“The very same. Do you know her?”
“I do – and if you’ll take a piece of friendly advice, don’t attempt to see her whilst wearing that waistcoat.”
When Vivian had sauntered away in search of his father, or more probably, unmarried quarry, Verity’s attention was drawn once again by a young man, but this time it was overpowering pity which was the cause and not mere amusement. The bright red of his tunic lent a gaiety to his demeanour, which was utterly destroyed when a glance revealed that his bath chair was a tragic necessity. His face was handsome, his upper body strongly muscled, but both his legs were gone.
“Oh, Gil,” whispered Verity, “Who is that?”
Gil followed the direction of her eyes and his face split into a delighted grin,
“So Major Jeremy James Thornycroft is back in Hanbury. Don’t waste your pity on the man, Verity. You’ll never meet a more wicked flirt, a more avid gambler or a more insane lunatic. He uses his pathetic state to capture girl’s hearts, and to hold off the Magistrate when his folly leads him into court. Come and let me introduce you. You’ll rarely spend a more amusing half hour.”
*
Charlotte Wynter was furious. All her plans had gone awry and she could find no way to untangle the mess. The picnic in the hills had been the ideal opportunity to arrange matters so that she could have been close to Underwood, taking his attention away from his mousy little wife. She could have claimed his hand to help her over rocks, perhaps twisting her ankle and finding herself once more in his arms – it had worked before, when he had first fallen in love with her, but in the event she had not dared risk any such subterfuge, for she had been made only too aware that any accident would have ended with her being clasped to the excessively hairy chest of one of the guides, or worst still, the carriage drivers.
Isobel’s pronounced amusement at her abject failure to secure Underwood was even more galling, for she had, very unkindly, made much of the affection shown by Underwood towards his wife. Charlotte could not believe any man could prefer the boring, bluestocking former governess to her own stunning beauty, and she felt sure Underwood was simply being gallant – not that she felt this did him any discredit. It was very laudable that he was an honourable man, but honour could not be allowed to stand in the way of a love such as theirs.
The time had come to use more obvious methods, and to make Underwood notice her again, she would employ almost any trick – and what was more, she would shake Verity out of that fool’s paradise of hers. She must be made to understand whom it was Underwood truly loved.
Unwittingly, Isobel gave her the perfect chance to catch her prey alone.
“Lady Hartley-Wells has invited several of the ladies to play whist and take tea this afternoon, Lottie. Do you care to join us?”
“Which ladies?” inquired Charlotte, without much interest. She was finding life in the spa deadly dull, but she was determined to stay, so any diversion was welcome. But she was not such a fool as to commit herself to an afternoon of tedium. If the ladies named by Isobel were vaguely entertaining, she would join them, otherwise she would have a convenient headache.
“Ellen, Verity, Catherine Pennington and myself. There will doubtless be others too, but I misremember their names.”
Charlotte had been about to accept since she liked Ellen, and knew her well, but a sudden flash of inspiration made her hastily retract, “Yes – oh no, wait! This afternoon, you said? I had forgotten until just now. Rev. Underwood asked me to help with the church flowers. He says I have a real talent for making pretty displays.”
Isobel scrutinized her sister’s face, but could see no trace of guile. Her first reaction was to offer to help too, but she was eager to join her friends, and Charlotte must be safe enough in Gil’s company, he would hardly allow her to pursue his brother without protest.
“Very well. I shall see you later.”
“Yes, later,” answered her sister vaguely, already plotting the contents of the letter she would presently send to Mr. Underwood.
Gil was very pleasantly surprised when Charlotte ran him to ground at the Pump rooms and quietly offered to do the church flowers for him. He thought it immensely touching that she should forego an afternoon of pleasure in the company of her friends in order to beautify the church in readiness for Sunday’s services. When lightly quizzed on the cause of this self-sacrifice, she explained that the patience and forbearance of young Alistair in the face of such long-standing illness, offered a salutary lesson in humility and gratitude to the Lord for her own rude health, and he found these sentiments struck a chord with him. With a warm smile he assured her of a hearty tea in the vicarage when her self-imposed task was done.
She had been alone in the church for no more than ten minutes when Underwood joined her. He walked down the aisle to where she stood in the Lady Chapel, her arms full of fragrant blooms, and wasted no time on niceties, “I’m very busy, Charlotte, and can spare you only a few minutes. What is so urgent that I must speak to you here and now?”
“You are unkind, Mr. Underwood. Here am I, in the direst need of a friend’s counsel and you cannot wait to be away.”
“Have you no other friends?” asked the gallant and honourable gentleman tersely.
She gave a fair imitation of a broken-hearted sob and buried her face in the flowers.
“Oh God! Not more tears,” muttered Underwood, who had seen enough of weeping women in the past few days, to last him a lifetime, but he had the grace to be sorry for his impatience, “Come now, Charlotte. Weeping never solved anything, as far as I am aware. What is this trouble you are in?”
“It is Edwin. He is bringing terrible pressure to bear upon me. He has written to say that if I do not agree to marry him, he will cast my sisters and I out of the house. He says he has no obligation to keep us all, now that our father and his wife are dead.”
