A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (2 page)

              He had two choices. He could confess all to his wife, but in doing so he would have to admit that he had deceived her in the first place and had then maintained that deception – not a particularly promising beginning to their time away from home. Or he could find some way to convince her that he was bothered by the journey for some other reason. In the end it was this option which he decided was the least troublesome.

              “I refer, of course, to the annoyance of never having discovered the identity of the young widow I told you about, whom I met on the stagecoach, but who disappeared into the crowds with her maidservant before I could discover her name.”

              “But the trouble is, my dear, you never really did tell me about her. Why is she of such interest to you? Was she so very beautiful? Did you ...” she faltered, reluctant to voice the suspicions which beset her, but then she squared her shoulders and resolved to go on with her questions, determined to have the matter aired once and for all. If Underwood had misbehaved, she felt she would rather know about it and then decide what she intended to do with the knowledge.

              “Did I what?” asked Underwood tensely, wondering if George Grattan or Jeremy James Thorneycroft had given away his secret and he was about to be treated to one of Verity’s rare but scathing reproaches.

              “Did you have a flirtation with her?” asked Verity, the hint of distress hovering on the edge of her voice and tears gathering in her eyes, suddenly fearful that his actions had been rather more than merely flirtatious.

              Underwood, immensely relieved that he had not been betrayed by his friends, laughed out loud, “Most certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

              Verity was cross that she had been mocked when she was feeling so very vulnerable, “I don’t see why you should find that so amusing,” she said tartly, “You have shown a remarkable degree of obsession for a woman whom you claim means nothing to you.”

              “I’m not obsessed with the wretched woman,” he replied, aware that he had to tread carefully. Of course he was eager to discover her identity; he owed her his life – but it was vital that Verity never knew the reason for his interest.

“You give a very convincing impression of a man possessed,” answered Verity, scrutinizing his expression for any hint of guilt, though she knew she was being unreasonable.

Despite being admired by many ladies, Underwood had never shown the least inclination to take advantage of his popularity – Gil unkindly and rather thoughtlessly maintained that he was too idle to engage in the chase. This did not comfort the less than self-assured Verity and she could only pray that should he ever come across a particularly determined woman, he would summon enough energy to run away. No, Verity was fully and painfully aware that the fault lay with her. She could never forget, even after several years of being a happily married matron and mother of Underwood’s children, that she had been second choice when they had met. He had fallen in love first with the young and beautiful Charlotte Wynter and had only turned to Verity when the solution to a mysterious and brutal murder had come between the lovers. Somewhere deep inside Mrs C H Underwood there would always linger the shy and persecuted Miss Verity Chapell.

              “I assure you, I’m merely intrigued. She was dressed in weeds, but wore no wedding ring; she and her maid were remarkably self-reliant young people and I was curious as to why they were travelling on the common stage, alone. It all seemed very odd, and I wondered then, and wonder still, what on earth they were doing, gallivanting about the country unfettered and very definitely not bereft.”

              “And was she pretty?” demanded Verity, still not entirely satisfied with his replies. She knew she was not a classic beauty, neither tall and willowy, nor possessing Charlotte’s flowing auburn hair and magnificent figure, which had often been shown to best advantage in a velvet riding habit, which, being made especially for her by a very talented seamstress, had clung in exactly the right places. Poor Verity would always be short and inclined to plumpness. Her lovely brown hair and pretty eyes were her best features – but who noticed pretty eyes when overwhelmed by elegant height topped with flaming curls?

              “I have no idea, my love; I never really saw her face. She was heavily veiled, as befits a recent widow – which I suspect she was not. Her maid also wore a large bonnet, which hid her hair from me, so whilst I saw a little more of her, it was not enough for me to recognise them should I ever come across either of them again – but the intrigue remains.”

              With that Verity had to be satisfied, but there lingered a small unworthy notion that Underwood had done something of which he was ashamed – and she certainly intended to find out exactly how he had transgressed.

CHAPTER TWO

                            ‘Otium Cum Dignitate’ – Leisure with dignity

              The Underwoods were pleasantly surprised by the Reverend Mr Lindell Draycott. Both had secretly feared that any clergyman who lived a solitary existence in a small country town might have grown dull and set in his ways. Underwood had known the gentleman at Cambridge University – but a good twenty years had passed since they had last met, and Underwood was only too aware how much could change over the course of even a few months, let alone years.

              They need not have concerned themselves. Lindell was young in outlook, though he was well over forty, and possessed a lively sense of humour – something which was not always appreciated by his older parishioners, but he refused to allow that to curb him.

              He was the sort of fellow who was always thinking up some form of entertainment for the youth of his parish and as a consequence he was immensely popular with the young, and their grateful parents, who felt that his sedate amusements were far less dangerous than having their sons frequent alehouses and cock fights. He held classes to teach the poorer children how to read, write and reckon – and in this endeavour he was aided by two spinster sisters, the Misses Macey, who took the girls’ classes, whilst he taught the young men.

