Love Alters Not (11 page)

The
cypher!

She jumped from the bed, knelt beside it, and reached under the mattress. It was silly to be frightened because she did not at once find it. Groping blindly, she thought, ‘Do not lose your wits, Mitten. It is, after all, quite small.' Two minutes later, she was tearing sheets, blankets and eiderdown from the great tester bed, and in another minute, had hauled the mattress to the floor. The cypher was gone! Stunned, she stood amidst the debris, biting at her knuckle. It
must
be here!

“Lawks!”

Dimity spun around. Rodgers stood in the open doorway, her face a study in amazement. “Ahem—whatever is wrong, ma'am?” she gasped. “Weren't it made up proper?”

“Did
you
make it up?”

Rodgers looked offended. “I am not a chambermaid, ma'am.”

“Do you know which chambermaid was in here?”

“I—'spect it was Cissie.” She said anxiously, “But, she's a good girl, ma'am. If you lay a complaint, she will lose her sittyation. I'll make it better for ye.”

“No, no. Just send her up here. At once, if you please. And—the fewer people know, the better. I'd not wish to cause her trouble.”

Rodgers flew, not taking the time to close the parlour door.

Dimity stared down at the debris for a moment, then knelt and began to pull the mattress aside so as to crawl under the bed.

“Good heavens!” Another startled onlooker had arrived. Wide-eyed, Lady Helen said, “I had thought to find you laid down
upon
your bed, Mrs. Deene. Not
under
it!”

*   *   *

Alone in the breakfast room, Farrar glanced up from the
London Gazette,
put down his coffee cup and sprang to his feet. “You are going to join me, ma'am?” he asked eagerly.

His aunt was dressed for luncheon in a charming dark blue muslin Watteau dress, the train sweeping gracefully behind her. A beautifully carved ivory cross on a golden chain hung about her throat, and her hair was powdered and swept into a high coiffure. “No, thank you,” she answered. “But—pray do not let me interrupt your reading.”

“I had much rather talk with you. Would you care to walk in the garden?” It was a question asked out of courtesy, and he was astounded when she agreed. He sent a lackey running for a shawl and when Lady Helen looked at him with arched brows, he said, “The breeze is rather chill, ma'am.”

They set off when the shawl had been draped carefully about her shoulders. He knew better than to offer his arm, but he sensed that she was troubled, and walked beside her in silence, moderating his stride to her dainty steps, and whistling for Shuffle who ran to join them with much flapping of ears.

“It was nice to see Chandler,” my lady said at length.

He was fairly certain that she did not wish to talk about Gordon, but answered politely, “Yes. He says he may come again before returning to Kent.”

“How very good of him.”

He flushed a little, but said nothing.

After a pause, Lady Helen came to the point. “Farrar, have you—er, noticed anything at all—odd … about Mrs. Deene?”

“Jupiter, ma'am, I've yet to notice anything
normal
about her! She is without doubt the most vulgar, brazen, mercenary little baggage I ever—”

“Not—little, exactly,” she put in musingly.

Curious, he smiled down at her.

“Nor do I think—” She interrupted herself, “But that is no matter. What concerns me—” She shook her stately head and sighed.

Alarmed now, he took her arm. “Aunt Helen—what is it? An she disturbs you—” Her gaze was fixed on his detaining hand. His flush deepening, he released her arm. “Pray tell me what troubles you. I'll get rid of the jade do you but give me leave. She has no least shred of hope to win her claim, if that is what concerns you.”

Her fine eyes lifted to his. She said dispassionately, “What happens to either this estate or the fortune concerns me very little, Farrar.”

He stepped back with an odd, almost shrinking movement quite foreign to his normal manner and stood staring at the ground. She knew she had wounded him and experienced the usual helplessness because the need to strike at him did not alleviate her deeper pain. Stifling a sigh, she added, “I am afraid for that poor girl.”

His bowed head lifted. Recovering himself, he echoed, “That—
poor
—girl? You cannot refer to our larcenous adventuress?”

“I cannot be pleased to hear you speak so disparagingly of a lady, sir.”