“I own I’m amazed you still wish to reside there. I would find it an imposition to have to share a roof with the man. If you really want my advice, I’d say it was an ideal opportunity for you to cut all connection with your unhappy past.”
She raised tear-drenched eyes to his face, “But where shall we go? Isobel is far from well, and we have very little money of our own.”
“Don’t you have any other relations who would take you in?”
Anger, not tears, made her eyes glisten, “Would you have me live on the bounty of some reluctant relative? Never! I should rather die on the street than beg a bed for myself and my sisters.”
“Very laudable – but hardly wise,” admonished the strictly practical Underwood, “Well, I don’t know why you have come to me with this tale of woe. I have no solution. I imagine Gil would be of more assistance. He must know of some genteel occupation suitable to you. Some old lady needing a companion perhaps…”
“A Wynter of Wynter Court working for a living,” she interrupted haughtily, “Have you completely taken leave of your senses – or are you merely the most insensitive creature alive?”
He laughed reminiscently, “Oh, I have it on the best authority that I am entirely insensitive.”
She cast aside the flowers and approached him more closely, “I don’t believe it,” she breathed huskily, looking mistily up into his face. Before he knew what were her intentions, she had put her hands behind his head and drawn him inexorably towards her. Their lips met briefly, then he tried to pull away from her, but she was surprisingly strong and a further kiss was placed on his unwilling mouth before he gripped her wrists and wrenched himself out of her grasp, “Don’t do that again, Charlotte!”
“Why not? You enjoyed it as much as I,” she whispered.
“Do you want me to insult you?” he countered harshly.
She gasped and stepped back from him, for in asking the question he had done just that, “What have I done that you should hate me so?” she asked in genuine distress.
“I don’t hate you – but I must say I don’t like you very much either.”
“I was
prepared to … offer myself to you.”
“That, I’m afraid, was painfully evident.”
She raised her hand to strike him, but he wasn’t about to submit to that indignity. He caught her wrist again, but this time his grip made her wince with pain.
“You, Miss, are a hussy! Selfish, unprincipled and thoroughly spoiled. I can only be grateful that fate intervened and prevented our marriage, for I realize now that my days would have been a living hell, with the misery of your infidelities grinding my pride and manhood into the mire.”
“I wouldn’t!” she cried in sudden anguish, “I would not have been unfaithful to you.”
“You think not? I know differently. You are one of those people who only want what they cannot have. Now, I suggest you get down on your knees before the altar and beg pardon for having defiled the house of God with this unsavoury exhibition.”
“You don’t even believe in God,” she snivelled miserably.
“I may not, but the faith of others is enough to sanctify this building in my eyes.”
He turned to leave her and not even the sound of her weeping made him hesitate. The slamming of the oak door was the only indication he gave of the depth of his anger – anger which was, alas, aimed directly at her. She knew now the true meaning of desolation and half fearfully she looked about her, superstitiously aware that she did indeed believe in a vengeful God and that she had sinned grievously in His house.
*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
(“Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum” – If you wish for peace, be ready for war)
Gilbert was in the vicarage garden and saw his brother storm out of the church, slamming the door behind him, an expression of fury contorting his features, and his pace far quicker than the vicar had witnessed for many a year, but as he attempted to follow, he was thwarted by the arrival on the scene of his housekeeper.
She looked so indignant that he imagined for a moment that she must also have caught sight of the irate Underwood, but her first words put flight to this notion,
“Reverend, there is a gentleman asking to see you – a gentleman of the cloth.”
“Of the cloth?” he repeated absently, still staring after the long departed Underwood, “What? The Dean? The Bishop?”
She shook her head firmly and elucidated, “Not our cloth, sir! The other!”
“The other?” Now he was completely mystified, “What other? What are you talking about, Mrs. Trent?”
“It’s a priest.”
“Priest?” Gil was still baffled, for he considered himself a priest, but even as she spoke, he became afflicted by a curious and oppressive premonition of disaster; he had the strangest sensation of trying to fight his way up through muddy water, always just a breath away from comprehension, from the air of life.
“He’s a Roman Catholic Priest,” hissed Mrs. Trent, still too appalled by this unprecedented occurrence to speak aloud.
It was as though a light had pierced the darkness, but with understanding came panic. There could be only one reason for this unexpected visit – Catherine or her son. Gil promptly forgot his brother, “Where have you left him?”
“In your study, sir,” she said, adding maliciously, “I was tempted to tell him to go about his business, but thought it would come better from you.”
“Thank you,” said Gil and took to his heels. Mrs. Trent was left open-mouthed on the lawn, watching his receding figure, his black garments lifting and flapping behind him in the wind of his speed. At last she recovered sufficiently to shake her head and mutter darkly, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when the True Church would run at the bidding of the Papists.”
Meanwhile Gil burst into his study to be confronted by an elderly man, his black hat in his hands, and an expression of disapproval on his face.
“Reverend Mr Underwood, I presume?” he asked coldly. Gil, trying to gather his dignity, but failing miserably due to his extreme breathlessness, could only nod.
