Love Alters Not Page 6

Incredulous, Miss Guild echoed, “Tearing up sheets…?”

  “Exactly so,” he confirmed, trying not to wince as he shifted his weight from the artificial foot to the still painful left one. “Come and see. I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all!”

  Miss Guild hurried out of bed and into her wrapper, then accompanied her tall nephew along the hall. Peregrine opened the door to Dimity’s bedchamber and following his aunt inside, propped himself against the wall.

  The bed had obviously been occupied. A dainty nightdress lay in a heap on the floor and a mutilated sheet was flung across the eiderdown, a pair of scissors had been left, open, on a nearby chair. Meeting Peregrine’s grim stare, Miss Guild thought, ‘Bandages?’ and her heart began to flutter with fear. It fluttered even more as a series of piercing shrieks rent the silence.

  “Jupiter!” gasped Peregrine, and hobbled into the hall.

  More shrieks rang out.

  Miss Guild ran to the stairs, Peregrine making his awkward way after her. Halfway down, they both halted.

  A small parade burst from the dining room. Mrs. Burrows, their cook-housekeeper, tall, fat, and unfailingly cheerful, led the way, still wearing cloak and bonnet, waving her arms and screeching at the top of her lungs. Behind her came South, the irascible abigail, and after her the buxom young housemaid, Tilly Thornton, both in full cry.

  Peddars, the footman, who had been polishing the brass knocker on the front door, shot inside, his slightly protruding eyes huge in his pudgy face.

  Johns, the sturdy individual who valeted the twins, rushed out of Piers’ bedchamber with a pile of cravats in his hand, his square features pale with alarm.

  “What a’God’s name…?” shouted Peregrine, hanging over the rail.

  Three distressed faces were raised to him.

  “A strange man, sir!” wailed South.

  “Fast asleep, Mr. Perry-green!” sobbed Thornton, wringing her hands.

  “In my bed!” the cook howled shatteringly.

  Peregrine looked grimly to his man. “My pistol. Quickly!”

  “Sir … it’s only … me.” The faint voice came from the man who walked unsteadily from the kitchen, unshaven and unkempt, wearing only a rumpled shirt and breeches.

  “Samuels!” breathed Peregrine, his mind leaping to possible conclusions.

  “Oh, poor soul,” said kind-hearted Miss Guild.

  “Sir—a word … private. Most—” Samuels began to cough, the seizure leaving him sagging exhaustedly against the wall. “Most … terrible urgent,” he wheezed.

  * * *

  Sudbury, who had expressed deep disappointment that Miss Dimity should have hesitated one instant before asking his help, guided the small coach to the trees at the brink of The Teacup and reined to a halt. “Will I go and have a look, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Yes, if you please. But for Lord’s sake try not to look so guilty about it!”

  Sudbury jumped down and sauntered to the edge of the depression with such exaggerated nonchalance that Peregrine groaned his frustration. Beside him, Miss Guild said, “I do not know whether to pray they are here, or not. Perry—if Mitten took Odin as Sudbury says, might she not have given him to Tio?”

  “Yes. Or ridden off with the silly gudgeon.” He thought, ‘But why hasn’t she come home?’ “Of all the beastly coils,” he said. “And you should not be here, Aunty Jane. This is a desperate business.”

  “As if I would stay away with Tio and my dearest niece in peril!”

  “You’re a right one love.” He gave her a squeeze. “Just the same, if there’s searching to be done—”

  Sudbury reappeared, running. Reaching the side of the coach, he gasped, “His lordship’s down there, all right, Mr. Perry. Shot in the head.”

  Jane Guild gave a little whimper and pressed one hand to her mouth.

  “Dead?” asked Peregrine, whitening.

  “Or near it, sir. There ain’t no sign of Miss Dimity, but—” his eyes fell. He said reluctantly, “Sorry I am to say it, but from the look of things there was one track going in from this side, but—a many horses going out—over there.”

  Cold with fear, Peregrine stared in the direction indicated. ‘A many horses…’ He thought, ‘Troopers. Our Mitten led ’em off, else they’d have poor old Tio on the way to the Tower.’

  Miss Guild began to weep softly. Peregrine slipped an arm about her. “We must get his lordship home. Can you manage, Sudbury? He’s no featherweight.”