              For the sons and daughters of the middle class parents he had to think of less educational pursuits, so he took the boys fishing while the young ladies busied themselves with handicrafts to sell to raise funds for the church.

              As the daughter of a vicar herself, Verity was immediately at home in the busy rectory, delighted to join in with the young people in their enterprises. Alas, Underwood endured it as near to purgatory as he was ever likely to come. It was a shame he felt so very low and melancholy, because he was actually very fond of the society of young people himself, though he would never have admitted it – he could not have countenanced so many years as a tutor at Cambridge University if it had not been so, for all his vociferous complaints about the unruliness of the young men he had taught.

              At first he hid his unhappiness well and was, in his lighter moments, pleased that Verity was enjoying herself so much. She had been used to being occupied all her life and it had taken her some time to get used to doing nothing but care for Underwood’s home and their young children. She thanked providence that she had her painting and that her husband encouraged her to use her skills, for looking after babies had not been her happiest time from a personal point of view. Of course she adored her daughters and lavished all her care and attention on them, but when they were tiny, they provided little stimulus for her and she longed for the day when they would be old enough to occupy themselves and engage with her in a more mature way. Being amongst these young folk was a breath of fresh air to her, small wonder, then, that she did not, at the onset, notice that Underwood was not enjoying the same level of fun.

              Arranging country dances was a particular joy for Verity, and she persuaded Underwood to play the piano whilst she demonstrated the steps. This he could just about tolerate as he was not in the heart of the action and would not be called upon to dance himself – something which he didn’t care for but which he occasionally forced himself into for the sake of his wife.

              Lindell joined him by the pianoforte and stood watching the dancers, amused that one or two of the younger girls were getting over-excited and veering dangerously towards being hoydenish and noting how well Verity brought them back under control without curbing their natural high-spirits, but rather harnessing their enthusiasm by giving them the lead positions so that they had to concentrate rather more and giggle rather less.

              “Your wife has missed her calling, Underwood,” he said, with a warm smile, “she would have made an admirable teacher or vicar’s wife.”

              Underwood did not bother to inform him how very nearly Verity had been just that, for Gil had offered for her before himself; not because he was in love with her, but because he had known that she was pining for Underwood and he thought that by threatening to marry her himself, he would force his brother into making a declaration – which, of course, had worked famously. His infatuation with Charlotte Wynter had withered swiftly when he realized what a spoilt and unkind young woman she really was. Verity was far superior in every way and he quickly forgot Charlotte once he allowed himself to discover Verity’s many attributes.

              “I sometimes wonder,” he said carefully, glad he could still play and speak at the same time, “if I did not do a very selfish thing in marrying her.”

              Lindell looked down at him in astonishment, “My dear fellow, forgive me. I had no intention of your taking that as a criticism. Any fool can see how happy she is in every way.”

              “Is she Lindell? Do you not think that perhaps being married to an older man has clipped her wings? She could achieve so much more than caring for an invalid.”

              It was in that moment that Lindell understood that Underwood’s ailment was not simply a bodily weakness brought on by the events of the past six or seven months. His illness was not physical, but in his psyche, and if that were true, it might very well be a great deal more difficult to cure.

              Much later, when Underwood had gone to bed, leaving Lindell writing a sermon and Verity sewing a costume for the May Day celebrations which were to take place the following week, the vicar ventured to speak to his guest on a matter which he would have much preferred to avoid, “Verity, how do you think Underwood is, really?”

              She looked up from her stitching, her face pale in the lamplight, “Oh, Lindell, have you noticed too? He is not recovering at all, is he? I have never known him so low.”

              “He is certainly much changed from the man I used to know,” he acknowledged soberly.

              “What am I to do? Gil and I hoped that this holiday would help, but if anything he seems to be worse.”

              “It is my fault, I fear,” said Lindell thoughtfully, “I suspect he needed a rest cure and instead he has been thrust into a bear garden.”

              “No, no, my dear, you have been so kind. Pray do not blame yourself. I think it is I who has underestimated just how unwell he is.” Verity was now terribly distressed and Lindell berated himself for bringing the matter to her attention – but what choice did he have? Underwood was very obviously in need of help and simply ignoring the fact would only exacerbate the problem.

              “I don’t think this is physical, Verity. Something is playing on his mind – but I can tell you without any shadow of doubt, I am not the person to talk to him about it. I know him of old, and because of his own atheism, he only tolerates men of the cloth provided they never dare to interest themselves in his immortal soul. If I hazarded an opinion on his troubled mind, I fear he would take it very ill.”

