Love Alters Not (41 page)

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Dimity's list of the many items that had been collected for the bazaar was lengthy, but at last it was completed and she started back toward the house, eager to see if Farrar had come downstairs yet. A lackey passed on his way to the stables and bowed respectfully. She smiled at him, but had gone only a little way when she halted, alarmed by a strident shout from the barn.

“Sir Anthony's beige coach with the blue trim! Get the bay team poled up, lads! Look lively!”

She swung around and looked back. The head groom's authoritative commands transformed the quiet stableyard into a maelstrom of hurry and bustle. Stableboys and grooms came running, a sleek, gleaming carriage was wheeled out, four splendid horses were led from the paddock, men called to each other, wheels grated on the cobbles, hoofs stamped, and harness rattled. Another voice was raised to order my Lord Glendenning's black mare and the mounts of the Cranfords.

A cold and terrible fear gripped Dimity and she ran to the house.

In the side hall, Piers, already wearing cloak and sword, walked beside Farrar, deep in low-voiced converse. Farrar saw her and halted abruptly.

Piers said with forced jollity, “Must get home, you know, Mitten. Time to go, m'dear.”

Go? Now? She could not. Not
now!
Her eyes, frantic, were on Farrar.

Looking unhappily from his sister's white-faced shock to Farrar's haggard attempt at nonchalance, Piers scarcely dared breathe.

“Aunt Jane will be worried,” he gulped, thinking bitterly that he'd never really known how compelling a force was love and that it could be a devilish thing. “And we've—er, much to do about the place. Hurry up, there's a good girl. I'll go and see how things are coming along in the stables.” With which he all but ran to the side door, leaving them alone together in the quiet serenity of the music hall.

Dimity stared numbly at the averted face of this man she had tried desperately to hate, but who had become the centre of her universe. She'd known that the time for good-byes would come, but had refused to admit that its dark shadow grew ever nearer. She had only just surmounted the terror of the duel. Surely,
surely
they could be allowed a brief respite? Just a little space in their lives for love and for being together? It was too cruel that now, so mercilessly soon, so stunning in its impact, the moment of parting was upon her.

With an enormous effort, Farrar smiled at her. “I fancy,” he drawled, “it will be good to see your home again, Miss Mitten.”

Ignoring this foolishness, she stepped very close to him. “What about the cypher?”

“Oh, all arranged, never fear. There is—”

“It has not been delivered.
You
are going to do that.”

He shrugged. “You did your part, Mitten. Allow me to do mine.”

“Your part! You should not have been involved at all! It is my fault that you are at risk!” But as terrible as was that risk, neither of them were at this poignant moment really conscious of it, or of anything but their own personal tragedy. Desperately searching his fixed and enigmatic smile, Dimity whispered, “Anthony—oh my dear, are we saying good-bye?”

It
was
good-bye, God help him! And he had no right, absolutely no right to have dared dream of any other ending than this. But—he
had
dared to dream … “Good-bye,” he said huskily, “means—God be with you. And—saying that to you from the bottom of my heart, I am also saying—thank you.” He had to look away from the anguish in her eyes and, staring at a vase of roses that might have been turnips for all he saw of them, he went on, “To have known you has—has meant more to me than you—than you can ever imagine.”

Speechless, she reached out. With a muffled exclamation he jerked back, gasping, “No! Mitten—do not make it harder for—for both of us.”

She felt as if she was drowning in tears, but managed to say brokenly, “Your aunt says—we all cling to hope. Anthony, I will be … praying for you.”

He must not—he
dare
not look at her. But he found that he could not let her go without just one last look. Her face was before him; pale and uplifted, and with the diamonds of grief glistening on her lashes, a grief he had brought her, when he loved her so and wanted only to bring her joy. Recklessly, he took her face between the palms of his hands and drank in every beloved feature. She was so lovely, so brave and tender and altogether perfect. And so hopelessly forbidden. She had come too late into his life; this brief little episode was all that had been granted him. He must not even tell her how much he loved her, for she was beautiful and would not want for suitors. Eventually she would marry some fine gentleman like Glendenning and as time went by she would forget the shamed man to whom she had so generously given her affection. Which was … as it should be. But her face blurred before his eyes, and the ache of loss was so intense it was almost beyond bearing. He thought, ‘Mitten, oh my dearest love … if only I had not wrecked my life … If only—' His control broke. He turned and strode swiftly away, and into the empty desolation that was life without her.

