Love Alters Not Page 3

  The hamlet loomed into view. A light glowed in one cottage window, and another shone brightly from the tavern on the single street where was the coaching office. Hoping that light meant the Machine would stop, she reined Odin to a trot and turned him off the lane. How on earth was she to stable him? Any ostler must be quite astonished to see a lady of Quality ride in alone at such an hour, and would certainly remember and describe her should the military make enquiries. She dismounted, sliding awkwardly from the saddle, her wet habit impeding her movements. The yard of The Spotted Cat was dimly illumined by the lantern that hung inside the open barn. Dimity bit her lip, knowing that each second she wasted might carry a terrible price.

  “Buy a basket, lady? A nice warm shawl for your pretty hair? I read your palm for a groat…?”

  The young voice was tired and devoid of hope as it droned on. Dimity pulled her hood close and turned to the gypsy lad who stood there, a small cart beside him, the donkey between the shafts standing head down and apparently asleep. The boy must, she thought, have come to meet the Portsmouth Machine at nine o’clock, and waited all these hours for it to arrive. Much chance he had of selling anything, poor creature.

  “Buy a basket, lady?”

  Come to think on it, she must have something to carry onto the coach, or she’d cut a pretty figure! She said in the gruffest voice of which she was capable, “I might. How much are they?”

  For a moment the drawn face was blank with disbelief, then the soft dark eyes brightened. He said eagerly, “Five shillings. A florin. One and sixpence. A shilling for you, lady.”

  It was an odd accent, not foreign, but not quite English, and neither cultured nor common. Under other circumstances she would have been curious about him. As it was, she had no time for curiosity, and growled, “My husband awaits me in Winchester, and I’ve to stable my horse.”

  “I’ll stable him,” he offered, looking admiringly at Odin. “He’s a fine big gry.”

  Dimity hesitated. She’d no wish for Peregrine to lose his favourite horse, but her situation was perilous in the extreme, for at any minute the dragoons might come galloping in.

  “I’ll take good care of him, mistress,” the boy urged.

  She opened Tio’s fat purse and took out a crown. “Very well. Tell the ostler he is to be fed and rubbed down, and my husband will call for him tomorrow. I must go to the inn and buy a ticket for the coach. Bring me a receipt and a covered basket, and I will pay you your whole five shillings.”

  His eyes big as saucers, he fairly snatched the reins. “What name, lady?”

  She dare not give her own, so borrowed one of Tio’s. “Clement,” she told him, and he nodded and led the big horse into the stableyard of the tavern.

  Dimity hurried to the front door, wiping quickly at her wet face, and tucking her bedraggled curls under the hood.

  The vestibule was draughty and dim. A long wooden bench beside the entrance was presently unoccupied. To the right, a corridor led off to what appeared to be the tap and a dismal coffee room, and to the left a shadowy flight of stairs rose to the upper floor. The coaching agent, waybills loosely clasped in one hand, snored in an armchair that had seen better days, and the tavernkeeper, perched on a stool behind the battered counter, eyed the sodden and dishevelled girl without approval. In response to her enquiry, he expressed the opinion that the Portsmouth Machine must have overturned, and if it ever did come, there likely wouldn’t be no seats left. And what was more, he didn’t hold with females travelling on their own. Especially the kind what had no luggage.

  “I left my luggage outside,” said Dimity, improvising desperately. “My mistress has been taken ill. We were on our way to join her husband, who has been visiting his father in Romsey, and I am sent to fetch him. I must get there quickly, for she is very sick and every minute counts!”

  He was unconvinced, and questioned her so that she had to invent a farm, and the family who had been so kind as to allow her mistress to rent their best bedchamber, and to care for her until her husband arrived.

  “Why didn’t these ’ere folk send a man on the errand?” he asked suspiciously. “Blest if I ever heard of sending a young woman to—”

  “All the men were commandeered by the military,” she interposed. “There’s a rebel been seen, and they’re out hunting him.”

  His eyes gleamed with interest. “Wot? ’Tain’t never the chap with the hundred guineas on his head?”