              Verity had no doubt that this was nothing less than the truth. She had assumed his attitude towards Gil had been grounded in the very natural rivalry between brothers, especially since Gil was the younger, but she had very quickly learned that it was his calling that aggravated Underwood and not their personal relationship. In fact they were very close friends as brothers and immensely fond of each other, but the one thing they could not agree upon was the existence of a Higher Power.

              “I have tried to discuss this with him, but he is denying anything is amiss,” said Verity sadly, “He certainly wouldn’t confide in Gil either.”

              “Is there no one who could talk some sense into him?”

              “I can’t think of anyone. Jeremy James is probably the closest friend he has, but even he has a frivolity of mind which would sit badly with Cadmus at a time like this. He would resist talking to Francis Herbert because he is a doctor and that would be to admit that something is wrong.”

              “What usually makes him happiest?” asked Lindell thoughtfully, “Perhaps we could find something to occupy his mind so that he has no time for introspection?”

              “He is only really content when he has a mystery to solve,” said Verity, “but I have extracted a promise that he will leave any cases alone for the present. The last time almost killed him.”

              Lindell looked at her, silently waiting for her to do her own calculations.

              She gazed steadfastly back at him, determined not to admit what she knew to be true. She could not bear to concede that they both knew what was really troubling her husband.

              “Verity,” he said gently.

              “No! No, I cannot endure it. I cannot encourage him to take another case. I almost lost him, Lindell. I dare not risk him again.” She was distraught, and cast aside her sewing as though it burned her fingers.

              “My dear, you
are
losing him, inch by inch.”

              She shook her head and allowed a few tears to fall, but no matter how much she wanted to deny him, she knew he spoke sense.

              The next morning she did something which, during Underwood’s illness, she had sworn she would never do. She waited until Lindell had broken his fast and gone off to do his parish visits, then she spoke to her husband in a tone which brooked no argument.

              “Cadmus, I have been thinking about your mysterious widow and I can’t believe you have not thought of how to find her for yourself.”

              He raised a quizzical brow, “I was under the impression I had been banned from even daring to look, my dear.”

              She tutted loudly, “Well, really, Cadmus, if you are going to let my silly fretting keep you from your chosen career ...”

              He held up his hand to stop her mid-sentence, astounded that she could have turned this lack of action upon himself, “Just one moment. Do I have this right? After all these months of insisting that I give up detection for the sake of you and the children, you are now having the audacity to tell me how to go about solving this conundrum?”

              “I am,” she asserted firmly.

              “I own I am intrigued. Pray enlighten me,” he responded drily.

              “Well, you say you met her on the stagecoach?”

              “I did.”

              “Then why not go to the stage booking office and ask for her name and address? They keep records, do they not, of all those on the waybill for each journey?”

              “Indeed they do – but I have been forcefully required not to follow up that lead,” he pointed out, not without some exasperation.

              “Ah, but now I am tired of your Friday face and I require that you take yourself off to West Wimpleford and put an end to all our misery,” she told him tartly.

              He looked much struck by this riposte, “Have I had a Friday face? I do apologise, my love, I certainly never intended to inflict my moods upon you – though I admit, I have been at a loss what to do with myself these past weeks.”

              “That much has been obvious – it is also evident to me that I have been unfair in trying to control your every movement. A half-life is no life at all, and dear as you are to me, I cannot hope to protect you from every danger.”

              He smiled suddenly, the first really genuinely happy smile she had seen adorn his face for many months, “My own dearest Verity, you are a most remarkable woman.”

              “I am,” she asserted, “and don’t you ever forget it.”

              “I don’t believe I ever could.”

              “I should hope not. Now go and find your widow – but remember that you are a married man!”

              He looked startled, “Why on earth would finding the widow make me forget that fact?” he asked.

              She could not help but laugh at his astounded expression. She should have known that she had nothing to fear. Underwood had no interest in the woman other than the annoying puzzle of her identity.

              “Oh Cadmus, you are incorrigible. Take yourself off to the nearest inn and hire a hack. I’ve asked Lindell and he assures me that West Wimpleford is not above five miles away, so whilst you are there, you could call upon Rutherford and Cressida Petch and ask if we might perhaps meet whilst we are in the vicinity. I’m longing to finally make the acquaintance of Captain Petch. I want to ask him about his sojourn in Australia – oh, but perhaps, that would not be polite of me.” She broke off looking troubled by her own lack of tact and it was Underwood’s turn to indulge in a little gentle mockery.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to assuage your curiosity, my dear.”

              “Do you think so? I do hope he will, for I own I am agog to hear his tales.”

              Underwood thought it kinder not to disillusion her. She would find out soon enough if Petch was willing to talk about his time as a convict.

              There was another inhabitant of West Wimpleford whom Underwood was eager to see. The apothecary who had been so wise in advising the cure for poisoning also resided there.