Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Quis Fallere Possit Amantem?” – Who can deceive a lover?

  A letter from Miss Fettiplace sent Underwood hurrying about the house two days later, trying to arrange for a valise to be packed and Verity to be pacified.

  “Don’t you see, my love?” he said earnestly, throwing shirts and cravats into the case, only for Verity to take them out again and fold them neatly, “I have to go, as soon as I possibly can. Miss Fettiplace confides that Cressida Petch has found a way to get Luckhurst away, giving me the chance to get into Pershore House and speak to Miss Greenhowe.”

  “How can I be sure that he will really go and that you will not be caught, red handed, and suffer who knows what consequences?”

  “Read the letter for yourself, then you will see that the plan would appear to be foolproof.”

  She accepted the missive which he took from his pocket and handed to her, unfolding it crossly, her tight lips giving Underwood the impression that she did not actually care what it contained, she was determined not to be convinced of his safety.

  ‘Dear Mr Underwood,

  Written in haste and sent to you by the hand of Mr Jebson the Apothecary – I know now that I cannot trust anyone in the village, for fear they will give us away to Ormond Luckhurst.

  He, however, has been true to his word. Cressida did as you directed and broke the bottle of laudanum, and fortunately it was I who was sent to collect another bottle – really, Ormond is incorrigible! He already acts as Master in the house, though why on earth he thinks that should give him the right to order me about like a servant, I have no idea!

  But I digress! The new bottle of the stuff had the desired effect and Miss Greenhowe is suddenly much more lively and seems to recall much more, and so Cressida and I have great hopes that she will be able to speak lucidly to you when you come – and of course, this is the vitally important message I have for you! Cressida seems to be suddenly showing much more sense and even, dare I say it, cunning! She has thought of the most ingenious scheme toget Ormond away from the house so that you can interview Miss Greenhowe.

  She has told Ormond that she cannot possibly agree to marry him unless they go together to London to see her Godfather and ask his permission for the wedding. She intimated that she is expected to inherit a goodly sum from this old gentleman and so cannot afford to offend him. Of course, the very mention of more money flowing into his coffers sent Ormond into a positive ecstasy and he agreed at once to the visit.

  They are to leave on Thursday and will be gone for some five days, so if we are to put the plan into action, it must be NOW!

  I beg you will come as soon as you receive this letter.

  Forever in your debt,

  Matilda Fettiplace.’

  Verity gave an impatient sigh as she finished reading the missive, “Very well, I suppose you must go, Cadmus, but let it be known that I am not happy to let you travel just now. You are still not well.”

  At this point Underwood would normally suggest that Verity came on the journey with him, thereby reassuring herself that he was looking after himself, however, after his last experience on the stagecoach, he was extremely reluctant to put her into any danger, no matter how unlikely the event. For this reason he was forced to put on a brave face and make light of her worries.

  “My dear, I promise you I am now fully fit – and doubly wary of tasting food and drink in less than salubrious drinking dens.”

  Verity knew him better than any other living person, including his mother. The very fact that he didn’t ask her to accompany him immediately alerted her to something he was hiding and she looked severely at him, “Cadmus Underwood, what are you keeping from me?”

  “Nothing at all,” he said, with injured innocence.

  “Then why are you not demanding that I leave the children with Sabrina and Toby and come with you to West Wimpleford?”

  “Because it promises to be an extremely tedious journey, followed by an utterly frustrating few days, trying to get a befuddled old lady to recall where she hid a diamond necklace which she has probably forgotten she ever owned. Even I am not so selfish that I would subject you to that hellish experience.”

  Couched in those terms, it did sound unpleasant, but ever contrary, this made Verity all the more determined to be the helpmate to her husband that she had always imagined herself to be, “I could perhaps be of assistance with the old lady,” she suggested diffidently, “Elderly people seem to like me.”

  “Everyone likes you,” he said warmly, “But I think you would not help in this instance. The poor woman has been kept in close confinement by this bounder Luckhurst, and I fear too many strange faces will simply confuse and distress her. You are sweet to think of me, my love, but I really must insist on going alone on this occasion.”

  “I quite see your point,” said Verity reasonably, “But that need not stop me from travelling with you. I could wait in the inn whilst you visit Miss Greenhowe.”

  Underwood was running out of excuses, so resorted to underhand methods, “Was it not only a week ago that you chastised me for suggesting you leave the children in the care of others whilst we ‘gallivant about the countryside’, I believe was the expression used? And frankly, I would not trust Sabrina with the farm cat that visits Horatia because she feeds it titbits, let alone my two precious daughters!”

  Verity could not but accept the truth of this pronouncement. It would appear that the system of slavery in Barbados ensured that so many servants were used about the house that they each had a specified task to perform and it was rarely necessary for them to learn another. Sabrina knew how to care for her young mistress, how to dress her and fashion her hair, but she had no clue how to cook or manage a household, no idea how to feed a family on a budget or do laundry. She played nicely enough with the young children, but had no thought about discipline or their safety. Verity had already caught her enticing Horatia into climbing to the highest, flimsiest branches of a tree in the garden, then being distracted by Clarissa and going off and leaving the little girl unsupervised some fifteen feet off the ground. The fall might very well have killed her, but Sabrina simply shrugged when challenged and answered casually, “But she didn’t fall, did she?”

