Love Alters Not (26 page)

Mrs. Deene and Otton. The bitter confrontation with Helen. His hopeless retreat into brandy. Stupid and stupider! And something else … something more a dream than reality. Had he really mauled the trollop in the family chapel…? He put a hand over his throbbing eyes. Lord, but he went from folly to folly! If he had raped the woman in a house of God, he was worse than Otton. His efforts to remember only made his head ache more viciously, and he lowered his hand and looked about for Shuffle.

He saw bright orange silk, a naughty expanse of very trim ankles, and a pair of hauntingly familiar cream kid high-heeled shoes. He quailed and clapped his hand over his eyes again.

Dimity relaxed her grip on the knife in her pocket that she had taken from the Armour Hall in case she was obliged to defend herself. She stepped nearer. “I brought water. If you want it.”

If he wanted it! His throat was a desert. He stretched out his hand blindly, and she put a flask into it. He drank thirstily, replaced the stopper and, very cautiously, turned his head to look up at her. She stood a short distance away, quietly composed. How any woman could look so heavenly in that hideous gown was past understanding. He saw the cold contempt in her face then, and closing his eyes again, bowed his head. “Did—did I … harm you?” he faltered.

“No. You would have, I think. But you stepped on Shuffle and forgot about me.”

He dragged himself up and clung to the tree trunk until the woods stopped spinning. He should go to her, but he wasn't sure he could walk without making an ass of himself, so he steadied himself against the tree and with his head still downbent said as clearly as he could manage, “I— There is nothing I can say that—that will … that could— I mean, I am very, very sorry.”

She was silent, watching that untidy fair head. She could feel the bruises he had put on her, but it was hard to hold anger when honesty compelled her to admit that her actions must at the very least have baffled him; that he could scarce be blamed did he judge her a loose woman who plotted against him. And so her voice had lost some of its edge when she asked at length, “Did you read the poem?”

He looked at her fully, remorse in his darkly shadowed eyes. “Poem?”

‘Thank heaven,' she thought. ‘He didn't read it!' “I know, Captain,” she said, “that whatever I am—or whatever I do, is of very little importance to you. But—I would like it very much if you would try to believe that I never met Roland Otton before last evening.”

He was remembering more now, and he turned away from her. “It is none of my affair.”

“True. But it is very much mine. I know that my presence at The Palfreys is a threat to your—er, birthright. But—on my honour, I had no intent to hurt you. Or to distress Lady Helen.” And even as she spoke the words, she knew they were useless, for how could he help but scorn such a declaration under the circumstances?

He stared dully at a ladybird busied about some small task in a cleft of the bark and shrugged. “It doesn't matter.”

The weary apathy, so at odds with his usual vitality, frightened her. She trod nearer. “May I ask you something?”

He sighed, and said in wry understatement, “I seem to have a slight headache. The fruits of my overindulgence.”

Dimity came quite close, found a suitable root, and settled herself on it.

Farrar eased his way down, and stretched out his long legs.

“Why,” she asked, “did you not tell her?”

At once, his thick lashes were lowered. He pulled up a weed and began to inspect it. “Tell her—what?”

“What you said about Quentin Chandler. I gather that Captain Otton harmed him in some way. Did they fight a duel?”

He gave a faint, mirthless smile. “They did, as a matter of fact. But that's not what I hold against him.”

“It is something very bad?”

“Yes.”

“What?” He frowned but did not answer, and she leaned closer and said intensely, “Sir Anthony, this is the fifth day I have been here, and I am not blind. You love her very deeply. If you told her the truth, perhaps she would have a chance to understand, but—”

He made a small gesture of finality. “No. I cannot speak of it in honour.” His lip curled. “I have a little left, you see.”

“You have a great deal.”

His head turned against the tree and he looked steadily at her. “What a very bewildering creature you are. I wish I could understand you.” He shrugged. “But it makes no difference. This has been coming for a long time. It was inevitable, I suppose. I just…” his voice cracked and he turned away. “I just hoped she wouldn't believe …
that.
But—it doesn't matter now.”