  “I can haul him, sir. Have to throw him over my shoulder, though. Thing is—how am I to get him into the house without we’re seen?”

  Miss Guild said, sniffing, “We cannot, I’m afraid. We will have to concoct some tale to pacify everyone.” She dried her tears and, as Sudbury started off again, she put a hand on Peregrine’s arm. “We must send for Piers, so that he can look for Mitten.”

  He flushed. “D’you fancy I mean to sit at home and wait? I only wish to God I knew where she might have headed! She should have come back by this time. Unless…” He paused, his thin face bleak.

  Miss Guild pleaded, “Do not give up hope, dearest. She may not have been taken.”

  “I wish,” he said heavily, “I could believe that. But what chance has a slip of a girl against a troop of seasoned fighting men?”

  Jane Guild’s heart was heavy with fear for her niece and with grief for gallant young Horatio Glendenning, but at this her small chin lifted and a spark came into her gentle eyes. She said, “They likely thought the same about Jeanne d’Arc!”

  IV

  With Gordon Chandler supporting her and Lady Helen Farrar leading the way, Dimity was ushered through a central music hall, at the far end of which was a graceful, free-standing, spiral staircase. She noticed vaguely that rooms opened off this long wide hall, but her head was aching so that she gained only a muddled impression of spaciousness, quiet good taste, and luxury. She paused at the foot of the staircase, peering upwards through a mellow golden glow.

  Lady Helen murmured, “Poor creature, she is quite exhausted. Gordie dear, would you mind…?”

  Dimity was swept up and carried. After a confused interval, she found herself lying on a bed in a cool, quiet chamber, with the window curtains drawn. Lady Helen’s face drifted over her. “Your luggage will be brought up and put in the boy’s room,” she said echoingly.

  Something had been agitating at the back of Dimity’s mind. She remembered now what it was and said feebly, “My reticule, ma’am? All my papers are in it.”

  Lady Helen had green eyes also. They must, thought Dimity, run in the family. A rather puzzled look came into those eyes. “Have no fear,” said my lady. “I shall bring them in here for you.”

  “You won’t let … him…”

  “My nephew is not without—” A very brief check, then the serene voice resumed, “He will not go against my wishes, I assure you. Now why do you look so bewildered, child?”

  “I—I cannot understand why you are so kind as to let me stay here, ma’am. Under the circumstances.”

  A strange little smile curved the sad mouth. “As you said, my dear—under the circumstances … Besides, if your ward is truly the son of Walter Farrar, my dear husband would have wished to see him fairly treated. Now—go to sleep.”

  Dimity was at the edge of exhaustion, but she retained sufficient of her wits to be aware that someone had removed her habit and her boots. She could feel the vital parchment tickling between her breasts, and dared not risk the possibility of the maids coming in and putting her into her nightdress while she was half asleep. She managed a smile and closed her eyes. The instant the door was softly closed and she was alone, she climbed from the bed and thrust the cypher as far under the mattress as she could reach.

  Then, gratefully, she obeyed Lady Helen.

  * * *

  Gordon Chandler sprawled at his ease across the deep bay windowseat of the library, balanced a tankard on one drawn-up knee, and looked broodingly at immaculate flower gardens, ro
lling turf, and the curving sweep of the drivepath. Men were already repairing the railing of the quaint old wooden bridge, and the wreckage of the coach had been taken away.

  Having bathed and changed clothes hurriedly, Anthony Farrar sat perched against a reference table, a small bandage taped to his forehead, wineglass in hand, regarding his friend with a scowl. “You don’t believe me, I take it.”

  Chandler turned a troubled grey gaze to him. “Of course I do. Only—the boy is the spitting image of you when you were that age, Tony. The portrait of you that hangs in your aunt’s bedchamber—”

  “That used to hang there,” interpolated Farrar cynically. Chandler looked aghast, and Farrar went on with a mirthless grin, “But he is not my nephew—thank the Good Lord! And—” he leaned forward, waving his glass for emphasis, “my brother did not at all resemble me! That’s where they made their mistake. They took me for their model, instead of Walter!”

  “He could very easily have inherited your looks, rather than those of his father, you know.”

