimity.” He clutched at her wrist frantically. “He should’ve been home within hours! The troopers are thick throughout the Downland, and— Miss, I’m that scared!”

  “This Jacobite he was to help,” she said, holding his shaking hand tightly. “Is he of extreme importance? I think I never have heard of so determined an effort to take a rebel.”

  “He is—” he coughed again, then gasped out, “of great importance. And if they’ve took his lordship, his head will be on Temple Bar before—”

  Her heart quailing to that terrible apprehension, she cried, “Hush! Do not even think so terrible a thing! Now, tell me, did you go to Silchester?”

  “Couldn’t get nowhere near it! Troopers everywhere. Milord said if anything went wrong, he’d make for The Teacup. He thought your brother might help was he in dire straits. But—I’ve been waiting there since last night, with never a sight of him. I began to think perhaps he’d slipped past me and come here, and—and then I started to feel poorly, so…”

  “So you came to us. Just as you should. Very well, I will wake my brother and he will send help to his lordship. Sleep now, and try not to worry.” She smiled kindly, tucked the blankets closer around his chin, and went out, closing the door on his broken expressions of gratitude.

  In the kitchen, she stood motionless. Horatio Glendenning was indeed more than a distant cousin to them all. A blithe, good-natured young man, he had seemed from boyhood to prefer their simple home to the vast estates to which he was heir. Her earliest memories included him: laughter, companionship, happy expeditions, growing up—and Tio. Dear Tio.… He was so much in love with her. And he was the man her brothers hoped she would marry. Certainly, such a union would solve all their financial woes. Only … it was childish of course, but she clung to a wistful longing to lose her heart to the man she would marry. The viscount was good-looking, brave, honourable, and deeply devoted, and she loved him as one loves an old and dear friend. Not as a husband. With equal certainty she knew that if any one of the Cranfords was in trouble, Glendenning would not hesitate for an instant to risk his life in their behalf. No less must be done for him.

  She hurried into the hall only to hesitate again by the dining room door. Her first impulse had been to ask Peregrine to send some of the men out to search, but she saw now that it would not do. Perry was as reckless as he was brave. He would be out of bed if he had to craw
l, strap on that wretched artificial foot and rush off, likely breaking his neck this time, rather than turning his ankle.

  Distraught, she turned back toward the kitchen. But to go out to the coach-house, over which dwelt the grooms, seemed even less satisfactory. If she asked Sudbury, the head groom who also served as coachman, he would volunteer without an instant of hesitation. So would young Peale, the under-groom; or Billy, the stableboy; or Peddars, their solitary footman. Only—Tio, bless him, was deep in Jacobite trouble, which was treason. And the penalty for aiding a traitor—especially a fugitive “of great importance”—was death in its most hideous form. One did not ask one’s servants to take such dreadful risks.

  And yet—what else was she to do? Unless …

  * * *

  The rain eased at about two o’clock, but although it no longer poured down, the fall was steady and, with the continuing flashes of brilliant lightning and the distant growling of thunder, gave every indication of becoming a torrent again at any moment. The sudden deep depression, known as The Teacup, was overgrown with trees and shrubs which afforded some shelter from the elements. Having tethered Odin to a tree, Dimity pulled her fur-lined hood and cloak tighter about her, and shivered. She had been able to gather some medical supplies and slip out of the house without difficulty. Her attempt to saddle and harness Odin had been less successful. She had chosen the big bay in case Tio needed a fast animal, but the horse, Perry’s favourite, was a horrid creature and had rolled his eyes and pranced about in such a ridiculously ungodlike way that she had expected Sudbury to come down at any minute. Fortunately, she was tall and strong and, having grown up with two brothers who considered that any well-bred person must know how to care for his own horse, she was not inexperienced in such matters and had at last led the bay out to the mounting block without having roused the grooms.

  Odin snorted and sidled nervously. Dimity patted his neck, peering about her. For a lady to ride alone at night was shocking. When her brothers learned of this episode, she would be in for a proper scold. But if she was able to help Tio they would be proud of her, no matter how they might grumble. On the other hand, if she was caught by the military … She shuddered. That did not bear thinking of.

  A howling gust snatched the hood from her head. Thunder rumbled, but it seemed she had heard sharper sounds just before the peal. Had it been gunfire? Was that a shout? Or was her overwrought imagination at work and the sounds only some of the many voices of the storm? It was silly to worry so. Tio was indestructible. She restored her hood, smiling faintly as she recalled some of the wild pranks the three young men had revelled in during their eventful school years.

  A sudden thunder of hoofs. A dark shape rushing straight at her. Odin neighed and reared up in fright. The oncoming animal shied wildly. The rider hurtled from the saddle and lay unmoving, his horse galloping off into the darkness.

  With a shocked cry, Dimity ran forward. She thought, ‘’Tis likely just a soldier…’ But as she bent above that sprawled form the lightning revealed a hatless head, the drenched, unpowdered hair showing darkly red, and she knew she had found the man she sought.

  “Tio,” she cried frantically, dropping to her knees beside him. “Please, please do not be dead!”

  “Wouldn’t dream … of it,” came the faint response. He stirred, but so feebly that her anxiety deepened.

  “It’s me,” she said foolishly. “Tio dear, are you hurt?”

  “Not badly.” He sounded very tired. “Just a—musket ball, where ’twill do the least … damage.”

  Horrified, she demanded, “Where?”

  “My … head.”

  She turned his head very gently and, her eyes having become accustomed to the darkness, saw that the left side of his face was all blood. She bit her lip, blinded by sudden tears. Then she scrambled up, ran to Odin and unbuckled the saddlebags. Thank God she had brought linen strips and a small flask of brandy. She flew back to Glendenning. He had not moved, and lay still and helpless in the mud, the rain falling lightly on him.

