“Good morning, Sir George, what an unexpected ...” he hesitated over the word, and then added hastily, “pleasure. To what do we owe the honour of a morning call?” He spoke the words politely, but without real warmth all the while hoping that the call was not upon himself.
“’Morning, Underwood,” said the older man, torn between his habitual gruffness and pride at the sound of his new title. Underwood was not his favourite person. He admired the man, but he found his insouciance infuriating, especially when it involved the solving of a crime which had foxed everyone, but which Underwood unravelled with ease. However Underwood was also extremely mannerly and never failed to use the title which the Constable had so recently received. “Your maid just admitted me and has gone off to find her mistress. I’m here for another sitting with your wife. Damned fine job she’s making of my portrait. You have a treasure there, my dear fellow, did you but know it.”
Underwood recalled when he heard this, that Sir George had commissioned Verity to paint his portrait as a gift to the town to remind them of their great good fortune in having a Knight of the Realm as their Constable.
“Oh, I know it,” murmured Underwood, immensely relieved that he was not to be called upon just yet to discuss the Woodforde case with the Constable of Hanbury.
Verity, however, had other ideas. Having been told of Sir George’s advent, she came into the hall and spoke to both gentlemen at once, “Ah, good, you have found each other. That saves me the trouble of bringing you together. Sir George, Underwood has something he wishes to discuss with you, so why don’t you go into the dining room and take coffee together whilst I set up my easel, then we can begin work.”
Sir George was never reluctant to take either food or drink so he obligingly preceded Underwood in through the door indicated by the younger man.
“What’s this all about, Underwood?” he asked as he accepted a cup from his host and sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant brew within.
Underwood, outwitted by his wife, gave one small sigh, then proceeded to tell Sir George the story he had heard outlined the evening before.
The fact that the Constable listened in silence to the unfolding tale should have alerted Underwood to impending danger. Sir George was too fond of the sound of his own voice to avoid interruption unless he was gravely concerned. He was shaking his head firmly before Underwood had even finished speaking.
“You seem dubious, my friend. Take my word on it; I do understand it is a complex case.”
“Indeed it is, Underwood, and if you had the sense you were born with, you would leave it well alone. Women are capricious creatures and they’ll turn on you in the wink of an eye if you don’t give them the answer they crave!”
Underwood laughed softly, “Good God, George, you make the entire breed sound like rabid dogs.”
“Believe me, I’d sooner face a rabid dog than frustrated motherhood. I don’t think you fully comprehend the situation, my friend. If this girl is an impostor, you will be wrenching Mrs Woodforde’s child from her for the second time. All the concentrated hatred that she felt for her husband will be doubled and thrown at you. Hell hath no fury, Underwood!”
“Ah, but I could be restoring her child to her, George,” he countered reasonably, apparently unmoved by the dire warnings. It did not occur to him that the Constable’s opposition had the effect of pushing him in entirely the other direction. In the space of seconds he had altered his stance from reluctance to determination. Perhaps it was not only Gratten who felt a competitive edge to their relationship.
“You could – but do you really believe it to be so? And even if she is the missing daughter, she has spent the past twenty years having her mind poisoned by a vindictive, bitter man. A man who was capable of tearing her sobbing from her mother’s arms and keeping them apart for two decades. Do you honestly think he has had anything good to tell the child about her mother?”
Gratten had a valid point. Lydia – if she was the real Lydia – had been subjected to years and years of her father telling her all sorts of lies about her mother. It stood to reason he wasn’t going to tell her anything good, otherwise how would he justify keeping them apart? He had obviously only relented now so that they could collect the money. Lydia would probably show a pleasant enough face at first, but who knew what resentments were churning in her brain-washed head? She could be severely mentally damaged by her upbringing. It was hard to imagine what twenty years of vitriol could do to a child and young woman. Underwood could very well have been delivering a vengeful murderer into Mrs Woodforde’s trusting hands.
“There is one small thing you can do for me, Sir George,” said Underwood, casting a wary look towards the door in case Verity had left her studio and was on her way back to join them. He was not yet ready to admit to his wife that he had decided to undertake the task given to him by Lady Hartley-Wells.
“Yes,” prompted Gratten briskly, alert to finding himself making a promise he didn’t want to keep, “What is it?”
“In your official capacity could you write a letter to the authorities in Bridgetown, Barbados, asking about Lydia and her father? It seems they have been living there for the past ten years or so, safe, no doubt, in the knowledge that the unfortunate Mrs Woodforde could not afford to pursue them that far.”
“That would make an excellent starting point for the investigation, Underwood. It so happens that I have living there, a friend of my school years, with whom I maintain a sporadic correspondence. He might, perhaps, aid our search for a father and daughter going by the name of Woodforde.”
“We may find something even more useful, my friend. Lydia claims that her father’s death is the reason she has finally been allowed to return to England.”
“Woodforde is dead?” Sir George asked in surprise.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” answered Underwood dismissively, “I suspect that he is not only alive and kicking, but here in England, keeping an eye on his daughter. This is all about the money and nothing to do with daughterly affection.”