“But—but, that— I mean Mrs. Deene—who wears no marriage ring, you'll have noted—is nothing but— Oh, now ma'am—you've
seen
what she is, for Lord's sake!”

“From what I have seen,” she said slowly, “I begin to think that poor creature, she is—unbalanced!”

Farrar blinked. “She's shrewd as any vixen if you was to ask—Oh, very well, she is a charming victim of cruel fate, an that pleases you! May I ask what has brought you to the conclusion she is short of a sheet?”

“Not at all. She was fairly wallowing in them,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“She—
what?
”

“When she fainted yesterday morning—”

“Pish! She no more fainted than I did! You likely heard that staylace snap just as I—”

“Farrar!”

He bowed his head to hide his quivering mouth and said a meek, “Your pardon, ma'am.”

For a second my lady was silent, her sad eyes on the thick, crisply waving fair hair. Her hand went out as if to touch it, but was clenched and withdrawn. She went on hurriedly, “The maids told me she was feeling better this morning, but—I looked in on her just now, and—and she had torn the bed to shreds.”

His startled gaze flashed to her. “Good God! Bed posts and all?”

Her eyes twinkled, but she said sternly, “I wish you will not be facetious. I am deadly serious. All the sheets and bedding were strewn about the room, and she was—playing with the mattress.”

“Playing … with the mattress?” he echoed, awed. “By Jove, then she's off the road, all right! What did she say? Was she foaming at the mouth or anything?”

“No, thank heaven! But she behaved most odd. She claimed she had been trying to rest and had heard a—a cricket.”

“What 'twixt mattress and boards? No, aunt—you hoax me!”

“An you put it together with those ridiculous clothes, and the way she faints all the time … Unless—” her expression cleared. “Of course! It must be the shock of the accidents she suffered! Why ever did I not take that into account? My apologies, Farrar, for having troubled you with it.”

“I could wish you found more to trouble me with, ma'am. Could you spare the time to take luncheon with—”

“No, no. I'll leave you to your own—affairs.” She started off, then turned so suddenly that she saw the wistfulness in his eyes. “By the bye, do you know of another gentleman named Green living hereabouts?”

He became very still. “No. Why?”

“Mrs. Deene had thought she might be acquainted with Rafe, but evidently her friend is another Mr. Green.” She shrugged and walked on, saying, “It is of no importance.”

For a moment Farrar stood motionless. Then, “Is it not, by God!” he whispered.

*   *   *

“The thing is, ma'am,” said Cissie, twisting nervously at the hem of her apron and watching Dimity with frightened brown eyes, “the housekeeper said as you'd had such a drefful time, and the mattress had not been turned in a while, seeing as we get no company no more, so she said as we should turn it, so we did, Eth and me, and if I'd knowed you did not like a mattress turned—”

Dimity interrupted the flood. “It was most kind. Er, did you find anything underneath?”

“No, Mrs. Deene.”

Rodgers put in defensively, “Ahem, and we've not never had no crickets in our beds since I been—”

“I did not mean a cricket. I said that to Lady Helen, but—” Dimity had no need to pretend a blush as she saw their intrigued expressions. She lowered her voice. “Surely, you found
something,
Cissie?”

“Nothing 'cept a scrap o' paper with some writings on. I can't read, but it was too little and crumpled up to be anything important, so I burnt it.”

Dimity felt sick and uttered a strangled shriek. The two maids rushed to support her. Allowing herself to be lowered onto the bed, she whispered, “Are you—quite
sure
it—has been … burned?”

Much alarmed, Cissie gulped, “I'm that sorry, ma'am! I put it in the wastebasket, and one of the lackeys will have took 'em all to the rubbish heap by this time.”

“Where … is that?”

Rodgers said, “It's round the back, on the far side of the house, ma'am. Down the hill. I'll go at once, if—”

“No!” cried Dimity. They were both staring. She sought desperately for an explanation. “That would—break the spell, you see.”

“Cor,” whispered Cissie. “Is it a writing from a witch, then?”

Dimity beckoned them nearer. “Promise you won't tell.”

Two hearts were solemnly crossed; two promises given.

“If you tell a single soul,” warned Dimity, “the spell will be broken, and—and the witch said whoever breaks it will suffer a—a terrible fate!”