XVII

Decimus Green lay some eleven miles to the east of The Palfreys and, being situated within a half mile of the London Road, had benefitted when a fine posting house was built on its outskirts. With the carriage trade came custom; new shops sprang up, new families moved in, and the village now had a second street and was in a fair way to becoming a small town. On this bright Sunday afternoon, the streets were in even more of a bustle than usual, for this was the day of the bazaar in aid of the restoration of the poor old church in Palfrey Poplars. Entertainments were few and far between, especially entertainments for a good cause. The Quality had turned out full force, a sure sign there would be plenty of pretty plates and dishes and kitchenware, ells of cotton and cloth, and near new garments and shoes, all to be had at bargain prices. Thus, the crowd swelled; luxurious chariots and finely mounted aristocrats threaded their way among villagers, farmhands, merchants and pedlars, bakers, chimney sweeps, blacksmiths, and the servants of the gentry—all in their Sunday best, all heading towards the tall spire of old St. Michael's Church, and the bright awnings of the many booths already fluttering on the village green before it.

Conspicuous among the throng were many red uniforms, and on the green itself a cluster of soldiers ignored the protests of Sir Anthony Farrar's servants and, much to the amusement of the onlookers, minutely inspected the contents of the wagon that had been sent over from The Palfreys. Sir Anthony's tall figure loomed up, and the crowd broke before him. A large, well built man, one sleeve pinned to his shabby coat, did not move, however, but stood squarely in his path. For a moment the two faced each other, eye to eye. Sir Anthony regarded the flushed and hostile features gravely. Someone giggled. An angry voice muttered, “Quiet, dang ye!” The large ex-soldier, who had suffered a great deal and had determined to at the very least confront this coward and tell him what kind of scum he was, found himself as if struck mute by those steady green eyes. His own gaze fell and he stepped aside. Furious with himself, he spat deliberately as the young baronet passed, and laughter rang out.

Ignoring it, Farrar said, “My contributions have already been searched, Corporal.”

“And will be searched again, I do not doubt,” declared a mocking voice behind him.

He recognized the arrogant drawl and, without turning, added, “Have a care, man! Those articles are to be sold to help rebuild the church.”

“Much they'll bring,” jeered the corporal, taking his cue from his officer and the grinning faces around him. He unearthed a framed picture from the tumbled piles of goods and, holding it upside-down, peered at it. “Lookit this horrid thing. Who'd want to buy that? Why, me four-year-old could do better!”

Farrar had expected humiliation but, despite himself, he flushed. His penchant for art was well known, and the resultant hilarity attracted more individuals to the growing crowd.

Not far off, the low-spreading branches of an oak had attracted two rustics and the buxom object of their affections. With much coarse wit and loud guffaws that had offended several bystanders they had hoisted the girl onto a limb. Now, sitting one on each side of her in their leafy bower, they viewed the distant confrontation with taut anxiety. The taller of the pair nudged the girl, laughed boisterously, and leaned to her. “I warned you,” he murmured in a soft, cultured voice.

His lass, her cheeks and mouth too bright, her eyebrows too dark, her cheap wig looking considerably the worse for wear, replied as softly, “What I cannot understand, Piers, is why
Farrar
came! That horrid captain will do anything in his power to humiliate him.”

“Aye,” murmured the “yokel” to her left, gesturing with a half-eaten apple. “He's a natural-born bully is the handsome Lambert. But you might have known Farrar wouldn't send his people into danger without he shared it.”

“My coward,” said Dimity bitterly.

Piers sent a swift glance over her head, but Glendenning's face was deeply shadowed by a most disreputable hat and the straggles of greasy hair that hung over his brow.

“By God!” exclaimed his lordship. “Lambert's got the picture!”

With a muffled oath Piers jerked his head around.

“Here comes Ellsworth,” Glendenning went on. “He looks like the fox that ate the lion!”

“And only see how Lambert examines the painting! Lord save us all!”

