“Not too badly at all,” Gil smiled and when he raised his eyes to Catherine Pennington, he saw that she was smiling too, a smile which encompassed him in its warmth, in gratitude for making this precious child happy. Because Alistair was not looking at her, her face also held an expression which told Gil she did not think her boy was destined to reach manhood. If Gil had been brought to her side by her beauty, it was her courage and tender love for her child which held him there.
“There are underground lakes and streams in the caverns high up in the hills, perhaps when Alistair is a little better, we could take him up there to see for himself?”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed the boy, “I have never seen water underground. We may, mayn’t we Mama?”
“I don’t know how we would manage your chair, dearest.”
“I would gladly help,” offered Gil and was rewarded with another of those all too fleeting smiles, “You are so kind, Mr. Underwood. Alistair and I will look forward to it.”
“In the meantime, shall I see you in church on Sunday?”
“I’m afraid not. Alistair and I do not attend your church. Our devotions must necessarily be of a private nature.”
This was a stunning blow and Gil’s face showed the depth of his disappointment, “You are Roman Catholics?” he asked, almost beneath his breath.
She knew then that it was over before it had even begun. Her brown eyes were hurt, but full of patient understanding, “Yes, we are. Thank you for your kind welcome, Mr. Underwood.”
He tried to recover himself; “Shall you be here tomorrow?”
“I imagine so.”
“Perhaps I shall see you then?”
“Perhaps. Goodbye.”
Gil made his way back to Verity through the crowds of people, barely seeing them as he wove between them, and he also failed to notice that Verity too looked as though she had received her own share of bad news. When she whispered, “Take me home, Gil.” He was only too eager to comply. He wanted to be alone, in his church, to think.
*
CHAPTER NINE
(“Cacoethes Carpendi” – A mania for finding fault)
Back at the vicarage Gilbert, completely unaware of any fraught feelings but his own, left the two women and went immediately to the church. Ellen led Verity into the garden, where she knew they would not be overheard by Underwood or Francis, who were still closeted in the study.
There was a mossy old stone bench beneath the shade of the trees and it was here the two sat, Verity, white faced and shocked, twisting her handkerchief between trembling fingers; Ellen fighting the emotions of fury at Underwood’s thoughtlessness, and deep pity for her troubled friend.
“I’m sure Isobel must be wrong, my dear. Underwood may be many things, but he is no rake. Philandering is in the blood, and he’s never shown any inclination towards it before.”
“Still being in love with Charlotte is not philandering. It is something he has no power to fight. And who can blame him? She is so beautiful, so lively and I…”
Ellen embraced her friend so fiercely that she was almost deprived of the ability to breathe, “If he cannot see beyond a pretty face, then he is an idiot as well as a rogue. And who says you are not as pretty as that little hussy?”
“My mirror,” answered Verity mournfully.
“Oh, Verity! What is the matter with you? I have never known you to be a defeatist. You have qualities far richer than Charlotte Wynter’s prettiness. Are you going to give in without a fight and leave the field clear for that horrid little flirt? Do you not love Underwood enough to fight for him?”
“I love him dreadfully,” protested Verity, “That is why I want his happiness above my own.”
“If you think he will be happier with Charlotte Wynter than with you, you much mistake the matter. How long do you think it would be before she tires of him and casts him aside for a new and more exciting lover?”
Since Verity could not envision any woman growing tired of her beloved husband, this remark had very little effect on her misery.
“You do not understand, Ellen. I think Charlotte truly loves him.”
“If that is true, then let it be her problem and not yours. There is a baby to think about now.”
Verity was aghast, “Oh! How could Francis betray me? I begged him not to tell anyone.”
Ellen smiled at her naiveté, “Calm yourself. Francis did not tell me. I knew without his help, I assure you. Remember I am a mother myself and recognized the signs.”
She found her arm being clutched by the panic-stricken Verity, “You do not think Underwood has noticed too?”
“I very much doubt it. Underwood may be very astute when it comes to solving crimes, but like every other man, he is incredibly obtuse when it comes to women. In three months time he will be complaining you are putting on weight.”
“Thank God!” said Verity fervently.
“But why don’t you tell him? Surely he has a right to know?”
“No,” answered Verity, suddenly adamant, “If Underwood stays with me, it will be me and not his child which binds him.”
“You are a fool, Verity. You have the ammunition to blow Charlotte right out of the water, and you will not use it. You are like Nelson, but you have spotted the sniper in the rigging and could save yourself from the fatal shot. For goodness sake, tell him.”
“No, I will not! If Underwood chooses Charlotte, then he will never know about this child. The day he leaves me for her, is the day I take the first coach out of Hanbury – leaving him no forwarding address.”
Ellen was very much afraid she meant every word.
*
Underwood, blissfully unaware of all these machinations, had spent the afternoon sifting through the prettily inlaid wooden box which contained the private papers of Josephine Dunstable.