“My name is Fullick, Father John Fullick.”
Gil was finally able to calm his breathing sufficiently to be able to reply,
“Good day to you, sir,” and hold out his hand. His visitor merely glanced at the proffered extremity as though it were something unclean, and declined to take it.
“This is not a social call, sir!”
“That much I had already guessed, but I see no reason for incivility. I assume you have some message for me?” Gil let his hand drop, sorry now that he had tried to offer it.
“Not a message, but a warning.” Gil was by now thoroughly baffled, and his physiognomy showed it, for the priest gave a short, humourless laugh and added,
“Pretence at injured innocence does not fool me, young man. I do not take kindly to poaching, Underwood, be it of livestock or souls.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“So you should. Mrs. Pennington has been a good and devout daughter of the Church all her life. She has received the sacraments of Baptism, Confession, Communion, Confirmation and Matrimony with a rare grace, when her son dies, she will take Holy Orders. She does not require the assistance or interference of Heathens!”
As this tirade progressed Gil found his temper rising and by the end of it he had never in his life been closer to smashing his fist into the face of another human being. He discovered that the sensation of rising fury was a curiously invigorating one. He smiled with grim humour, “Mrs. Pennington must have been very attracted by my faith to have engendered such panic in you, sir! I wonder why that should be?”
The sarcasm was not lost on the priest, for he flushed darkly and spoke through gritted teeth, “I think it more likely it is your ingratiating manner than your faith, which has momentarily blinded this poor sheep to her religious duty.”
“Poor sheep!” snapped Gil, with rare impatience, “She is a grown woman, with a mind of her own – and a remarkably intelligent one, at that. Now, I think we have nothing more to say to each other. Let me show you out.”
“Don’t bother, I shall leave, but not before I have repeated my warning. If I hear that you have been seen keeping company with Mrs. Pennington again, I shall address my complaints to your Bishop. I suspect he will view your relationship with my parishioner in the same poor light that I do myself.”
The vicar was very sure he was right, but he made no reply, merely crossing the room and holding the door open for the priest to pass through it. As he did so, the desire to plant his boot in the nether regions of his uninvited guest almost overpowered him. Fortunately for the pride and dignity of both parties, he managed to restrain himself.
When he was once more alone he threw himself into the chair at his desk, and stared unseeing at the neatly written sermon that lay before him. He thought over what the priest had said to him and was relieved to discover that it was not Catherine herself who had spoken of him to her confessor. The words, “If I hear Mrs. Pennington has been seen” told him that the gossips had been busy again. If this gave him a crumb of comfort, it was only a crumb, for Catherine had made it clear she did not reciprocate his feelings, and in the face of such powerful opposition, it was highly unlikely she would chose to be defiant for his sake. Much as he hated to admit it, he had no hope that he would ever see Catherine Pennington or her son again.
*
Verity returned from Lady Hartley-Wells’ card party unutterably weary, and went straight upstairs, intending to rest for an hour or so before dinner. Finding a piece of crumpled paper on the floor next to the bed, she bent to retrieve it and in doing so recognized the handwriting of her erstwhile pupil. She was puzzled for she knew she had never taken delivery of a letter from Charlotte Wynter. With a sudden qualm she realized that if the note had not been sent to her, then it could only be for Underwood.
She held it clenched in her fist, her knuckles shining white against the dark stuff of her skirt. It was not her habit to read the private correspondence of others, but she hesitated only seconds before she sank to her knees at the side of the
bed and smoothed the thick sheet of vellum out upon the coverlet. At first the words jumped and blurred before her eyes, but she determinedly blinked away her foolish tears and read:
Dear Mr. Underwood,
I am engaged to do the flowers in the church this
afternoon, and I beg you will meet me there. I am
in the direst trouble and only you can help me.
You must know what I mean, and you could not be
so cruel as to ignore the plea of one who has much
call upon you.
Yours as ever,
C.W.
Verity fought an overwhelming nausea. Certain phrases leapt off the page at her and seemed to hit her like physical blows. “…in the direst trouble … one who has much call upon you …”
When an unmarried girl spoke of “direst trouble”, she could only mean one thing, couldn’t she?
Verity tried to bring herself under control, but the words spun in her mind, allowing no sensible thought to penetrate, “…direst trouble … only you can help… much call upon you… yours as ever …”
She continued to kneel on the floor for some considerable time, until the ache in her joints and a sudden savage pain in the pit of her stomach brought her to her senses. She must be calm. She had nothing left but the child she carried, so she must not harm it with stupid, rash behaviour.
She rose slowly, went to the washstand and splashed her face with cold water. When she felt a little steadier, she went slowly down the stairs, to see Gil in his study.
She was too distraught to notice he himself was far from calm, merely asking,
“Tell me, Gil, did Cadmus go into the church whilst Charlotte was there?”
“He did – but he did not stay above five minutes, and came rushing out as though the hounds of hell were on his tail!”
He had thought her pale when she entered the room, but as these words she grew ashen. He rushed to her side and was just in time to catch her as she fainted.
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 15