  In his excitement his voice had risen, and the coaching agent woke up and blinked at them, stretching. “What’s all the fuss?”

  “Lady, here I am,” called a low voice from the door.

  “Outta’ there!” snarled the tavernkeeper, reaching for a hefty cudgel.

  The gypsy boy retreated. Dimity went out, hearing the tavernkeeper tell the agent about the Jacobite dog the troopers were hunting.

  The gypsy waited at the corner of the building, basket in hand. “Your fine horse is nice and warm now,” he said. “And I got you my best basket with a scarf to cover it, just like you wanted, lady.”

  “Oh dear,” said Dimity. “That will never do.”

  The bright glow of hope faded from his eyes, but he did not protest, though his thin shoulders slumped despairingly. There was something about his wan face and humble manner that made her warm to him. She touched his sleeve and whispered, “What is your name?”

  “Florian, lady.”

  “The problem is, Florian,” she explained, looking worriedly at the basket, “that I thought it would be a proper lid. I should have some luggage if I am to get on the coach at this hour, but the basket is obviously empty, even with the scarf.”

  He regarded her solemnly for a moment, but if he wondered why she must appear to have luggage, he did not voice the question, but hurried to his cart, and rummaged about. He returned and showed her the basket stuffed with straw and some pieces of sacking, the scarf arranged over it so that it appeared well laden.

  Dimity smiled and exchanged a crown piece for the basket. Florian grinned at her, knuckled his brow respectfully, and went off, clearly elated by his good fortune.

  A great commotion arose now, and the Portsmouth Machine came with a flourish around the corner, the yard of tin sounding its strident summons. At once, all was industry and bustle. Ostlers, half asleep, came staggering out to change the teams. The coachman, muffled to the ears, and a heavy woollen shawl over his caped coat, clambered down from his lofty perch, damning everything and everybody. The guard, silent and glum, and looking like a drowned rat, swung down the far side. As if by magic, people appeared from every direction, clustering around the coach, all talking at once. Dimity’s attempt to reach the coaching agent was frustrated, as he began to harangue the coachman. The coachman damned him quite explicitly, and Dimity drew back, waiting.

  A shrill yelp made her jump. A small, fair boy, close behind her, was eyeing her resentfully. “You trod on my toe,” he accused.

  “Oh, I am sorry.” Dimity glanced at the lady to whose skirts he clung. “I do apologize, ma’am. I hope I didn’t hurt the little fellow.”

  “Well, you did,” the boy proclaimed. “Very bad. I ’spect my whole toe will turn black and drop off, an’ then you’ll be sorry.”

  Far from being alarmed by this dire prediction, the lady boxed his ear hard. “Hold your tongue, Master Sauce! And stop dragging my skirts sideways!” She turned to Dimity, disclosing a dark, lovely face, framed by powdered ringlets and a stylish bonnet. She wore rather a lot of paint, thought Dimity, and her accent was a trifle affected, her voice loud and harsh. “Disgraceful,” the lady continued. “Kept waiting for hours and hours, and not a decent meal to be had at this horrid inn. Never worry about the boy, ma’am. I am very sure you did not mean it, and he always is underfoot.” She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “One way or another!”

  Dimity saw tears glisten on the child’s lashes, and a red mark was glowing on his cheek, but he blinked and his chin lifted defiantly. Touched, she said, “Oh no, truly it was n
ot his fault, but my own. Such a fine boy. Your son, ma’am?”

  “No, thank God! My sister’s brat. And if you did but know the trouble I’ve been put to!” She tightened her lips. “Take off your hat and make us known to the lady. Have you no manners?”

  The boy snatched off his hat and bowed jerkily. “I am Carlton, an’ it please you, ma’am,” he said, polite but fixing her with a steady and resentful stare. “This is my aunty, Mrs. Deene.”

  Shaking hands with Mrs. Deene, Dimity thought she had never seen so beautiful a little boy. Fair curls clustered about his well-shaped head, eyes of a deep green regarded her from under brows that already showed a firm line, and the delicately chiselled nose and cheekbones, the tender mouth, were saved from girlishness by that strong chin.

  She put out her hand. “How do you do, Carlton? I am Miss Cr-Clement.”