They paled, and swore not to do so dreadful a thing.

“It is,” said Dimity, improvising frantically, “a little piece of a love note. I have been a widow for some time, you know, and a gentleman has been—er, courting me, but he is very shy and every time I almost, ah—”

“Bring him up to scratch?” prompted Rodgers breathlessly.

“Er, yes. Every time, he becomes tongue-tied. So I went to a good witch I heard of, and she said if I would sleep with part of his love note under my mattress for three weeks, without once breaking the routine, he would offer next day.”

“Lawks!” gasped Rodgers, eyes enormous. “And
you
went and burnt it, Cissie Simpkins! Do he live hereabouts, Mrs. Deene?”

“No.” Struck by an idea, Dimity regrouped hurriedly. “Well, not very near. If I tell you his name, will you promise to keep it secret?”

Again their hearts were crossed.

“His name,” Dimity imparted, “is Mr. Green. Do you know of him?”

They looked at each other.

Cissie, wiping away tears of fright, asked, “Does ye mean—Mr.
Rafe
Green, ma'am?”

Dimity stifled a sigh. “No. His name is not Rafe but—”

“That's true,” said Rodgers. “But it's what everyone calls him, isn't it, ma'am? 'Cause he don't like his own name, I mean.”

Cissie put in importantly, “So he uses his middle name, which is Ralph, only they all call him Rafe.”

“Well, Mrs. Deene knows that, silly,” said Rodgers, nudging her. “A lady certainly knows what her gentleman friend's name is!”

“I should hope so.” Dimity's heart had given a great leap. She thought, ‘I've found him! Praise heaven, one part of my wretched puzzle is solved!' Almost she asked for his direction, only at the last instant recalling she would also be expected to know the address of her “admirer.” But that should present no problem. She would ask in the stables as soon as the opportunity arose.

The two maids stared at her radiant face and drew their own conclusions.

Rodgers said briskly, “Well, you'll want to run quick, Mrs. Deene. I fetched some tape up. I can sew it on your waistband if you like, so you can tie it closed. Might serve better than them buttons, and it won't show under the bodice.”

In very short order, Dimity was hobbling down the back stairs.

“Rafe Green,” murmured Cissie, leaning against the bedroom door.
“Shy?”

“And—tongue-tied,” said Rodgers, and they both giggled.

“What if he comes here to pay her court?” said Cissie, with a suddenly scared look.

Rodgers folded her arms. “I'd give a month's wages to see it!”

“Not me!” Cissie shivered theatrically. “Lordy, Lor'! Not me, mate!”

*   *   *

The debris atop the ash pile looked huge, and although Dimity was inexpressibly relieved to find it had not yet been lit, it presented a daunting challenge with the mass of crumpled letters, newspapers, tree prunings, torn upholstery (which she recognized with a flutter of guilt as having been part of the doomed carriage), and all manner of crushed boxes and odds and ends. Cissie had said she'd put the invaluable cypher in a wastebasket. Dimity selected a sturdy branch from the prunings and used it to sift through the mass. She soon realized she dare not venture into the ashes wearing her stockings and the horrid slippers and, with a guilty glance around, took them off and placed them where she might quickly retrieve them if the lackey came to burn the rubbish. The sun rose in the sky and grew warmer; she knew that she might very well have been missed by now but, desperate, she sought on. If only the cypher was not so small! She saw then an empty hair powder box. That should be from the right area! The box was farther on the heap than she had yet ventured, and she trod cautiously in amongst the rubble. There it was! Lying half under a broken comb. She thought, ‘How could I have been so
fortunate?
' and reached out, leaning perilously.

“Cinderella…?”

The sardonic drawl was unmistakeable. Her heart jumping into her throat, Dimity tried to grab and turn at the same instant, and inevitably lost her balance. She fell, face down. Dry ash and bits of flotsam flew in all directions. So did her skirt. With a muffled sob of chagrin she snatched the cypher and thrust it in her bosom, then turned around.

The Craven was standing directly behind her. She fancied at first to see a certain wariness in his eyes, but there could be no doubt of the mirth which followed that expression. Without much success, she tried to look indifferent and poised.