Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

In her present buoyant mood, Verity thoroughly enjoyed her walk, but for Underwood, that inveterate observer of mankind, the highlight of the tour was the visit to the Pump-rooms.

Resplendent in marble and mahogany, the Pump-room itself was a triumph of the town-planners. Several dolphin-fashioned fountains spewed forth the clear, cold hill water into marble basins and those who wished, and were able to afford the charges, could help themselves to the magical cure-all. There were brass cups on chains provided for the purpose, but many of the richer visitors brought their own silver or crystal cups. Mahogany benches lined the walls, or made little round islands in the centre of the marble-tiled floors. Palm trees strained towards the glass roof, as though to feel the real sun on their feathery heads, and lent an atmosphere of sticky heat which could almost be mistaken, by those who knew no better, for the tropical.

It was not just this opulence which fascinated Underwood, but also the gentry who were enjoying it. There were a few poor souls scattered about who could be seen to be genuinely ill or infirm, but most of the wheeled chairs were occupied by women whose faces displayed the sourness of boredom, the disappointment of lives which were empty and without purpose, and who had consequently taken refuge in the small excitement of pretended illness, or by men who had spent their youths indulging in every kind of excess and were now paying the price of ill-health.

There was a sprinkling of younger people; unmarried and obedient daughters, who trotted dutifully to the gushing fountains to fill the cups; the idle young bucks, short of money and hoping to charm a little from the pockets of gout-ridden fathers by a show of filial affection. Then there were lady companions, bitter at their poverty and spinsterhood, who could be guaranteed to quell any show of humour or romance from the young.

Underwood found a seat for his wife and went to fetch her a glass of water – a glass provided by the ever-thoughtful Gil, who overlooked nothing. Verity was not particularly eager to try the waters, but Underwood had insisted, remarking that she had not been ‘quite up to snuff’ since they had left his mother. Verity had to agree with that assessment of the situation. There had been one or two occasions lately when she had felt quite ghastly, though nothing would have induced her to admit that to her husband.

She dutifully sipped the proffered drink and was pleasantly surprised to find it quite palatable. She relaxed into her seat and looked about her, listening to the two men discussing various other occupants of the room.

Gil had wasted no time in making himself at home in Hanbury and already had a following of long-term visitors and inhabitants. He tended to be particularly popular with the elderly ladies in his congregation, but Underwood and Verity kindly kept this observation to themselves.

Both Underwood and Gil would have strenuously denied ever indulging in gossip, but their conversation sounded remarkably gossipy to the amused Verity.

“The elderly lady in purple silk and the huge turban is Lady Hartley-Wells and the woman beside her is Miss Cromer, her companion. She lives in a gigantic mausoleum of a house just outside Hanbury. She lost her husband and only son twenty years ago in a carriage accident and has refused to move away from the town or out of mourning ever since. Rumour has it she intends to leave everything to the church, so I am under strict instructions from the Bishop to treat her nicely – and to be honest, it is not hard to do. She appears forbidding, but she’s extremely kind-hearted.”

“Perhaps I ought to be charming to her and steal her riches from under the Bishop’s nose,” said Underwood with a grin.

“I wish you would,” returned Gil seriously, “I admit I resent the assumption that only the rich are worthy of notice. I didn’t join the ministry to toad-eat the titled and wealthy.”

“You didn’t – but most of the others did.”

Gil described a few others to his brother, then there was a sudden buzz of activity by the door and most heads turned to witness the advent of another elderly woman. She caused a stir not least because of the way she was dressed, which was a fashion which would have looked out of place on all but the youngest and most virginal of girls. She leaned heavily on a silver-handled, ebony cane on one side and a dandified youth on the other.  She was laughing loud and hearty at some sally from her companion and sound was echoing in the vast room, drowning out even than the sound of the constantly falling water.

“Mother and son?” enquired Underwood quietly. Gil shook his head and murmured back, “Believe it or not, husband and wife. She is nearing seventy, he is not yet twenty-six. Oliver Dunstable and his bride Josephine.”

Underwood raised a quizzical brow, but he made no comment, merely watching Josephine and her husband as they made an almost royal progress across the floor to their accustomed seat. She called loudly to acquaintances and none tried to cut her, though several looked distinctly uncomfortable at having such attention drawn to them.