  A glint came into the green gaze. He touched her fingers, but said nothing.

  “Ten minutes!” roared the coachman. “Blast everything, we’re so late now, ain’t no use in rushing.” He glared at the unfortunates making their groaning way from the coach. “Ten minutes! Hot chocolate and tea in the coffee room! Ten minutes!”

  “Ten minutes, indeed!” protested Mrs. Deene, indignantly. “We have been delayed here for hours! Now we’ve to wait another ten minutes!”

  “Ar, well you may be thankful as you was waiting in a cozy inn, ’stead of atop my coach, missus,” snarled the coachman, shawl flapping wetly as he strode past her, bound for the tap, the passengers trooping inside after him.

  “Insolent!” raged the beauty. “If ever I heard the like! He’d never dare address me so was I accompanied by a gentleman!”

  A man wearing a frieze coat with a fur collar came stiffly from the coach, doffed his hat, and eyed her appraisingly. “I sympathize, ma’am. These Machines are an abomination, and the clods that tool them, a public disgrace. May I be of service?”

  Dimity had seen the agent come in and she ran to try and buy a ticket. Three irate passengers claimed his attention before she could get in a word, and she was elbowed to the rear. She had never before ridden on a public conveyance, never been treated in so contemptuous a manner, never felt so alone and unprotected.

  “’Ere,” bellowed an irate voice. “Wotcha igger-gnawing the lady fer, Bert? She been a’backin’ and a’fillin’ while you ’tended to everyone an’ ’is bruvver! Give ’er a turn, mate, do!”

  Dimity’s champion, a robust middle-aged man with a London accent and the look of a prosperous farmer, beamed at her, and she gave him a grateful smile.

  The coaching agent threw an irked look from the farmer to the lady who was so hidden in cloak and hood that he had no notion what she looked like. “Where bound?” he grunted.

  “Romsey,” she said, reaching for Tio’s purse.

  “Don’t go to Romsey. Change at Winchester. Take it or leave it. I only got that place ’cause a passenger give up waiting at Abingdon. Make up y’r mind, miss.”

  Since a hatchet-faced woman was hurrying in the door with the look of a hopeful passenger, Dimity wasted not a second in paying what was undoubtedly an exorbitant price for her seat. “Miss D. Clement” was added laboriously to the waybill and, having thanked the farmer, she made her way out of the confusion surrounding the harassed agent.

  Master Carlton was seated alone on the bench, looking very small and tired and forlorn. There was no sign of his aunt and Dimity supposed she must have gone into the coffee room. The bench was hard and the narrow bars along the back did not invite a long stay, but it was better than nothing. She sat beside the child, who eyed her without delight.

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, “we shall soon be off. I expect you like travelling in the Portsmouth Machine.”

  “I don’t like it a bit,” he responded bluntly. “It’s crowded and smelly. I like riding better. An’ they call them stagecoaches now.”

  “Oh dear, I keep forgetting. I wonder why they changed the name.”

  “Because this one fits better, ’course. It’s a coach, and it goes in stages.”

  Despite the air of male superiority, his eyes were fixed yearningly on a pork pie the farmer had carried from the coffee room and was despatching while informing a frail-looking man that he’d been a merchant in the City all his days but was now a “gentleman farmer.”

  ‘So I was right,’ thought Dimity, rather pleased with her perspicacity, and she asked, “Is your aunt gone in to buy you something to eat?”

  He gave a derisive snort. “She went off with that man with the fur stuff on his coat.”

  Dimity’s eyes widened. But perhaps the gentleman meant to help Mrs. Deene carry the food back. The coffee room looked smoky and none too clean. Probably, the lady would not wish to eat in there. She said, “I think I will try if I can get a cup of tea.”

  “Better not,” he advised. “Jermyn said it’s best not to drink nothing on a long journey.”

  Dimity’s cheeks grew hot. The boy sensed he had said something improper and looked frightened. “Why is your face red? Did I do wrong?” and before she could reply, he pleaded with a glance to the coffee room, “Don’t tell her. Please. Don’t tell her.”

