Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2)

by Suzanne Downes

  His shout of dismay brought half the household running to his aid, and Verity woke, laid out on a chaise longue, to find a crowd about her, all talking at once, recommending various remedies from burnt feathers to hartshorn to brandy and hot, sweet tea.

  Francis was the last to arrive and he immediately took charge, shooing all from the room, whilst taking Verity’s wrist between firm, cool fingers.

  “What brought this on?” he asked, as soon as they were alone. She told him, in a dull, lifeless voice, which did nothing to convince him she was not distressed beyond bearing.

  “You foolish girl!” he said briskly, when the recital was at an end, “Are you trying to ensure that this child is born with a hare-lip or a club-foot?”

  She sat swiftly up and clawed wildly at his arm in a panic, “Oh dear God! That is not a possibility, is it?” she cried in horror. He pushed her gently back into a reclining position, “Not at the moment, but you are certainly not doing yourself or your baby any good at all.”

  Two tears trickled pathetically down her pale cheeks, “But what am I to do?”

  “Be sensible, Verity, for God’s sake! Do you really believe Underwood is carrying on an intrigue with Charlotte? Do you think he has given her a child? It seems to me you have a very poor opinion of your husband’s morals – and with very little reason.”

  “You think I am wrong?”

  “I know you are.”

  “Then how do you explain the letter?”

  “I fully admit, I cannot, without knowing the full story, but I would guess Miss Wynter is bored, and is planning all kinds of mischief simply to pass the time. She has never cared to find herself thwarted, and Underwood recovered from the heart-break of their parting far too quickly for her liking.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I really do. Have you told him yet of your condition? He might be a little more solicitous toward you if he knew.”

  “No.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Verity. Do you not think Underwood has the right to know of his impending fatherhood?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then do something about it.”

  “I will. I promise, I will.”

  “Where is he, anyway? He wasn’t amongst the gaggle I sent out of here just now.”

  “No one seems to know.”

  *

  It was late when Underwood returned to the vicarage, to be greeted by his brother and told of Verity’s swoon. He showed great concern and was about to run up the stairs when Gil caught his arm, “Where have you been?”

  “The Bull,” answered Underwood tersely.

  “The Bull!” repeated the vicar in amazement, “You have been in a Public house all evening?”

  “I have,” replied his brother, with great dignity, “I met up with Major Thornycroft and we drank a great deal of brandy.”

  “Oh,” said Gil, abashed. There did not seem to be anything else to say, so Gil merely added, “Well, I trust you are not going to make a habit of it. Don’t wake Verity if she is asleep. Francis has seen her and assures me there is nothing to worry about.”

  “Francis has been doing a great deal of assuring – and I have done a considerable amount of worrying,” responded Underwood testily, and left his brother alone in the dimly lit hall.

  Gil was about to mount the stairs himself, for the rest of the household was abed, when he heard an urgent tapping on the front door. He was not particularly perturbed, for it was no uncommon thing for a clergyman to be required at all sorts of odd hours. He opened the door and was confronted by a black-shrouded female figure, a hooded cloak pulled far over her head and successfully disguising her identity. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, the woman raised her face to look at him and it was caught in the light of the candle he held. Gil thrust out his hand and dragged her roughly inside, retaining his clasp on her hand until they were closeted in his study, whereupon he dropped it as though it burned his flesh.

  “It was madness for you to come here at this time of night!”

  “I don’t care. I had to see you. You have had a visitor. What did he say to you?” Her words tumbled over each other in her haste to get them out, and he smiled slightly at the panic in her voice. He saw that it was his clear duty to make this easy for her, so he said, “I have no wish to sound churlish, but that really is none of your affair.”

  With a gesture he bade her sit on the chaise longue whilst he took his accustomed place at the desk. She obeyed, the hood falling back to reveal the fact that she had been in some agitation when she had come to him, for her hair had escaped its pins and the lace cap she habitually wore, as befitted her widowed status, and it cascaded over her shoulders, causing Gil to draw in his breath sharply before he managed to control his astonishment. She had lovely hair and the look of wildness it lent to her was curiously compelling. He couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman without her hair neatly and demurely secured, and he was astounded by the emotions it roused in him.

  “How can you say that? Of course it is my affair,” she looked and sounded panic-stricken and he held up his hand as though to fend off an attack, “Hush! I beg of you to calm yourself. You will wake everyone, then we will have no chance of keeping this between ourselves.”

  She lowered her voice, but her words were heavy with threat, “Your reputation obviously means a great deal to you, Rev. Underwood, so I warn you now, if you do not tell me what passed between you and the priest, I will scream at the top of my voice – explain that away, if you can!”

  He blanched, “Pray do not do anything so foolish. I promise you it is your reputation I cherish, not my own.”

  “Then do not risk either. Tell me!”

  “Very well. Father Fullick requested that I cease to encourage you into keeping company with my circle of friends, that is all.”

  “Liar,” she said softly, “I know what he is like. He threatened you, didn’t he?”

  “Only with a complaint to my Bishop – nothing very unpleasant or frightening, I assure you.”