The Dunstables seemed entirely unmoved by such rudeness, raucously and obviously enjoying each other’s company, and very possibly also enjoying the discomfiture they were inflicting upon their fellow man.

“Love match?” asked Underwood succinctly.

“I honestly could not say for sure,” replied Gil. “They seem to have a tremendously good time together, but she has a great deal of money and it would appear he has none. She also has a daughter with a husband whom she heartily despises, and it has been suggested the marriage was contracted to spite the pair of them. All I really know is that the young husband is outrageously indulged and glories in it.”

Verity chose this moment to speak, but only because it was a subject about which she felt strongly, “I think everyone has the right to happiness, even if it defies convention.”

Underwood smiled at her; “I could not agree more, my dear. And for myself, I am always delighted to hear of a marriage which dwarfs the fifteen-year age gap which exists between us. I feel almost boyish.”

The look in Verity’s eyes told him that their difference in age had been her very last consideration.

Gil caught a glimpse of the look which passed between them and raised his eyes heavenward. He was beginning to wonder if he would not have been happier had he chosen not to interfere in his brother’s concerns. He hated the suspicion he had that Underwood was not being entirely honest regarding his feelings for his young wife.

Being an outside observer of these complicated, and hitherto unknown, love games was going to be intensely wearing!

*

CHAPTER THREE

(“Arbiter Elegantiarum” – The judge in matters of taste)

The village in which Verity had spent her formative years was some five miles from Hanbury by road, but only about two and a half on foot across the moors. Accordingly, she rose early the next morning, leaving Underwood asleep, and told Gil over tea, that she intended to spend the day visiting old friends. She had not asked Underwood to accompany her, knowing he would find the whole expedition tedious in the extreme. He was not a man much prompted by sentiment, and he would never understand her wish to see again the places connected with a happy childhood.

The present incumbent of Draythorp was a youngish man, in his first position, and was only too delighted to meet the daughter of one of his predecessors. Rev. Chapell was still remembered with great affection and so was his only child. Rev. Mitchell insisted on showing Verity around the village, calling at several homes where he knew she would be welcomed. Verity had a delightful morning, renewing old acquaintances, especially one lady who had been particularly close to the motherless girl. Mrs. Leigh had tears in her eyes when she saw Verity, for she had begged the young woman to stay with her when her father died, and had been most distressed by Verity’s insistence that she must go out into the world and earn her own living.

She was overjoyed to hear that Verity was now a married woman and extended invitations to both the Underwoods, should they grow tired of Hanbury.

Verity was both touched and heartened by her reception and promised to pay more visits whilst she was in the district. She returned to Hanbury in time for tea and found her husband waiting impatiently for her. He testily complained that his brother had bored him to death, talking of nothing but his plans for the future and Underwood’s duty to his wife. She laughed gaily and assured him he would have found her company quite as trying.

*

Gil spent the next few days attempting to persuade his brother to view the large, old house he had envisioned as a school, but Underwood was proving unusually resistant. He did not actually refuse to go, but he did always seem to have something much more pressing to do.

He insisted now that his wife take the waters every morning, luncheon was always taken with Gil at the vicarage, then she was free to pursue her pastime of painting or sketching for a couple of hours. There were so many pretty spots, and places teeming with people that Verity was never at a loss to find an interesting subject to draw. A brisk walk every day after tea filled the time until the evening’s entertainment. Both Underwood and Verity were accomplished musicians, so they never tired of the concerts and recitals held in the Assembly rooms, nor missed any new plays shown in one of the several theatres. They explored every portion of Hanbury and as they came to be recognized in the Pump-rooms, they began to receive invitations to teas, dinners, parties and soirees. Verity was enjoying herself far too much to support Gil in his attempts to make Underwood look to his future. She knew, of course, that the holiday must eventually come to an end, and they would have to decide how their living would be made, but this new mood of recklessness in her husband was too precious to be quickly abandoned. The feeling of illness which had dogged her was also fading, much to her relief, though whether this was due to the healing waters, or merely her present happiness, she could not quite decide.