  “It was nothing, don’t worry. Besides,” she winked at him, “I have brothers.” That won an easing of the scared expression and she went on, “But I really am hungry. Would you escort me, kind sir?”

  He giggled, started up, then sat back hurriedly. “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, do come. In case your aunt forgets, I’ll buy you a pasty, if—” She checked. He was squirming. “Carlton? What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he declared, but he was pale and looked even more scared.

  Dimity reached over and grasped his left arm. “Oh—my goodness!”

  The side of the bench had a curving iron armrest, secured to the seat by a bolt, on each side of which were several round holes. After the inexplicable fashion of small boys, Carlton had inserted his left index finger into one of the holes. “Good gracious!” exclaimed Dimity, low-voiced. “Can you not get it out?”

  He admitted this, adding despairingly, “I’ve tried and tried. She’ll be so cross! Don’t tell her, will you?”

  “Of course not, but she’ll find out, you know. You cannot take this bench on the Por—stagecoach. Now never worry so. Let me see.”

  His small finger was quite trapped. Dimity said, “I shall put my basket on the seat, so no one will sit here. Wait just a moment.” He gave her a look of stark tragedy, and she stood and wandered to stand near the farmer. She had noticed that the piece of paper holding his pork pie was excessively greasy, and he had discarded it and was wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief. Unobtrusively, Dimity scooped up the crumpled paper and hurried back to the child who seemed all pale face and great eyes. She sat down and proceeded to smear the grease over his finger. “Oh dear, you have made it bleed. Well, we shall bind it up as soon as we can. Try again. Gently, now.”

  He bit his lip but strove bravely and in only a short while had freed himself. He turned to Dimity with a beaming grin, and she clapped her hands. “Bravo! Now, let me tend your wound, sir.” She took out the scrap of cambric and lace that served her as handkerchief and tied it carefully around the injured member. “That’s better,” she said with a smile. “Now there will be room for the rest of us in the coach.”

  He giggled and told her she was a “prime sport,” and side by side, they started into the coffee room, only to hear the coachman bellow, “All aboard!”

  With much loud complaining, the passengers came hurrying out, several clutching cakes or biscuits.

  Carlton looked up at Dimity remorsefully. “Now you won’t be able to get anything. ’Cause of me. Are you tummy-ache hungry?”

  “No,” she said airily. “Are you?”

  He sighed, but squared his shoulders. “No. I’m not, either.”

  His aunt appeared with the gentleman in the frieze coat. She carried nothing for the boy to eat, and Dimity, who seldom stood
in judgement on others, thought her selfish for all her beauty.

  Mrs. Deene glanced their way and hurriedly removed her hand from the arm of her escort. “Well, come along, Carlton. Do not dawdle or we won’t get a good seat.” She surveyed the farmer’s bulk without enthusiasm and observed that as it was, they were like to be crowded.

  Her prediction proved well justified. The interior of the coach was cramped, cold, and far from clean. The squabs had long since lost whatever plumpness they might once have had, and were lumpily uncomfortable; the space between the two seats was so small that Dimity’s knees were constantly in collision with those of the farmer, who grinned at her appreciatively with each contact; and the basket held on the lap of the elderly lady smelled of strong cheese, mingling with the odour of the frieze coat which was damp and exuded an air of sheep.

  Soon after the stagecoach lurched and jolted out of the yard of The Spotted Cat, the man in the frieze coat fell noisily asleep. The farmer, who was taking up far more than his share of the opposite seat, followed his example with even greater resonance, and a few minutes later, Carlton, crushed between the farmer and the old lady (who had very sharp elbows) dozed off also. With time to think, Dimity pictured her brother waking in a few hours and discovering that she had vanished. Samuels would be able to tell him what had happened, thank goodness. She could only pray that Perry would not insist upon going himself to find Tio, but would send one of the servants. Her heart sank as she came to the conclusion that he would not do so. He was bound to feel he must go himself.

  “Captain, indeed,” snorted Mrs. Deene. “A fine Captain he is! If he dares refuse to acknowledge the boy I shall tell him to his face that with his reputation he needs no more black marks against him!”