Dimity gripped her hands and shifted her attack. “How old were you when you came here?”

“Five.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

He hesitated, wondering why she wanted to know. But his brain was still clouded with the fumes of the brandy, and his head ached, and if he talked, he didn't have to think. “Walter was seven,” he began, haltingly. “He was to go off to school the following autumn. In early spring our parents were killed. A ridiculous accident—my father had insisted on taking the reins of his new coach, and he rushed the horses over icy roads. The coach overturned. Went into the river. It wasn't a great shock to us. Neither of us had known them very well. I believe my father spoke to me occasionally. Mama was always off to a soirée, or a musicale, or some such thing. We were sent to live with my uncle.” He stared broodingly at his weed.

“But you did not stay together. Was your uncle not in good financial colour?”

He smiled faintly. “He is the Earl of Elsingham.”

“My heavens! Then could he not have kept you together?”

“Certainly. Only he had no use for me. Nor I for him, for that matter. He was not unkind, do not mistake. It was just—he was exactly like my own papa. He ignored us. Walter didn't mind. He thought the castle splendid, as it is you know. Our governess was bored with everything except the first footman who was a very grand fellow. There was so much I wanted to know. To do. Most of all, I suppose, I wanted to be
with
someone. Someone who talked. Or who would listen. And who would read to me.”

Dimity thought of her own wonderfully full and merry childhood and, perhaps for the first time, knew how richly she had been blessed. She thought, ‘How perfectly dreadful!' and prompted quietly, “So you asked to come here?”

“No. The Farrars came down to visit. Sir Gilbert was the best kind of man and he and I were friends at once. I thought Helen the most exquisite lady I'd ever seen. She was so beautiful. She still is, of course, but—in those days…”

“I can imagine. And she was kind to you?”

“She was an angel. They had a boy of their own—Harding. They thought I would be a companion for him, but—well, he was older and went away to school. Then my uncle's health began to fail. I remember how worried Helen was, but somehow she found time for me. We walked every day, and she taught me so much. She has a great eye for beauty. She would point out the reflection of sunset in a puddle, or the dappling of shade along a lane; the sheen on a dragonfly's wings. She opened a whole world of wonder to me. She read to me—night after night. And we talked, and talked, and talked.” His eyes had softened as he spoke, and his smile was very tender. “I used to think of her as—my Madonna.”

Dimity thought, ‘You still do.' “And your cousin? Harding?”

There was the smallest pause, then he said, “He was a good fellow, but we had very little in common. Harding was two years ahead of me at school. I never saw him. When we came home for the Long Vacation or at Christmas, he had his friends, and I had mine. My uncle had died by the time I went to University. When I came down, Harding felt—” He checked, his lips tightening. “I bought a pair of colours.”

“Because you longed for army life? Or to leave the field clear for him?”

He turned his head toward her. She asked gravely, “Was he terribly jealous?” He looked away, frowning, and after a minute she prompted again, “Lady Helen said you both joined together.”

“That was later. I sold out in '43. I had a feeling something was wrong at home. I was right.” For a minute he looked very grim. “My aunt is a sensible lady, but she has no head for business. Harding was hopeless at finance. It took quite a time to get things straightened around.”

She asked shrewdly, “Did he resent that you were able to do so?”

“No, of course not. He was glad, in fact, that—” He hesitated, then went on rather lamely, “that I was home.”

She smiled. “Rather than being the dashing soldier, off at the wars?”

Again, the muscle in his jaw rippled, but he said nothing.

“So when the Uprising started you went back into uniform and he joined also. Why? Trouble at home?”

He smiled faintly, then muttered, half to himself, “To an extent he always had wanted to be in uniform. I warned him it was a hard life, but—he laughed at me, and said I was trying to keep him out of the fun, and that it would be pretty much a shout and a flourish and the Scots would run.” His smile very cynical, he said, “As it turned out, in that particular battle, the Scots shouted and—
we…
” he bit his lip, but finished doggedly, “ran.”

“Was he a good officer?”