At last, however, Underwood ran out of excuses, and on the first rainy day they had to endure, a carriage was ordered. Verity immediately wished she had been left out of the expedition, for their progress was along one of the steepest roads in the town and she could plainly hear the horse’s hooves slithering and sliding as the nag struggled to keep a foothold on the rain-greased cobbles. Her knuckles gleamed white in the dank interior of the vehicle as she clutched desperately at the squabs and straps in her tussle to keep her seat. Bravely she made no demur, but her knees were trembling beneath her when she finally alighted.

She almost scrambled back into the hated carriage when she beheld the place to which they had been brought. Dark grey walls, streaked with rivulets of rain, rose sheer before them, with small windows set deep into the walls. It looked like a prison and Verity shuddered at the very sight of it. She could not believe it had ever been used as a dwelling, and felt Gil must have been mistaken. One glance at her husband told her he was equally unimpressed. She had rarely seen him look so severe. Only Gil was enthusiastic, but even he was having to force himself.

“I know it does not look much now, but a great deal could be done with it.”

“Yes, Gil. It could be converted into a prison or a workhouse – if that was not its original use! What possessed you to think I would condemn any child to enter that building?”

“It’s very cheap,” said Gil, faint, but pursuing.

“It would have to be given away – and I still wouldn’t consider it. But wait, I presume too much! I have not asked the opinion of my wife. What say you, Verity? Shall we start a school here?”

She shook her head, the power of speech momentarily taken away from her. She had never seen a building which looked as though several generations of horrible murders had taken place within its walls, but this place fitted the aura perfectly. If Underwood had begged her on bended knees to enter its portals, she would have refused him – for the first time since their wedding.

Gil looked so downcast she could not help but take pity on him, though she was bitterly disappointed. He had evidently been looking at the property from a purely practical point of view and did not quite understand their extreme reaction. For herself, she had been looking forward to making a home in Hanbury, for her heart lay in the Pennines, and she could think of nothing more perfect than working side by side with him in the town she loved. It now seemed the dream was over. When the holiday ended they must return to his mother and think again.

“Never mind, Gil,” she said kindly, “You tried, and it was kind of you.”

“Ah, well the Lord loves one who tries,” said Gil, rallying.

“Must adore you then,” muttered Underwood, unkindly. Verity jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow, then smiled sweetly at her brother-in-law, “Do you mind taking the carriage and leaving us to walk home, Gil?”

“I’d walk with you, but I am in rather a hurry,” said Gil, consulting his fob in a way which fooled nobody.

“We will meet again at dinner, then,” said Underwood, taking Verity’s hand and hooking it over his arm in preparation for their walk.

Gil needed no second bidding and presently they were left alone, blinking in a sudden burst of watery sunlight which had managed to break through the leaden clouds.

“I suppose it looks a little better in the sunshine,” said Verity grudgingly, glancing upwards one last time.

“Better than what?” asked Underwood tersely, “We have to face it, my love. Gil has a very different idea of this school than ourselves. He sees the whole enterprise as nothing more than a method of earning money, but teaching, to me at least, has always been a vocation – and one which I’m not entirely sure I still wish to follow. I spent nearly twenty years buried in Cambridge and missing out on things I never knew existed. I want life now, not a smaller version of the same deadness.”

Verity was swamped by a variety of emotions, each of which clamoured for release. Her delight in his confiding in her was swiftly replaced by panic, excitement and fear.

Her panic was based on the fact that Underwood was peculiarly unadapted for any other form of employment than teaching. Excitement was roused by the knowledge that they were free – free to do whatever they wished.

“But what else is there?” she asked, not in a critical tone of voice, for he knew she trusted him completely, but in a musing sort of way.

As they strolled back into Hanbury, Underwood told her exactly what there was, and she was glad of the support of his arm, for as he talked she grew more and more stunned. She began to feel that she did not know this man she had married, and would never, ever have any real notion of the workings of his mind.

*

He did not ask her not to mention their discussion to Gil, but instinctively she knew that his brother was not yet to be invited to share their vision of the years ahead, so accordingly the talk over dinner was of mundane matters.

Mundane, that is, until the subject of Oliver and Josephine Dunstable arose. Gil, who only became odiously sanctimonious when accused of gossip, had a most interesting tit-bit to disclose.