  She looked at him, holding his gaze in her own, “Are you going to give way to his threats?”

  “The decision is not mine, Mrs. Pennington. It is yours. I had no intention of mentioning his visit to you, though evidently you have your own methods of discovering these things.”

  “It is not my decision,” she cried, ignoring the latter part of this speech, “How can I risk your livelihood and your vocation?”

  He could not bear to look at her any longer, so he rose and strolled to the window, staring out into the darkness, “I think you need not worry on that score. The Bishop does not take the same dim view of friendship between those of differing religions, as is evident in your own church. I happen to know he dines regularly with a Jewish friend of his.”

  “Not just a liar, but an accomplished liar!” she murmured admiringly. He turned swiftly, ready to hotly deny her accusation, but when he met her eyes, so guileless and bright in the candlelight, he found himself grinning ruefully, “Evidently not accomplished enough. I promise you he does have an acquaintance of the Jewish faith, but perhaps he is not yet quite broadminded enough to dine under his roof.”

  “I’d lay a wager he is not.”

  He crossed the room to a table that held a salver, decanter and glasses, and poured them each a sherry, “Why have you come here?” he asked, as he handed her the drink.

  “To tell you… that he was not speaking on my behalf. I was furious when I found he had been to see you.”

  “I would be less than honest if I did not admit that for one moment I feared he might be doing just that – but it was only for a moment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it true you intend to enter a convent?” he asked suddenly, probably the sherry had gone to his head, for he had tossed it off in one swallow.

  She sipped a little of her own drink before replying, “I think I might have chosen to flee from the world and hide, yes. I imagined I would ne
ver fall in love again.”

  She thought he had not heard her, for he gave no reaction, simply returning to his chair and placing his empty glass on the desk before him, “If you took the veil, they would cut off all your hair,” he said quietly looking down at his folded hands, then he raised his eyes to her face and added, “I think that would be a great pity.”

  Their eyes held for a few fraught seconds, then she took a deep breath and asked, “Have I been mistaken in coming here?”

  “It was not prudent.”

  “Must I go away and never come back?”

  “That would also be a great pity.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “It is all I am at liberty to say.”

  She stood up, drained her glass, shuddered slightly as the alcohol hit the back of her throat, then set it down on a small table. She pulled her hood over her head and said quietly, “I see I was in error. I should have realized convention would be too strong for you.”

  She strode towards the door, eager to be away from the scene of her humiliation, but as she reached for the handle, he overtook her and covered her hand with his own, effectively preventing her exit. Turning around she found herself very close against him. He gently prised her fingers from the knob, but continued to hold her hand behind her back, “Don’t go,” he whispered, so that she hardly heard him.

  “I must. I should not have come here. I should not have accused you of being afraid to defy convention. It was cruel, I know…”

  “It would be more cruel to leave me now.”

  His eyes were deep brown, almost black in the candlelight, and she felt herself relaxing against him, almost drowning in their darkness, like the subterranean lake he had shown her, but this was not icy cold drowning, but a sinking into warmth, into bone-melting heat, so that she lost all will power and could do nothing to fight against it. She spoke in a hoarse whisper, the words tumbling from her trembling lips, her body shaking as though from fear or bitter cold, “If I stay any longer, I shall want you to kiss me, I will not have the strength of mind to get up and go. I shall be here all night in your arms, and in the morning my reputation will be lost forever, and I shan’t care…”

  “Catherine,” he said, “Marry me.”

  Her head fell against his shoulder and dragging the hood roughly from her, he did what he had been longing to do all evening, and buried his face in her hair.

  *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  (“Quis Separabit?” – Who shall divide us?)

  Dawn had just driven away the last remnants of night when Underwood staggered down the stairs, heading for the kitchen and tea, his head aching abominably, his mouth furred and dry. It took him several seconds to realize that it was rather unusual to meet Gil, looking as though he had been up all night, just creeping in through the front door. He winced as even the soft closing of the door scraped along a nerve, “Where the devil have you been?” he muttered hoarsely. Gil recovered from the surprise of the meeting swiftly, and looking his sibling up and down said kindly, “You look as though you need a cup of tea as much as I do. Come along – and I must say, you are being well served for your misdemeanours!”

  “Never mind my misdemeanours! What about yours?” growled Underwood, in no mood for a lecture.

  Gil led the way down the dark passageway to the kitchen and once there insisted on stirring up the fire and placing the kettle on the reddened embers before answering his brother, then Underwood almost wished he had not asked. There were certain advantages which one took for granted when possessing a clergyman for a brother, and not having to listen to admissions of midnight assignations with attractive young ladies usually numbered amongst them.

  “Good God, Gil! Are you telling me she stayed all night?”

  “I have just returned from walking her home. We watched the dawn come up over the church.”

  “My dear fellow, when you decide to break out of your shackles, you certainly don’t indulge in any half measures, do you?”

  With a cup of Gil’s tea inside him, Underwood could even raise a small laugh, but Gil looked both guilt-stricken and horrified that he should have been so misunderstood, “Dear God! What do you take me for? Nothing happened, I swear it – well, nothing of an untoward nature anyway.”