  Verity shuddered when she thought about the incident again – she had still not fully recovered from the sight of her little girl peering through the branches at her when she came into the garden, her expression a mixture of delight at her daring, and terror because she found she could not easily climb down again. Toby had to scale the tree after her and was well scratched for his trouble, since his huge shoulders had not slipped between the boughs as easily as the tiny frame of Horatia had done.

  The decision was made. Underwood would travel to West Wimpleford alone.

  As it transpired, Wimpleford did not become Underwood’s final destination – at least not on the stagecoach.

  The longer he pondered the situation, the less happy he was with the idea of walking straight into a town whose populace were too firmly entrenched in the notion that Ormund Luckhurst owned them body and soul. It would be virtually impossible to arrive on the stage and not having his presence advertised by at least one person to the enemy camp.

  For safety’s sake he decided to make his base in Midmickle instead and hire a horse to ride over to Pershore House when he had word from Miss Fettiplace that he was clear to visit unhindered.

  A few years before this would have been an unlikely plan for Underwood considered himself to be a very poor horseman. His years in Cambridge had required very little in the way of riding and he had grown used to walking almost everywhere, since his world comprised of moving from one college to another and very little other travelling, unless it was to visit his mother or his brother, which was usually undertaken in a carriage.

  However, since meeting Verity this had changed considerably. She was passionate about riding and he found himself invited on more and more expeditions, with other like-
minded friends. When Gil had married Cara, the need to ride had become even more pressing – she was the daughter of the aristocracy and had been in the saddle practically since birth. She declared that she would simply expire with grief if she wasn’t allowed to ride daily, and most of the time Verity spared an hour or two to go with her. When his work allowed, Gil went with them, so it became more and more difficult for Underwood to spoil the fun. Almost against his will he was now a very competent rider and where once he would have baulked at the notion of riding ten miles, he now saw it as little more than a minor inconvenience.

  He was instantly recognized when he arrived at The Three Feathers – an inn name he had failed to notice on his first visit, for obvious reasons. The landlord welcomed him with more warmth than Underwood might have expected. The reason became clear a short while later, when he was enjoying a coffee in the parlour. Apparently many thrill-seekers had been attracted to the small town by the news that Highwaymen were once again operating in the area, something which had occurred for several years. Underwood thought it madness that so many people came in order to enjoy the thrill of being held up by masked brigands, bearing arms and evidently not averse to using them, especially when he heard that there were far more ladies than gentlemen who had descended on the inn. Really, what was wrong with public? Were their lives so mundane that they were forced to seek excitement in such a dangerous way?

  He had failed to realize that over the years, as the reality had faded from people’s minds, Highwaymen had taken on a strange glamour – in particular the legends of brigands such as the dashing and romantic Claude Duval, who was famous for allowing lovely young ladies to keep their jewels if they danced with him on Hounslow Heath, and who stole only a kiss if the lady was particularly beautiful.

  Underwood shook his head in astonishment as he contemplated the foolishness of his fellow man. To him, having been at the business end of a flintlock, there was nothing even vaguely romantic about being threatened with death in exchange for a few paltry coins.

  However, he was more than happy to take the resulting hospitality and found himself ensconced in the best room in the house.

  He asked if the two mysterious ladies had ever been traced and received only a firm shake of the head in reply, “I’ll be straight with you, Mr Underwood, you can count yourself very lucky there were other men on that coach, for if there had not been, I doubt the Magistrate would have believed your tale. When they went back to retrieve the body of the man, that was gone too, though careful searching did reveal a bloodstain, that was almost invisible, having seeped into the ground, and they wouldn’t have seen it, had they not been searching. But for the bullet in the guard’s arm and the other witnesses, the whole incident might never have happened.”

  Underwood was scarcely surprised. He too would have removed all evidence if he had been the perpetrator. The last thing the man needed was to be traced by the identification of his dead cohort.

  But that still left the mystery of the “widow” and her abigail. Underwood wondered briefly if he would ever see them again.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Auri Sacra Fames – The cursed hunger for gold

  A messenger was despatched to West Wimpleford early the next morning to tell Jebson the Apothecary that Underwood was now safely arrived in Midmickle and he would come to Pershore House the moment he was given clearance by Miss Fettiplace, as had been arranged before Underwood left Hanbury.

  Word was not long in coming and Underwood duly set forth to meet Miss Greenhowe for the first time, with slight trepidation, it must be admitted. Would the lack of strong laudanum make any real difference to her mental state, or was she already too far gone in senility to make any sense? Would she even agree to speak to him – a complete stranger?

  He need not have concerned himself for all went smoothly. Brimblecombe was waiting to let him into the house; there was no sign of any other servants. When Underwood asked about this, the old fellow smiled grimly and tapped the side of his nose, “I still wield some authority in this place,” he said, with great dignity, “if I give the staff tasks to do, they had better jump to and do them!”