The will was much as he expected – and proved beyond doubt that Oliver Dunstable would have been much better off had his wife lived rather than died when she did. Admittedly he was left a handsome sum, but the bulk of the estate went to Melissa, in trust until she came of age. The important codicil stated that Mrs. Gedney could use any interest accrued solely for the benefit of her child, but she alone was entitled to decide how the money was used. Mrs. Dunstable had tried to keep the money out of the hands of her worthless son-in-law, but at the last moment had weakened, probably at the thought of the penury she was inflicting on her beloved child.
The evidence was not strong enough to convict the Gedneys, but it was sufficient to clear Oliver Dunstable, in Underwood’s opinion, at least. If Oliver had been interested only in the money, he would have been much wiser to have milked Mrs. Dunstable prior to her death, rather than kill her for his inheritance.
Of course, none of this would carry any weight with a court, for there was no proof Dunstable knew what was in the document – or indeed that the Gedneys were privy to its contents either.
He put the will aside and continued his search. He was at last rewarded when he found, right at the bottom of the box, a small leather-bound note book, very old and worn, which contained numerous lists of names, besides which were written various sums of money. Mrs. Dunstable was nothing if not thorough. Had he not spoken to Lady Hartley-Wells on the subject, this book would probably have meant nothing to him, and been cast aside as worthless and indecipherable – but now Underwood thought he knew what it meant and he studied it with great interest.
By the time his brother called him for tea, Underwood had the names of three persons who were listed in the book and who were presently residing in the spa town of Hanbury.
*
Underwood longed to discuss his discoveries with Verity, knowing her sense and intelligence would have been of inestimable aid to his own thought processes, but her mood was such that he felt he could not approach her. He was deeply disturbed by her very apparent unhappiness and his own inability to comfort her. He had never in his life felt quite so helpless and inadequate. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arm
s and assure her that everything was going to be all right, but there was something daunting in her tragic eyes which sent him scurrying from the room.
The notion of spending the evening at a ball was appalling, but the thought of telling Verity he did not wish to accompany her was worse. He felt sure any attempt to cancel the event would be met with accusations of being ashamed to be seen in her company, or, more annoyingly, suspicions that he had arranged an assignation with Charlotte, and therefore wanted his wife out of the way. He was beginning to feel that no matter which way he turned, he really could not win.
Ellen was determined to force her friend to fight for her husband’s attention, so it was with resolve that she went to Verity’s room to help her choose her gown for their evening out, and to dress her hair for her.
She was delighted, and secretly immensely relieved, to find Verity had been taken in hand by her new Mama-in-law, and had a wide selection of lovely evening clothes. She was even more pleased to hear Underwood had not seen any of them.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed, with great good humour, “We shall make that husband of yours realize just what a gem he possesses. Charlotte will look the silly chit she is, when compared to your elegance. I must say Underwood’s mother has wonderful taste.”
“I think she enjoyed helping me. She confided that not having a daughter had been her one sorrow in life.”
Soon the bed was spread with Verity’s rejected gowns and Ellen was silently despairing. There was a beautiful jade-green silk, but Verity’s paleness had reflected the colour and it made her look ghastly. The white satin played the same trick. Black was too dark, red too garish, pink to girlish, pale blue too insipid.
The last dress in the trunk was midnight blue with a fine silver thread stripe. It was ideal and Ellen’s pleasure was not feigned when she saw Verity in it. She knew her friend had never looked lovelier. Her white complexion looked fashionably pale instead of sickly and the colour of the gown gave the illusion of added height. The low cut bodice exposed more of her breast that she had ever shown before, and the high waist hid the beginnings of her bulging stomach. Verity blushed when she saw her reflection, “Ellen, don’t you think…” Ellen followed the direction of her gaze and laughed, “No, I don’t think! The gown is perfect in every way.”
When Ellen’s expert fingers had teased her locks into becoming ringlets, the picture was complete, “Now, Verity, I want you to listen to me and believe every word I say, because I speak nothing but the truth. You look beautiful! There will not be another woman tonight who approaches you. Hear it and know it to be true.”
Verity smiled at the impassioned sincerity in her friend’s voice; “Do you think Underwood will agree with you?”
“Underwood!” snorted Ellen contemptuously, “What would he know? If you don’t believe me, just glance at the other men. If their admiration isn’t plain to you, then you are beyond all hope.”
Verity understood what she meant when she glided gracefully down the stairs. The household were all gathered in the hall, only awaiting her arrival so they could leave. Underwood, Gil and Francis all glanced up as they heard her coming and all three mouths dropped open in astonishment. Verity could scarcely prevent herself laughing aloud, so comic was their joint surprise. Underwood thrust aside his brother and his friend, climbed the stairs two at a time and held out his hand to her, “You look magnificent!” She accepted his assistance and his compliment with a slight smile.
“Good God! Verity, I hardly recognized you.” exclaimed Francis, only to be rapped sharply across the knuckles by his wife’s fan.
Gil merely smiled at her, “I don’t usually dance, Verity, but I don’t think I could miss treading a measure with the belle of the ball.”
“I suspect you will have to fight for the privilege, Gil,” murmured Ellen warningly, “There is going to be quite a queue forming when Verity enters the Assembly Rooms.”