“Then why on earth are you helping her? Surely Mrs Woodforde would be better for never having met the girl, if all she is interested in is her inheritance.”
“Some things are more important that money, sir, and I can only hope that Lydia discovers that in spite of her father’s machinations.”
“Quite, but if she does not, you could be storing up future heartache for a woman who has only asked to hold her beloved child in her arms once more.”
“That is a risk, I admit, and I will, of course, warn Mrs Woodforde of any possible consequences, but in the end one can only protect people to a certain degree – after that they have to take their chances. The fact is, the girl is here and whilst I would not have advised Mrs Woodforde to go looking for her, she does deserve to know the truth – what she does with the knowledge is entirely in her own hands.”
He was right, of course, thought Sir George, damn it, he usually is!
Lydia had to be investigated for the sake of all who were embroiled in the tale. He could not allow a fraud to be perpetrated now that he knew all the circumstances. If the girl was an impostor she fully deserved to be exposed. Should she be the real Lydia, but in thrall to a wicked, selfish man, then that also needed to be exposed. Woodforde was obviously a contemptible wretch who would stoop to any depth to finance his appalling lifestyle. Had he really faked his own death and made his child complicit in the lie merely to claim an inheritance to which he had no right? If so, it lay with Sir George and Underwood to make sure that he never achieved his aims.
Verity appeared at the door, “I’m ready for you, Sir George, if you and Underwood are done.”
“We are, Madam, I shall be there directly.”
Verity cocked an enquiring eyebrow at Underwood as Sir George passed her to leave the room. He shrugged elegantly, “You have your wish, my love. Lydia Woodforde shall be investigated and hopefully restored to her loving Mama’s arms.”
She smiled delightedly
, “I can always rely upon you, my sweet, to do the right thing.”
When she had gone Underwood pondered her words. The right thing? He was still unsure if this was ‘the right thing’. He had the feeling that he might very well come to regret ever allowing himself to meet Mrs Woodforde and her ‘daughter’. There was something about the whole matter which troubled him and it was more than the money involved. He was sure, now that he had voiced the possibility, that Mr Woodforde was very much alive and was using his daughter and estranged wife for his own nefarious ends. Why he had such a conviction he had no idea, but as he thought about the circumstances of the prodigal’s return and the convenience of its timing, the more aware he was that he could be plunging himself into very deep and murky waters indeed.
*
CHAPTER THREE
“Vinculum Matrimonii” – The bond of matrimony
Mrs Woodforde wore her years of sorrow on her face, with deep grooves across her forehead and by her mouth and her hair prematurely grey. Her eyes were pouched and held a depth of sadness which quite tore at Verity’s heart. The very obvious distress in which she had lived for so long made the younger woman determined to do all she could to alleviate it.
They met for the first time in Hanbury Spa and Underwood was not present, having elected to stay at home and try and teach Horatia her letters whilst her mama took a well earned break from domesticity.
The ladies sipped the waters and listened to the string quartet, playing softly as a background to the incessant chatter of the patrons, grateful that there was something to fill any awkward silences. Mrs Woodforde and Verity had never met before and the knowledge the younger woman had of her companion’s background made it almost impossible for her to speak naturally on any subject other than the sudden reappearance of a lost daughter.
Fortunately Lady Hartley-Wells had no such inhibitions and chatted easily to both ladies in turn until they both began to relax.
“Tell me about your husband, Mrs Underwood,” said Mrs Woodforde, once they were at ease with each other, “Serena tells me that I can safely leave my troubles in his hands, but I should like to know how you feel about him concerning himself with this matter.”
“He is the kindest man, the most considerate. I can assure you that he will do his utmost to help you.”
Lady Hartley-Wells held her tongue, though she felt she could perhaps have argued with the word ‘considerate’ when applied to Underwood, who was, it could not be denied, very kindly, but he had a lively notion of consideration, more often than not ensuring his own comfort above everyone else’s, even his wife and children. But she felt this was a minor flaw in a man who spent his life aiding others.
“I hesitate to ask, but he will be discreet? Whichever way this goes, I should hate my business to be broadcast. Poor Lydia must not be forever the child who caused a scandal.”
Verity laid a comforting hand upon her companion’s arm, feeling the largely fleshless bone beneath the silk sleeve. The woman had obviously been living on the edge of her nerves for years and Verity could only hope that it was not too late for her body to recover from the ravages incurred by constant misery.
“I promise you that neither Underwood nor I would dream of discussing your private affairs, but I feel I must remind you that if this matter should come to Court, it would be entirely out of our control. Secrecy would be impossible.”
Mrs Woodforde managed a sad smile, “I understand that, Mrs Underwood, but I live in hope that your husband can find some compelling evidence which will render legal action unnecessary.”
“He will do his best. But perhaps, in the meantime, you could tell me a little of what has been going on? It might be easier for you to confide in me and I could pass on information to my husband – only, of course, if you agree.”
“I think that would be easier,” agreed the older woman, “this is very painful for me and though I recognise the sense of Serena’s advice, I cannot help but feel that I am betraying my own flesh and blood by even thinking of denying her.”