A sudden twinkle brightened the brooding green eyes. “You have made me talk much too much, Mrs. Deene. Perhaps
you
will answer some questions now. For instance, what your real—”

The question was never to be finished. The quiet was rent by a terrible and familiar outburst: Savage, deep-throated barks; an anguished yelping.

Farrar was racing into the woods, pistol in hand, even as Dimity scrambled to her feet.

She followed, holding up her skirts and running as fast as she was able, her high heels sinking into the thick carpet of fallen leaves and twigs and mosses. She heard a shout and blood-chilling worrying snarls. She was very close now, but found her way blocked by a deep declivity and had to make a detour around it. The sounds had ceased; all sounds had ceased, and her heart shrank within her. Had those two savage animals killed him? Was she about to come upon a ghastly scene…?

The shot fractured the sudden hush and brought a chorus of cries and flutterings from frightened birds. Terror-stricken, stumbling, out of breath, Dimity came at last to a little glade, and she halted, mute with horror.

There was no sign of the mastiffs. Farrar was kneeling, the pistol in his hand still sending blue wreaths of smoke curling upward. As she stood there, frozen, he bowed lower. For a hideous moment she thought he had shot himself. Then, she caught a glimpse of the small broken shape before him; a little golden tail that would wag no more. And with a sob, she ran forward.

Still on his knees, he lifted his head, his face working and tears bright on his cheeks. “Do you want to see?” he asked hoarsely. “Do you want to see? Look, then! Look!”

Dimity allowed herself one quick glance, and spun away, her hands over her eyes. Somehow, she managed to say in a thready, far-away voice she scarcely recognized, “Come home. I'll send one of the grooms.”

“Like … hell! If I—if I hadn't been … babbling to you … she'd not have wandered off. Poor little Shuffle. My poor little Shuffle…” Racked with grief, he averted his face.

Her own tears falling fast, Dimity quavered, “Sir Anthony … do not—”

“Go!” he shouted, rounding on her. “Take your lies and your scheming and—go! Damn you! Get out of my sight!”

She fled.

In a little while, she heard her name called, and the butler, his face white and drawn with fear, ran towards her. “I—heard a shot,” he panted, coming up with her. “The—the master…?”

She pointed towards the glade. “Stay with him, Leonard. No matter—what he says. Please, stay with him.”

*   *   *

How it could possibly be so, Dimity could not understand, but when she went into the house the case clock was striking half past five. She walked wearily into the music hall and started up the stairs, but glancing towards the lower steps, saw someone huddled there. She crossed the big room quickly. Farrar's valet was awkwardly asleep on the second step. She woke him and told him quietly what had happened. He stared at her, aghast, then ran across the hall and sprinted up the spiral staircase. Dimity went over to the wing chair beside the fireplace and sank into it. She fell asleep at once, and awoke reluctantly when a rough hand shook her.

It was broad daylight, and Farrar bent over her. He had shaved and changed into riding dress. He was pale, his face set and harsh, but he had regained control.

“Anthony,” she murmured, her hand going out to him.

He stepped back. “It is my understanding, madam,” he said in a voice of ice, “that you wish to pay a call on Mr. Rafe Green.”

So the maids had chattered despite her dire warnings. Her heart sank. How he must despise her! “Yes,” she whispered helplessly.

“Come, then.”

She stood. The jonquil gown looked as though several horses had rolled on it. She knew her hair must be a fright, and she had not washed, nor dusted her face with powder for hours and hours. “I will only be a moment,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Eight. And I cannot wait a moment.”

“Nor I pay a call at this hour! Looking like this!”

His mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “Make up your mind, ma'am. 'Tis now or never.”

He meant to be rid of her. Heavy-hearted, she followed him to the side hall, aware that awed servants watched and whispered, and wondering if she was to be allowed to see Mr. Green and then be handed over to the military. If that was the case she would have no recourse but to throw herself on Sir Anthony's mercy and tell him the truth of it all. “I
must
change into my riding habit, sir,” she said, feeling like a doomed prisoner being taken to her execution.