Love Alters Not (37 page)

Glendenning looked at him searchingly, then handed him the precious little document. “I can scarce refuse, when had it not been for you, Fotheringay would have it at this very minute.”

Peregrine was near exhaustion as was evidenced when he asked Piers for his arm. His brother at once supporting him, they went slowly up the stairs, Chandler lighting their way.

Farrar lit a candle for Dimity. She rested her hand on his wrist. “Thank you for my brother's life, Sir Anthony.”

He put his hand over hers, his fingers trembling, and rather thought he said that it had been his honour. They stood gazing at each other through a suspended moment of perfect understanding. Then, Dimity came back to earth, blushed rosily, and turned away. Farrar gazed after her, enchanted by the grace of her every movement as she went up the stairs.

“Er…” said Glendenning, hesitantly.

Shocked out of his trance, Farrar jumped, realized that he was smiling like an idiot, and felt his face burn, which made him feel even more idiotic.

“You'd best tell me what you have in mind,” said the viscount quietly, “Just in case.”

“Oh—er, of course,” stammered Farrar. “Matter of fact, I'll show you, if you'll come with me. But I'd as soon keep the hiding place from Miss Cranford.”

“The less she knows, the safer she will be. Quite.” Glendenning spoke evenly, but he looked troubled.

The bubble burst, and Farrar was back in the harsh present. Despising himself, he thought bitterly, ‘Where the devil were my wits gone?' “You—you must surely be aware,” he stammered, “that I am not—could never be—a rival, for her hand, Tio?”

Glendenning sighed. “I've really no wish, you know, to win her by default.”

*   *   *

She cannot have her sweets,

So she huddles 'twixt the sheets,

Listening to the tears

Dripping in her ears.

The memory of the small poem which Peregrine had made up long ago brought a watery smile to Dimity. She'd been seven years old, stricken with mumps, and denied even one of the bonbons a sympathetic but uninformed cousin had sent. Her brother, home from school for the summer, and watching her misery from a bedside chair, had thrown the teasing little verse at her. It had made her laugh then. It helped restore her spirits now, and she sat up in bed and dried her eyes.

There was not the least good to be obtained from weeping the night away. Nor was there any point in refusing to admit that she had been so unwise as to give her heart to a gentleman who was barred from her by a wall that was invisible, intangible, and unbreachable. Sir Anthony Farrar had deserted in the face of the enemy, a heinous crime which he not only admitted, but for which he offered no defence. In a very different action he had saved her brother's life, despite the terrible risk to himself, wherefore she was very sure that neither the twins nor Horatio Glendenning would fight him. But in a few hours he would face a man who hated him and had already sought to kill him. She trembled to the knowledge of the escape the duel offered; how much less painful for his family were he slain by the Code of the Duello rather than by the Code of Military Justice. He could be buried as an unfortunate who had fallen on the field of honour, or as a deserter, executed by his own countrymen and condemned to an unmarked grave of shame. And how like him to take the path that offered the least pain to his aunt. She closed her eyes and gripped her icy cold hands together and prayed.

Five minutes later, wrapper clasped over nightgown and candlestick in hand, she crept along the hall and went down to the kitchen in search of the British remedy for war, flood, famine, pestilence, and other sundry ills—a cup of tea. She was surprised to see a glow of light from the partly open kitchen door. Upon pushing it open, she was further surprised to see Carlton in nightshirt and slippers wrestling with a coffeepot while Swimmer crouched in the middle of the table lapping a saucer of milk. “Hello, dear,” she said. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a tolerant smile. “I knew you'd say that, Aunty. I 'spect you can't help it, being a grown-up. I'm making coffee. I'm helping.”

He could not be helping Anthony, for Anthony would be sleeping at this hour. Duels, she knew, were usually conducted between sun-up and eight o'clock, so he would have a few hours of rest, at least. She crossed to take down a tray the boy was vainly endeavouring to dislodge from its hook. “Whom are you helping?”

“My uncle.”

She stared at him, the tray arrested in mid-air. “Sir Anthony is still up? Could he not sleep?”