Frightened, Dimity whispered a soundless, “Anthony…!”

“If they take him,” said her brother grimly, “there had best not be a sound out of you, my girl! Even with these disguises we might be recognized and then we'd all be properly in the frying pan!”

The crowd was pressing in closer around Farrar. Jostled, his head lifted higher.

Captain Lambert, having contributed his share of disparaging remarks about the painting, made a show of inspecting the frame, turned it in his hands, and ruthlessly ripped off the backing.

Farrar's voice lifted in protest. “I presume you have bought that, Lambert.”

“You presume too much,” drawled the captain.

Over his shoulder, Farrar encountered a pair of smiling blue eyes. He slanted his own meaningfully at the painting Lambert held, and Father Charles Albritton lifted his brows in acknowledgment.

“I'd not hang such an atrocity in my outhouse!” declared Lambert. “Here,” he thrust out the abused painting but as Farrar reached for it, deliberately let it fall.

A howl of laughter went up, but the one-armed soldier frowned and looked troubled.

Fists clenched, Farrar managed to ignore the contempt in Lambert's eyes, and moved forward to take up the painting. Someone shoved him, and he staggered. A hard-eyed man wearing a scratch wig, shouted, “There's enough on us ter give the dirty deserter wot 'e shoulda got long since. He ain't got his men ter pertect him now!” He grasped Farrar's arm roughly and the crowd surged forward. Farrar winced and struck away the brutal grip.

The ex-soldier pushed the hard-eyed man back. “Fight fair, my cove,” he said grittily.

“Wot—like he done?” The man gave a derisive howl, and two big farmhands moved closer, growling their agreement.

Piers muttered, “I don't like this, Tio.”

“It looks very contrived to me,” said Glendenning. “But—aha!”

A tall, ragged individual gave a hee-haw of a laugh, and brayed, “Don't spoil our fun, me boys! 'Sides, fifty ter one ain't sporting odds—not in England it ain't!”

Dimity held her breath, and held Piers' hand tightly.

The intervention of the ex-soldier and the ragged individual's mention of sportsmanship had taken effect, however, and the mood of the crowd had changed.

An elegantly clad gentleman cried, “By Jove, but Farrar ain't been tried nor formally accused! We're not here to do murder! Let be!”

Irked, Lambert recognized the voice of the majority and yielded to it. “By all means,” he drawled. “Allow the noble deserter his painting, Corporal.” Turning away, he collided with the young priest who had wandered up behind him. “My apologies, Father,” he said, sketching a salute.

Charles Albritton lowered his blond head beneficently. “We must make allowances, my son,” he murmured.

Glancing scornfully to Farrar, who had added the painting to the growing pile of goods on a booth, Lambert said, “Would that I had your tolerance, sir.”

The priest blinked. “Do you refer to the man? Or to his artistic—er, endeavours?”

Lambert chuckled. “I doubt his work of art will sell, Father.”

“Oh, I don't know. If no one else buys it, Captain, I rather think I might.”

“Good— Er, I mean—you
like
it?”

Albritton pursed up his well shaped lips. “As to that … let us just say—” a twinkle brightened the blue eyes, “I'm only a temporary man here, you know, but—there's a hole in the wall by my bed makes a dreadful cold draught…”

Lambert gave a hoot of mirth, turned back to the booth and snatched up the painting. “I'll buy this!”

On hearing that raucous declaration, Piers Cranford came near to tumbling from his perch, my Lord Glendenning swore under his breath, and Dimity uttered a faint squeak of fright.

Captain Lambert tossed a florin into the cash box on the booth, tendered the painting to Father Albritton and, with an exaggerated bow, said loudly, “A work of art, it ain't, sir. But if it keeps out your draughts, 'tis money well spent.”

There was much laughter at this.

Farrar, who had held his breath for a moment, managed to look affronted, although he was hard put to it to keep from joining in the hilarious mirth emanating from a nearby oak.

Father Albritton accepted his gift with grateful humility and, bearing it off, was approached by the ragged individual who had spoken of fair play. “It's a good thing you warned me that Farrar would deliver the—message,” murmured the young priest. “Even so, for a moment I thought we'd lose that one.”