Ellen’s prediction was entirely accurate, for there was a quality greater than beauty about Verity that night. She did indeed look attractive, and her early pregnancy had given her figure unaccustomed curves, but more than that she was enjoying herself and she was a woman whose face would always reflect her inner emotions. Her happiness shone in her eyes, drawing people to her though they did not know the reason. Young and old, male and female, they looked at her and found themselves more content for the experience.
She had never danced so much in her life before, nor had so many elaborate compliments paid to her. Charlotte, over-dressed as usual in white silk, too fussily decorated with paste and pearls, could only fume by the window, cooling her hot cheeks with a furiously wafted fan and knowing, for once, how the wall-flowers felt. The prevailing fashion meant that all the younger ladies were attired in the very palest colours, if not white, then pastels. Verity’s gown stood out as the ultimate in style and elegance.
Underwood watched her indulgently for quite a while before he grew weary of playing second fiddle, then he fended off his rivals and breaking the rule of a lifetime about not making a fool of himself by prancing about a ballroom, he lead his wife into a waltz. He was spurred into such drastic action by the thought of allowing any arms but his own to encircle his wife’s waist. Charlotte had been determined that the waltz should be danced by herself and Underwood and her ire was plain to see – or would have been had anyone glanced her way. The room was too busy admiring the graceful way in which Verity was leading her husband, expertly covering his many errors, and so clearly wearing her heart upon her sleeve that the whole company was completely entranced. It was rare indeed in this age of arranged marriages for a husband and wife to be in love, and rarer still for them to make a public display of that affection. The last demonstrative pair who had been witnessed by Hanbury society had been the Dunstables, and unfortunately they had only succeeded in embarrassing everyone.
Once Underwood felt sufficiently at ease with the steps to stop looking at his feet, he managed to smile at his wife, “Gad, sweetheart, I haven’t danced for years – and believe it or not, I never learned to waltz.”
Verity could quite easily believe it, for her bruised toes bore silent testimony to his ineptitude, but she kindly refrained from pointing this out.
“It is very nice to see you looking so happy,” he added carefully, hoping against hope he was not about to ruin the evening by speaking words which could be taken the wrong way and brooded over – he felt that had been happening to him with monotonous regularity recently.
“Tonight, I am happy,” she said, “Are you?”
“No man is ever happy making a fool of himself on a dance floor, but I am not unhappy,” he told her with a wry grin. Verity laughed. She loved that particular smile of his, half amused, half embarrassed. It was one of the few times he seemed wholly human. She thought of all the extravagant gallantries to which she had been subjected all evening, comparing them, not unfavourably, with her husband’s candour, “Oh Cadmus!” she chided him, “Has it never occurred to you to occasionally lie in order to please your listener?”
He looked amazed at the very thought, “Good God! Don’t tell me that you are one of those empty-headed females who would rather hear pretty lies than the truth?”
“I’m a woman, Cadmus. Sometimes I think you forget it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I forget?” She smiled mysteriously and refused to answer.
“By the bye, if you have nothing arranged for tomorrow, I would be grateful for an hour or two of your time. I want to discuss the case with you – if you want to be involved, that is?” There was a hesitation in his tone which told her how very unsure of her support he had become, and she was sorry for it. She suddenly realized that here was something she shared with her husband which Charlotte Wynter could never hope to equal. He knew her mind was very nearly as sharp as his own and far from resenting it, as most men would, he delighted in her intelligence and encouraged her to offer her own thoughts and ideas.
“Certainly,” she assured him
warmly, “I should be most interested to hear what you have discovered.”
The dance ended and Underwood led her off towards a convenient seat. Once there he made a gesture which at once delighted and embarrassed her. He drew his snuffbox from his pocket and took a pinch. The box was returned to his pocket, but instead of simply inhaling the mixture, he took her hand, palm upward, and sprinkled the dark powder on the white skin of her inner wrist, then, bowing low over her hand, he inhaled. Once the snuff was gone, he turned her hand over and kissed her fingers in one graceful and fluid movement. Verity grew a little pink of cheek and smiled softly at him. It was as much as those observing them could do not to heave a collective sigh of satisfaction at so romantic a moment. Underwood, aware that he had caused a stir, but determined to maintain his calm demeanour, simply said, “I pray you will feel free to enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening, Verity and I have only one favour to beg in return – don’t expect me to dance again – and don’t waltz with anyone else.”
“At my count, that amounts to two favours, but I will grant them both.”
*
“I can scarcely believe it, Cadmus,” exclaimed his wife the following morning, having risen late and joined him in the vicarage study for their promised consultation, “Are you really sure of this?”
“As sure as I can. Mrs. Dunstable’s book says Kitty Wolstencroft is not Adeline Beresford’s aunt, but her mother. Mrs. Dunstable raised the girl, but Mrs. Wolstencroft claimed back her child when her husband died. Grace Arbuthnot is the other name mentioned in the book, but no mention of what happened to her child appears therein.”
“But they all seem to be on such friendly terms. Can they really have forgiven her for the past?”
“Perhaps not. It may be the pretence of friendship has given them the necessary access to Mrs. Dunstable.”
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 9