“Josephine’s daughter Leah had arrived in town, dragging her husband and child in her wake. Judging from the scene she caused in the Pump-room yesterday afternoon, she is not best pleased to hear of her mother’s marriage.”

“Poor Mrs. Dunstable,” said the soft-hearted Verity, “But was she not invited to the wedding?”

“No, apparently it was a clandestine affair from beginning to end,” reported Gil, “And I would not be too concerned for ‘poor’ Josephine, if I were you. It would seem she gave quite as good as she got, accusing Leah of wanting her money for her wastrel husband.”

“And is he a wastrel?” asked Underwood, peeling an apple with precision, a curl of skin falling neatly onto his plate.

“The term describes him well enough, I understand,” answered Gil, “But one can only sympathize with his wife, if it is so. Their only child has been a deaf-mute since birth, and is incredibly difficult to control. She has the most appalling fits of anger, due, no doubt, to the frustration of being unable to communicate her wants and desires."

Verity was appalled by this series of misfortunes, “How dreadful! Can nothing be done for the poor child?”

“It would seem not – but Leah is well-cared for, since her mother has always been most generous, even though she knows most of her money goes to financing the husband’s indulgences and not helping the child.”

“Altogether a charming family,” remarked Underwood cynically; “It would appear the child requires as much sympathy for the relatives she possesses as for her disabilities.”

Gil and Verity both made a pretence at protesting at this, but neither really disagreed with him.

“How do you come by all this information, Gil?” asked Verity suddenly intrigued by the wealth of detail he could usually muster.

“Afternoon tea can be most instructive,” he replied with a smile.

*

Not too many days were to pass before the Underwood family were to meet the Gedneys, and they could judge for themselves how true were the various assessments of their characters.

Verity tried to be Christian, Underwood did not bother, but in the end their notes would have tallied almost perfectly.

Adolphus Gedney was an obnoxious man, but his odium was not immediately apparent, for he was not an unpleasant looking man, being tall, with slightly reddish hair, and a not unhandsome countenance – or at least not when viewed from a distance. Close to it bore all the ravages of the habitual drinker. He was jovial enough at first meeting, but time quickly exposed his true self. He was loud, arrogant, self-opinionated and callous towards his family, especially his afflicted daughter, whom he largely ignored, but when in his cups he was inclined to berate as a poor reflection upon his own manhood. He unashamedly blamed his wife for the fall from perfection. He rarely touched the child, leaving his wife to struggle alone in attending to her wants and needs. Verity could have forgiven him much if he had, just once, spoken kindly to the unfortunate Melissa.

Mrs. Gedney, not surprisingly, had a streak of bitterness which was not alleviated by her insistence upon playing the martyr. She haughtily refused all offers of help, then made much of her suffering, of her struggles and misfortunes.

Verity, in particular, had been more than ready to take the woman’s side and would gladly have befriended and assisted her, but she was quickly made aware that such an approach would not be welcome. Leah Gedney was vociferous in her condemnation of any who dared to pity her, but at the same time, was amazed and appalled when she failed to win special treatment. She criticized her husband constantly when he was out of earshot, but was vicious in her attacks on any one else, especially her mother, who had the temerity to join in her tirades against him. She showed no sign of being in love with him, but for some twisted reason of her own, she stood solidly by him. Verity could only surmise that to fail to defend him would in some way expose her own stupidity in ever having married him, for he had been her own choice and not her mother’s. On the contrary, Josephine it seemed, had recognized his type from the onset and had done her utmost to dissuade her headstrong daughter from the liaison.

Verity sensibly decided that she was altogether too dangerous a person with whom to become intimate, but still her heart bled for the child. The only consolation seemed to be that the ten-year-old Melissa was unaware of the unhappiness surrounding her – though strangely she did display a deep aversion to her father.

Verity could not help but wonder if either parent ever noticed, or indeed cared, about the effect their behaviour had on their young and deeply troubled offspring. She doubted it; both were entirely self-centred and determined only to feel self-pity for the misfortune Heaven had seen fit to lay upon them. It gave the vicar’s daughter quite a jolt to observe all this, for in the past she had always believed that God gave people the strength to cope with whatever cross they might be required to bear. For the first time in her sheltered life she was forced to acknowledge that this might not necessarily be true.