“He don't want to. He's got 'portant things to do. May I have the tray, please?”

Dimity handed it over and began to assemble mugs, sugar, and a jug for the hot milk. ‘He's got things to do…' What things? Her heart contracted. A farewell letter? His Last Will and Testament, perhaps? She cringed, and asked, “And why are you not in your bed, nephew?”

Carlton poured the milk into the jug, concentration causing his tongue to curl over his upper lip. “I was worried 'bout his cat. I'm looking after her for him, y'know. She wasn't on my bed when I waked up, so I went looking for her. She was with him, an' I told him he looked tired, so he said he wanted some coffee but he didn't want to bother the servants, so I came down an' made him some. I know how, so don't worry 'bout that. I learnt it in the Home. 'Sides, he telled me to earn my keep, so I said if I made his coffee it would be a shilling please, only—”

“Carlton! You never did!”

“Yes. But I din't get it, 'cause Sir Uncle said soldiers don't earn that much money for fighting all day. I said I'd do it for nothing only he'd told me to barter my services an' I din't want him to think I'd forgot, an' he laughed an' said I'm a rascally halfling, so I only got sixpence.” He grinned, obviously far from dismayed by this cut in pay.

“May I help, too?” asked Dimity.

He considered her. This was
his
help and, just like a girl, she had to come trying to get into it. Still, she had been kind and she was very pretty considering she was so old. “All right,” he said generously.

And so they eventually set forth on their small mission, Carlton bearing the tray with the cups, saucers, sugar, biscuits, and currant cake, and Dimity conveying the pots of coffee and hot milk and the candlestick. It was a long way, but at last they were traversing the upstairs hall leading to Farrar's quarters, Swimmer charging madly back and forth as she escorted them.

Carlton led the way to the studio, and Dimity was considerably taken aback to discover Farrar, a disreputable smock over his shirt, the laces at his wrists rolled back, working busily at a canvas.

Her gasped, “Good heavens!” brought him swinging around in mingled delight and dismay.

“We bringed coffee and all sorts of things,” announced Carlton proudly.

“
Whatever
are you doing?” cried Dimity, edging her tray onto a crowded bench.

“He's painting,” Carlton explained with a pitying look.

“Well, he should be asleep. In only a few hours—” And she paused, unwilling to alarm the child.

“Thank you, Carlton.” Farrar took the tray and peered about for a place to put it.

With typical male efficiency, Carlton cleared a space by sweeping papers, some books, and several periodicals to the floor, and Farrar set the tray down. “Never worry, Miss Mitten,” he said. “I can go on well with very little sleep, and—”

“But not
tonight!
You must be at your best in the morning.”

“I knew she'd grumble,” said Carlton darkly. “I shouldn't have let her help. Jermyn said ladies can always find something wrong when a fellow's having a bit of fun.”

“And let that be a lesson to you, ma'am,” said Farrar, his eyes twinkling. “On the other hand, my lad, ladies wield a coffeepot much better than we men do, so perhaps we
should
allow your aunt to help.” He extracted Swimmer from the dish of biscuits and retrieved the few she had knocked to the floor upon her precipitous arrival. “Although,” he added
sotto voce
as Carlton went to clear a place in the window seat, “you should not be here, Miss Mitten.”

“No more should you, sir. And if you drink much coffee, you'll never get to sleep.” She added the hot milk and sugar he requested and handed him the cup.

Carlton commandeered a cup of hot milk and a goodly supply of cake and retired to the windowseat, and Dimity followed Farrar to his easel.

He had painted a small church having a look of great antiquity, its high narrow spire overhung by dark clouds so thickly massed they stood out from the canvas. The trees bowed to the wind and the air was full of flying leaves and twigs, but distantly the skies were clearing to a bright blue. It was unfinished, of course, and far from the quality of the work in The Village Green, but she said an astonished, “However did you manage to get so much done?”

“I'd started it some time ago. Not very good, is it?” He sipped his coffee and surveyed the painting critically. “I used a palette knife for those clouds. I want to get as much done tonight as I can.”