  From this Underwood could only surmise that the Luckhurst ‘spies’ would be thoroughly occupied for the duration of his visit. He hoped that the old butler really did hold the power he imagined and that he wouldn’t find himself being arrested for trespass.

  He followed the butler up the wide, sweeping staircase and into the master bedroom, which was quite as splendid as the rest of the house and Underwood gave grudging respect to Luckhurst. He might very well be trying to defraud the old lady out of her money, but at least he was waiting until death claimed her and in the meantime appeared to be caring very well for her.

  The heavy velvet drapes and dark Jacobean furniture was all a little depressing for Underwood’s taste, looking, as it did, as though it were far too heavy to ever move. The curtains were closed against the bright summer sun and the room was lit with great branches of candles set on every available surface. This seemed bizarre to Underwood’s eyes. If the woman wanted light, then why not take advantage of the daylight? All too soon the autumn would be upon them and daylight would be precious. However, he could not argue against the commonly held notion that sunshine was fatal to interiors, fading colours and weakening fabrics – and if that was the reason for the darkness then it was working admirably, for though it was obviously old, the room seemed to be as bright as the day it was first decorated.

  Miss Greenhowe sat in the huge bed, tiny and shrunken, but her eyes were wary as she watched Brimblecombe enter the room with Underwood in his wake.

  “Who is this, Brimbles?” she asked, evidently using a pet name for the man who had served her, so Underwood understood, for the best part of fifty years.

  “This is Mr Underwood, Miss Jemima; do you recall that Miss Mattie said that he might call on you?”

  She frowned as though the effort of remembering was arduous, “Did she tell me so?”

  “She did.”

  “And what does he want with me?”

  “I’ll leave him to explain to you, ma’am,” said Brimblecombe, “Can I get you anything? Some tea perhaps?” he addressed this question to Underwood as much as the old lady and that gentleman nodded gratefully, “That would be delightful, Brimblecombe, thank you,” he said, then he turned to the lady in the big, half-tester bed, “May I sit, Miss Greenhowe, and speak with you for a little while?”

  “Please do,” she said and gestured towards a high-backed chair, which he dutifully dragged across to be nearer the bedside – it was quite as heavy and cumbersome as he had been imagining.

  “Do I know you, sir?” she asked, when he had settled himself in the seat, “Your face is not familiar, but then, so little is familiar these days.” Her voice sounded sad and he hastened to reassure her.

  “No, madam, we have never met. I am an acquaintance of your nephew Rutherford.” It seemed more trouble than it was worth to try and explain that he had never actually met Rutherford either.

  Her wrinkled face creased into a delighted smile, “Dear Rutherford, how is he? The naughty boy has not been to see me for an age!”

  Underwood thought quickly. This was a tricky moment. If he reminded the old lady that Rutherford was in trouble – and she was the cause – it might be too much for her to comprehend. On the other hand, how could he explain the young man’s prolonged absence?

  “Rutherford sent me in his place, Miss Greenhowe. He sends his deepest regrets that he can’t get away to see you himself, but he is thinking of you with the greatest respect and fondness.”

  The smile broadened, “Yes, he was always very fond of me. I was like a mother to that boy and his sister when their parents died.”

  Underwood, in discussion with Dr Herbert before leaving Hanbury, had been warned of this strange manifestation of senility. The elderly very often recalled the distant past with perfect clarity, but forgot more or less everything of a more
recent nature. Miss Greenhowe evidently knew quite well who Rutherford was, his relationship to her, and the fact that she had not seen him for a while, but had no memory of his incarceration and subsequent transportation to Australia.

  It would, perhaps, be to his advantage then, not to mention it.

  “He has asked me to not only send his love, but to see to it that you are being well cared for. I understand your have his sister still living here?”

  “Cressida? Yes, yes. Cressida is still here – at least,” she frowned suddenly, “does Cressy still live with me? I think I saw her yesterday.”

  Underwood knew for a fact that Cressida had left with Luckhurst two days previously, but he did not bother to set the old lady right. A day or two either way hardly mattered. It was the necklace he needed to find, not upset the woman by reminding her of her forgetfulness and making her recall unimportant facts.

  “I understand she is thinking of getting married?” he commented, more to change the subject than anything else.

  “Is she indeed? The minx never mentioned that to me.”

  “I believe Mr Luckhurst has only just offered for her hand. She has, perhaps, not had chance to discuss it with you.”

  “Perhaps not.” She looked thoughtful, “Luckhurst, hey? I’m not sure I approve of cousins marrying – and Luckhurst comes from bad stock, you know. His father was a wastrel. Ran through his inheritance like a hot knife through butter!”

  Did he indeed? thought Underwood grimly. That answered a few questions which had been plaguing him. It would seem entirely possible that Luckhurst really was penniless and desperate enough to betray his cousin in the sordid way he had. There was, perhaps, a small part of Underwood that hoped that a man would not be so base in his pursuit of wealth that he would blame another for a theft he knew hadn’t taken place and allow him to rot in a distant country, his name forever tainted. Apparently he was wrong. This revelation made him all the more determined to find the necklace and bring Rutherford home.