“Oh, I do understand,” said Verity earnestly, “I should feel the very same way, but if there is the slightest doubt, it must be addressed. Think how terrible it would be if this girl should be an imposter and the very moment she claimed her inheritance, she were to simply walk away and leave you bereft again – you owe it to yourself to protect your poor heart from more damage.”
“Quite right too,” intercepted Lady Hartley-Wells briskly, “Now, Henrietta, give us as much insight into the girl as you can – it will make Underwood’s task that much easier.”
Mrs Woodforde looked thoughtful, “As a matter of fact, I have a bundle of letters which I have exchanged with Lydia – I kept copies of my own missives on Serena’s advice, just in case we ended up in Court. Would you like to take those for Mr Underwood to read? He might read things into her words that I have missed.”
Verity smiled encouragingly, “That is an excellent notion. I will take them and you have my word I will return them to you as soon as he has perused them.”
It took no time at all for Mrs Woodforde to cross the town square to her hotel and return with the letters, neatly secured with a red ribbon.
The ladies, manners dictating that they preserved the illusion that there was no hurry to begin the investigation, decided to take tea together before they parted company, Verity to her carriage, driven by the stoic Toby, who had amused himself in a hostelry until he had spotted her coming out of the Pump Rooms and hurried across to her; and Lady Hartley-Wells and Mrs Woodforde to their respective abodes.
Underwood, frazzled long before he had reached ‘G was a Greyhound, As swift as the wind; In the race of the course, Left all others behind’ in ‘The Alphabet of Goody Two Shoes’ was delighted to see the mother of his children and gladly handed over their offspring so that he could pretend an overwhelming enthusiasm for the female meanderings of the two Woodforde women. He assured Mrs Underwood that he needed the peace and quiet of his study in order to read the letters and make appraisal of their meaning. His mood was not much improved when his wife informed him that Horatia knew all her letters very well and had been funning with him.
Lydia was nothing if not dutifully polite.
‘28th June, 1827, Cadwalleder’s Hotel, London,
Dear Mama,
I can think of no other way to address you, but so many years have passed since I called anyone mother, that I feel odd using the words. I can only hope that this letter does not distress you too greatly. My first desire was to come directly to see you, but I felt my arrival might be far too shocking.
Yes, at last, I am in England once again.
Of course the circumstances are unpleasant. Papa passed away several weeks ago in Barbados and as soon as I had overseen the arrangements for his interment I booked a passage upon a ship bound for home. Yes, I still think of this as home, though it is so long since I was last here.
The chill is biting my bones and I spend most of my day hunched over a fire, trying to warm my frozen fingers. I hadn’t realised how accustomed I have become to the sunny climes!
But, enough of me. I want to know how you fare and if you feel inclined to allow me to visit you. I do understand that this letter will be a surprise to say the least, so I will understand if you wish to take some little time to think about my proposal.
I look forward to hearing from you and I send you my sincerest regards and affection,
Your daughter, Lydia Woodforde.’
The replies were equally polite but overlaid with tortured longing.
‘7th July, 1827 Millwood House, Derbyshire,
My sweetest child,
I can scarcely hold my pen my hands tremble so. I despaired of ever living to see this moment. Please do not wait another moment but travel here post and I will take care of any expenses you may accrue. I cannot wait to hold you in my arms once more,
Your loving mother’
‘20th July, 1827
Dearest Mama,
Your greeting has made me very happy and I will endeavour to be with you just as soon as I can. There are, however, several matters of business I have to attend to before I can journey North. Papa left his affairs in a tangle and I am obliged to sort everything before I can come.
It would make me very happy if we could continue to write to each other and exchange all the news that I have so sorely missed.
Yours in affection, Lydia’
Underwood read this last note with some suspicion. It didn’t suggest a high degree of eagerness. Surely the girl would have dashed to her mother’s side, after a twenty year separation? Unless, of course, she was too afraid to spend a long period of time with the older woman. If, as Underwood suspected, Lydia was a callous imposter, she would be much wiser to try and garner as much information as she could in the innocent guise of friendly news from home. She was probably too ignorant of the facts to risk going North so soon. The nearer she could leave the meeting to the fateful birthday and the transfer of funds, the better it would be.
Poor Henrietta Woodforde. She was a pigeon ripe for the plucking. Her overwhelming desire to have her child restored to her had completely blinded her to the possibility that she might be taken for a fool. Her husband had deserted her twenty years before, but he was still pulling her strings, manipulating her, controlling her life from behind the scenes. Underwood found it hard to believe that people could be so utterly heartless and cruel – and all for a few measly guineas.
He quickly shuffled the papers and to his surprise found letters which Mrs Woodforde had evidently forgotten were included in the bundle, for they were some of the correspondence exchanged between herself and Lady Hartley-Wells. This was not entirely within his remit and he debated whether or not to scan them too. In the meanwhile he returned to the letters between Lydia and her mama – there was plenty of time to read what Serena Hartley-Wells had to say later, if he chose to do so.
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 2