Her apprehensive gaze flashed to him. Why? Did he think he would never have another chance to finish it? She knew her cheeks had whitened, and she begged, “Anthony—do not give up.
Please
—do not.”

He had told himself very firmly that he must not touch her, but at this he put down his cup and took both her hands, saying gravely, “You are very good to worry so. It would certainly be an easier—exit, I allow. But—rather a cowardly one.”

Her throat choked with strangled sobs, she could not reply.

Farrar read anguish in her tear-wet eyes. With all his heart he longed to kiss her. And why shouldn't he? The promise in her lovely face was unmistakable. They could run away together, escape the dark fate that menaced him, start life anew somewhere else. What a glory that would be! Life, love, and a bright future with this beautiful creature at his side. Yet if he seized his happiness—what of her? Could he be so selfish, so cruel as to condemn her to exile from the land she loved? To a sharing of his shame? For wherever they went, they would be shunned by their own kind. She would never again see the brothers to whom she was so obviously devoted; or any of the rest of her family. There was, he knew, a general somewhere in that family.
His
reaction was quite predictable! Dimity would be cut off forever. A fine future to offer this peerless girl—this lovely, warm, delightful human being who rated the very best life had to offer! For how long would the cheerful optimism continue to shine in her eyes under those circumstances? For how long would her joyous little gurgle of laughter continue to be heard? How long would it be before he knew that she was crushed and grieving…?

Exerting every ounce of his willpower, he released her abruptly. “I really must get this done. You shall have to excuse me, Miss Mitten.” His smile very bright, his eyes empty, he pulled up a stool and sat down at the easel with his back to her.

Dimity blinked away tears and looked at the rumpled fair hair, the broad shoulders, the long sensitive hand that was savagely daubing vermillion paint into the centre of a white cloud. She whispered, “God keep you … my very dear.”

With a small, brittle sound, the brush snapped in his hand. That one act told her more than any words could have done. Her heart swelled with love for him and with a reluctant admiration for the strength of character that forbade him to speak of his own feelings. She slipped a hand onto his shoulder. His head was bowed, but he reached up as if to touch her hand, then stood and strode rapidly to gaze out of the window. He heard a smothered sob, the rustle of draperies, soft footsteps running down the hall, and closed his eyes.

Carlton yawned and asked drowsily, “Are you finished, Sir Uncle?”

For a moment there was no answer.

Then Farrar said in what the boy thought a very odd sort of voice, “Yes. I'm quite finished, Carlton.”

XV

Gordon Chandler awoke with a start as Peregrine dug an elbow in his ribs. “What—are we there?” he asked, peering out of the carriage window.

“No, you dolt,” Peregrine nodded to their companion. “Only look at him!”

Farrar was fast asleep, his head lolling against the side of the coach, his long body relaxed on the jolting seat.

“Glad to see it,” said Chandler, keeping his voice low. “Poor fellow was up most of the night working on that confounded painting.”

They exchanged a meaningful glance. Peregrine asked, “D'ye think it will do the thing?”

“I think it the best chance we have, and if 'tis packed off to the church bazaar with the rest of the stuff, the military might not make anything of it. Rather clever of him to stick the cypher under that bit of oilcloth and paint over it, I thought.”

“Hmmnn,” grunted Peregrine, scowling. He sighed and added, “What a beast of a mess it is.”

Chandler had no doubt of what he meant. “I know. And I know
him.
I still find it so damnably hard to believe he'd run—from anything!”

“Oh, he ran all right.”

“You—
saw
him?”

Peregrine said reluctantly, “You may believe I did. Never saw a man run so fast in my life. A good pair of legs has Farrar.”

Chandler swore under his breath.

“I know,” sighed Peregrine. “It's the very devil.”

The carriage lurched to a halt. Chandler let down the window and peered through the misty dawn. “No redcoats about. Your brother must've led them off, all right. If he don't get here in time are you sure you can manage?”

“'Course I can. Be surprised how I can hop about. Is Green here?”

“He is. But the surgeon— Oh, here he comes.” He leaned forward and shook Farrar. “Wake up, old fellow.”