  “Dammit, Gordie! Don’t you see? I doubt that sly little harpy ever laid eyes upon Walter. Certainly, her sister was not married to him! More likely this Mary Deene was his lady in keeping at some time, and when Madame Piety—”

  “You mean the ‘sly little harpy’?” interposed Chandler gravely.

  “One and the same, my dear fellow, one and the same. And both steeped in avarice! As I was saying, when that consummate actress above-stairs learned of Walter’s death and of the fortune he’d made in Jamaica, she began to write herself a colourful scenario wherein a secret marriage is followed by an equally secret birth, and now it’s a case of—pay up or be blasted in the newspapers!”

  Chandler was silent for a moment, and knowing his friend’s way of considering carefully before he rushed into speech, Farrar waited. The comment, when it did come, was not what he had hoped for.

  “Is Walter’s fortune very large?”

  “Ninety-eight thousand, approximately.”

  Chandler’s brows went up and he gave a soft whistle.

  “Precisely,” sneered Farrar. “But no court is likely to judge that ha’porth of impudence to be Walter’s son. I wish to heaven Helen had not permitted them to stay here.” He scowled. “I’ll have to find a way to get rid of ’em. Fast!”

  Chandler pursed his lips. “One thing … Mrs. Deene don’t quite fit the role you’ve writ for her. She seems to me a lady of Quality. Nor have I the feeling she would be an easy one to frighten. As for the boy, he’s certainly been well bred up, and is full of spirit, by what I—”

  “Spirit! That little monster! I tell you, Gordie, when I heard that whip crack and saw the carriage coming at us like any cannonball, I could have— No, damn you! Do not dare laugh!”

  But Chandler did dare. Farrar’s scowl eased to a grin and finally he broke into a reluctant chuckle.

  “Do you know what I was thinking?” said Chandler, wiping his eyes. “I was remembering that time you and Quentin and I were down at Lac Brillant and he decided to climb the tower. You recollect?”

  Farrar smiled nostalgically. “Jove, but I do. Your idiot of a brother fell.”

  “Yes, and you were balancing on a gargoyle and tried to catch him.”

  “Whereupon the curst gargoyle snapped off and we both went through your sire’s brand new stained-glass window. Lord, but he was furious!”

  “He was. But told me later that if you hadn’t grabbed Quentin, he’d have been cold meat.”

  They looked steadily at one another. Farrar jerked to his feet, walked over to the fireplace and stared down into it. “Your ramshackle brother and his misplaced loyalty to Charles Stuart,” he muttered. “How is the poor old fellow?”

  Chandler brightened, as he always did when he spoke of his harum-scarum younger brother. “’Tis what I came to tell you—he and Penny have hired a little place in the country, not far from Paris, and Quentin writes he is fully recovered and digging and hoeing—generally having a grand time.”

  “Praise be! Gordie, how did that trifle-top become involved in the Jacobite fiasco? He’s no Catholic.”

  Chandler shrugged. “You know Quentin. Ever rushing in with no thought of consequences. But in fairness to him, I think he really admired Prince Charles. And he deplores the House of Hanover. A laudable opinion is one to judge them by Cumberland.”

  “Aye. That murderous whelp should have been smothered at birth!”

  Chandler sprang up throwing a worried glance to the slightly open door. “For the love of God!”

  “My people are loyal, never fear.” The bitter grin twisted Farrar’s mouth. “They’d have to be to stay with me.”

  “Few men are loyal when torment is brought to bear.” Sitting down again, Chandler added cautiously, “And is time you ceased scourging yourself, old fellow.”

  “For what? The fact that my battery crumbled when I ran? The fact that because they also ran many good men died? Must I really cease scourging myself, Gordie?”

  “What makes you think that had you not—I mean, had you stayed, you could have held them? They’d likely have deserted at all events. Your lieutenant must have tried.”

  “He did try. They ran over the poor lad with a gun carriage, I heard—God help him!”

  Chandler bit his lip, but persisted, “When I came to see you in the hospital, you—” He checked. Farrar was staring blankly at him. “You don’t recall my coming?”