  She had to call him twice before he answered. “I have brought brandy. Can you take some?”

  “No time,” he said faintly. “Must get on.” He began to struggle to sit up. “Mustn’t be … caught…”

  She propped him with all her young strength, but he sagged, his head rolling on her shoulder. “Can’t,” he groaned. “Dammitall! Perry, you shall have to … go, old fellow. Sorry. But—I’m done.”

  Her heart contracting, she thought, ‘Oh, God! Is he dying?’ and said, chokingly, “Tio, I will bind your poor head, and we—”

  Distant shouts were borne on the wind. Glendenning tensed. “They’re—damned determined … lot,” he gasped. “Perry, I—I carry the—the fourth stanza of that … blasted cypher. You must know all England’s … searching for’t. Found … courier just ’fore he … turned up his toes, poor chap. Gave me his—his damned message. You—you take it.”

  The shouts were nearer. Her blood beginning to run cold with terror of rope and axe, Dimity whispered, “Yes, yes. But we must get to the house. We can hide you if only—”

  “No, I tell you!” One hand came up to clutch the edge of her cloak. “Dreadful to—ask, I know. Wouldn’t put you in—in such a fix, but … life and death. Many deaths. Please … you—take it. For—for old times’ sake, Perry…”

  He was thrusting something at her and she felt the texture of parchment against her palm. His head rolled helplessly. His well-built, once powerful body was so limp. She sobbed, “Tio! My dear God! Tio—where am I to take it? To whom must I give it?”

  As if with a tremendous effort he began to whisper something, and she bent closer, struggling to catch the words through the howl of the wind and the terrifyingly clear sounds of the riders.

  “Decimus Green … All … Near Romsey. He’ll know—” He shoved a purse at her. “You may need … this.”

  “Yes, dear. But—Tio, oh please wake up! Tio—where?”

  His voice almost inaudible, he panted, “Fair … Decimus … All—all…” and he slumped and lay very still and heavy in her arms.

  She knelt there, her head bowed over his unresponsive, so terribly marred face, and wept heartbrokenly.

  “I tell you ’twas this way! In that last big flash I saw him head fer them trees!”

  Another second or two and they would be found. If dear Tio was not dead, they would take him and hack off his arms and legs before a mindless mob, and— She shrank, sickened. Not Tio! They must not perpetrate their atrocities on this dear, gallant man! She let him slide as gently as she could, pushed the flask under one limp hand, and jumped up, tucking into her bodice the little scrap of parchment that was death. Running, dashing tears away, she untied Odin, dragged herself into the saddle with a strength born of panic, and reined him around.

  In the bright flash of lightning she saw that they were almost upon her. She rode out with no attempt at concealment.

  Someone howled exultantly, “There he goes! After him, men!”

  A musket barked, shatteringly. Half fainting with fright, Dimity rammed home her dainty spurs.

  Odin was affronted. The master knew very well there was no cause to resort to such methods to get him to run. If this puny woman-thing on his back wanted speed, by hoof and hock he would show her! He gathered his mighty muscles and went like a black streak across the night, Dimity clinging desperately to the pommel with one hand, and the troopers following, firing occasionally when the lightning granted them a sight of the flying cloak and big horse of their valuable quarry.

  II

  They were so close now that Dimity knew she would be shot at any moment, and the muscles of her back seemed to twist into knots as she crouched over Odin’s mane, waiting for the bullet that would strike her down. From the snatches of conversation she’d overheard when her brothers and their friends spoke of the war, she knew it was a variable sensation: some men suffered a great shock, followed by a temporary numbness, and others apparently experienced imm
ediate and overmastering pain. She thought she would prefer the former. At least then, one would know one had been hit, but there would be a space in which to prepare for the following anguish.

  The wind buffeted her; the rain was driving hard, making it difficult to see even when the lurid lamp of the lightning lit the sky. Above the great bumping peals of thunder and the pound of hooves, she heard the occasional crack of gunfire, and each time gave a small cry and huddled lower. Odin swept like a juggernaut through the blackness. She wondered if he could see where he was treading, or if he was just running blind. An he should fall … The shot sounded farther away. She wrenched her head around and could no longer discern the darker pursuing shapes against the sky. ‘Glory, glory!’ she thought, and it came to her that the brutes had likely been chasing poor Tio all night, whereas Odin was fresh. Perhaps, after all, she had a chance of escape. And whatever else, she thought with a sudden leap of the heart, she had led them away from Tio. They believed they were still chasing him! Her elation faded. Was he dead, even at this moment? Lying there all alone, cold and slain, in The Teacup? She prayed for him, whether alive or dead, and reflected sadly that if he had to die he would probably just as soon it be there, where they had known such happy times together.

  Ahead, suddenly, was a big fast-moving shape. It was the Portsmouth Machine, the raindrops gleaming like strung beads in the bright glow of its lamps. It would be the Oxford to Southampton coach, then, and running very late, probably delayed by the storm. Her mind began to race. If she could get to Short Shrift, where, she hoped, the Machine would stop to take on passengers, she might be able to buy a ticket, and even if the troopers came up with them, they’d be looking for a wounded man, not a girl. Hope lifting her spirits, she turned Odin in a wide easterly swing, not daring to risk being seen. Lightning betrayed her presence. She heard a shout, from the coachman probably, and prayed she had not been identified as a female.

  They were past then, Odin maintaining his tireless stride, and Dimity peering desperately through the darkness, searching for the hamlet. At last, they reached the crossroad and the signpost pointing east to Basingstoke, southwest to Andover, south to Short Shrift and Winchester. Another mile and she would reach the hamlet. She glanced back again, but seeing no sign of pursuit, rode on, praying she would have time to stable Odin and buy a ticket before the dragoons arrived.