  “She was here, alone with you, unchaperoned, all night! If that is not untoward enough for you, I don’t know what is.”

  “Well, yes, I realize it looks very bad, but what I am trying to tell you is that we only talked – and, well, kissed. But we did not anticipate our marriage vows,” explained Gil hastily, self-condemnation written in every line of his worried frown. Underwood unkindly roared with laughter, “I never supposed for a moment you did. It might have done you a lot of good if you had.”

  “Do you mind? You are speaking of the woman I intend to make my wife.”

  “I should hope you do. You could do nothing else and retain your honour. Don’t you understand, you have compromised her beyond repair?” Gil knew Underwood was at his sardonic best. He had no thought ever to bow to convention himself, but even so, his words hit home, “No one knew she was here,” he murmured defensively.

  “It is to be hoped you are right. Dammit Gil, are you trying to get yourself unfrocked?”

  “I think it will come to that, anyway. I don’t see how I can marry a Catholic and remain in the Ministry.”

  Underwood was only too aware how much this eventuality would hurt his brother, and he instantly ceased to tease, “Will she not convert?” he asked seriously.

  “She says yes, but it is a great deal for me to ask of her.”

  “I don’t agree. If the God you both believe in is the loving and forgiving being you constantly assure me He is, then she can be true to her faith in her heart, and still retain her place in Heaven.”

  Gil was strangely uncomforted by this, “Chuffy, you are incorrigible! It is very easy for you to be so dismissive, but there are those of us who think there is slightly more to it than that.”

  “More fool you,” said Underwood firmly, “Pour me another cup of tea. I’m going back to bed. I feel like the very devil!”

  “Sometimes you talk like him,” admonished Gil feelingly, but he fetched the tea.

  *

  It was much later that same morning that Verity and her husband strolled into the Pump-rooms and everyone was astounded to see that as well as making Verity swallow her dose, Underwood also took a glass of the waters.

  This was unprecedented, for though Underwood was a hypochondriac of the first order, he had so far into their visit been vociferous in his condemnation of Spa’s over-inflated claims in general and Hanbury in particular. He felt that all who paid good money simply to drink water were being foolish in the extreme. However, Francis had wickedly confided that Hanbury’s waters were a sovereign cure for hangovers, and Underwood was feeling just bad enough to try anything. Naturally no one else in the room was privy to this information, so his actions remained a talking point for over a week, especially when it was not repeated. Underwood, to his chagrin, discovered that Hanbury Water had no more effect on his headache than had hartshorn, sal volatile, or bathing his brow with lavender water.

  Charlotte glanced disdainfully in his direction when she saw him enter, then began to sparkle and flirt to such an extent that she very soon had a crowd of admirers about her. A second glance told her that his pale countenance and lethargic mien were sure signs of jealousy and she was deeply gratified. Underwood, however, had not even noticed she was in the room. Verity, amused and sympathetic by turns was the only other person in the room who knew of his plight and was very gentle with him, for which he was prodigiously grateful.

  He was less than pleased, however, when Vivian Pepper left his father, Lady Hartley-Wells and Mrs. Wolstencroft to their cups of water and whisked Adeline across the room to join the Underwoods and Major Thornycroft.

  Having met Charlotte Wynter and taken her in immediate dislike, due no doubt to her overweening v
anity, he had decided to snub her by making Verity the object of his attentions. Underwood scathingly reported that the mutual detestation between Charlotte and the dandy had arisen because neither could bear to associate with persons who outshone themselves in terms of attractiveness and self-interest.

  Verity did not care to know the reason, she merely enjoyed the rare sensation of putting Charlotte’s pretty nose out of joint, for put out she was! She was horrified that plain little Verity should hold the attention of the two most worldly and handsome men Hanbury presently contained - she did not count Major Thornycroft in this assessment, for to her, he was simply an object of pity and revulsion, and she felt it unutterably tasteless of Verity to flirt with him. It really wasn’t fair, she thought stormily, maliciously observing the group of her laughing elders. Verity hadn’t half her beauty, though she had to grudgingly admit that recently Mrs. Underwood had greatly improved in looks, for there was something about her which had quite altered her face and figure – a contentment perhaps? Charlotte did not wish to pursue this line of thought and sulkily turned away.

  Presently, however, she had recovered and had become her usual ebullient self. She was too young not to enjoy life to the full, even when she believed her heart to be broken. Someone mentioned the idea of a riding expedition to the nearby ruins of a castle, and Isobel, aware that Verity had been a keen equestrienne, hastily included her friend in the invitation.

  Verity was tempted. She had not ridden for months and it would be a treat. She looked at her husband and he gallantly told her that though nothing would prevail upon him to sit upon an eqqus caballus, he had no objection to her proposed jaunt. When Vivian Pepper added his pleas for her company, archly declaring he was desperate to be alone with her, away from the unfriendly presence of her husband, she was swayed still further. It only took one look at the furious expression on Charlotte’s face to make the decision final.