  The same slow travesty of a smile dawned. Farrar muttered, “My clever little se defendendo device. For example, I have absolutely no recollection of poor old Horry Rhodes going down, and yet I know he fell. What my mind cannot accept, you see, it blots out. You’d be surprised at how effectively it has protected me.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” said Chandler compassionately. “If the army believed you responsible, you’d have been held for court martial.” A steady gaze was directed at him. Horrified, he leaned forward. “Good Lord! Tony—you’ve not been—I mean, they don’t— You will not be—”

  “Charged with desertion in the face of the enemy?” Farrar stared down at his boot and muttered expressionlessly, “I expected it. Long before this.” He looked up, meeting Chandler’s concerned regard enigmatically. “Two months ago, I received an official visit.”

  “Oh … my God!” whispered Chandler.

  Farrar’s attempt at nonchalance was not a great success. “I’m to hold myself ready.”

  ‘They’ll shoot him,’ thought Chandler, stunned. ‘By God, they’ll stand the poor devil against a wall and shoot him!’

  * * *

  The abigail’s name was Rodgers. A dark woman, rather square of face and form, she had very pale, clear skin and was not unattractive, Dimity had decided, setting her age at about the mid to late thirties. She was rather devoid of personality, her voice seldom varying from a dull monotone, and she had a tendency to clear her throat from time to time, as though preparing her hearers for the coming observation. She did so now, remarking as she brushed out Dimity’s hair that it was a nice morning, for a Monday, but rain had poured down in the night.

  “Monday!” exclaimed Dimity. “I must have slept like a log!”

  “Small—ahem—wonder, ma’am. My lady said she was s’prised you wasn’t ready for burying after what you’d gone through. Are you feeling better?”

  “Much better, I thank you. Er—my nephew … is he—?”

  “With her la’ship. Took quite a liking to him, she has. And he sticks to her like glue.” A spark of amusement brightened those dull dark eyes. “So scared of the master as he be, you cannot blame him hardly.”

  Dimity, who had already ascertained that the reticule, complete with Mrs. Deene’s papers, was safely in the chest of drawers, agreed with this, and wondered how she was to make restitution for Carlton’s disastrous mischief. Lost in thought, she paid little heed to what the abigail was about, but when the woman ceased her efforts and Dimity viewed the result, she was taken aback. Her brown loc
ks were luxuriant, and Rodgers had styled them in a mass of ringlets with tendrils drifting beside her ears and tiny curls all across her brow. ‘My heavens!’ thought Dimity, ‘Is too much!’ and instinctively reached for the hairbrush.

  The abigail had opened one of the two presses and now enquired, “Ahem—which gown would you wish to wear, ma’am?”

  There was an odd note to the question. Dimity put down the hairbrush, and went over to inspect the garments that had been neatly put away while she slept.

  Rodgers said, “This blue one is—er, pretty.”

  Dimity all but reeled. To say that Mrs. Deene’s taste had been questionable would be a giant understatement. The colours were garish, the trims much too ornate, and the bodices so diminutive as to have been daring even when worn by a married lady. Aghast, she scanned the gown Rodgers had selected. It was overburdened with bows and frills, but at least the colour was not so offensive as that dreadful orange thing, or the lurid pink satin with the open lacing down the front of the strip that passed for a bodice. “Y—yes,” she croaked. “That will do—nicely.”

  Her optimism was ill-founded. After the first attempt to fasten the buttons had failed, she clung to the bedpost, gasping, as Rodgers strove mightily with stay-laces. Poor Mrs. Deene had been an inch or two shorter, and rather on the thin side, whereas Dimity was tall and more generously endowed. She could almost breathe when Rodgers at last flung the skirts over, fastened the bodice in place, wrestled with the buttons, twitched and adjusted, then said, “Ahem,” as she looked frowningly at the hem.

  Following her gaze, Dimity saw more of her ankles than any gentleman had ever viewed unless a frolicsome wind granted them such a sight. It was all she could do not to moan aloud, but when she lifted her shocked eyes, she gave an involuntary yelp, and thought, ‘Lord above! I had as well wear no bodice at all!’ She raised a hand involuntarily to cover the voluptuous swell of her crushed breasts.

  “Lawks!” whispered Rodgers under her breath. “Did—I beg your pardon, I’m sure, but—did you borrow it, Mrs. Deene?”

  She could scarce claim to have borrowed all of them, and this one was the least offensive of the lot! “I fear … I have gained a—a few pounds,” she said wretchedly.