A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

(“Medio Tutissimus Ibis” - You will find the middle course the safest)

The wind increased in intensity during the evening, buffeting the old vicarage and sending draughts whistling through the window frames and along passageways.  Curtains bellied like ships’ sails, falling back against the windowpanes with a crack as sharp as a whip.  Smoke from the fireplace billowed back into the room where the brothers sat, and since the howling of the gale in the chimney made conversation almost impossible, they decided to retire early.

Neither of them managed to sleep however, until the wind began to die away towards dawn, so it was two weary eyed gentlemen who met for a rather belated breakfast and lethargically discussed their plans for the day ahead.

“I’m afraid I really cannot spare any time to show you around the village today,” the vicar was apologetic but firm.  He was determined to remind his brother that only one of the parties concerned was on holiday.  His strong sense of duty would not allow him to neglect any of his commitments, however minor, “And the wind last night has added to my burden, for the church and grounds must be checked for damage.”  His brother sketched a hasty gesture of denial in mid-air with a long-fingered hand, “My dear Gil, put me from your mind completely.  I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way about and I desire to be as little trouble as possible.”

In the vicar’s opinion this was a politely empty statement which would have very little bearing on the future.  His brother was the only man he knew who could protest that he wanted to cause not a ripple on the pond of life, proceed to stir up a positive maelstrom, then walk calmly away with not a hair out of place.  It did not appear to issue from any deliberate mischief-making, merely something in his character which sought out strife, and having found it, proceed to find a solution, usually one which would have been better left undiscovered.

“You are quite sure?” he asked doubtfully.

“Quite!”  Mr. Underwood assured him emphatically, “Just point me in the general direction of a pleasant walk and I shall endeavour to blow away the cobwebs until lunch time.”

Not at all comforted, but having little choice in the matter, the vicar accompanied his brother to the front gate where he gave him very careful instructions.

“You won’t get into any difficulties, will you?” he concluded rather nervously.

“Difficulties?  I?  My dear brother you behave as though I were five years old.  What sort of difficulties do you suppose could befall me out here?”

“I’ve no idea. I only know that should ‘difficulties’ arise, you will be the man to fall into them,” Gil replied, ungrammatical, but with great feeling.

Underwood patted his brother’s arm affectionately and shook his head as though at an incorrigible child, “Dear old Gil.  You worry far too much.”

They parted company, the vicar heading for the village, his brother taking the path indicated to him.

After the gale of the night before there was considerable damage to the countryside, grasses lay flat to the ground and here and there bushes and the odd tree which had managed to rear a tousled head showed the raw, white wounds of lost branches, the detritus littering the path which Underwood tried to follow.  Other than these stark reminders, however, the storm was a thing of the past and almost forgotten, for the sun shone from a brilliant blue sky and the birds were singing.

For the first time in many months, Mr. Underwood felt himself relaxing.  The slight stoop left his shoulders, and he filled his lungs with the pure air.  He even allowed himself a tiny smile as he contemplated his surroundings.

So engrossed was he in his enjoyment of his peregrination that he ceased to take note of his way and before long he found himself at a point where the path suddenly diverged and he could not recall which branch his brother had bid him take.  A glance about him gave him no hint, so after a momentary hesitation he took the path which appeared to incline slightly, since his walk was intended to take him upward onto the moor.

It was not long before he realized his error.  The path sloped upwards only briefly then it dropped steeply and seemed to be heading towards the copse which the vicar had indicated the day before as belonging to the magistrate of the district.

Mr. Underwood decided to continue on his way, despite the mistake, for he felt it could not be long before he met some other wayfarer who could put him back on the right track.

He met no one.  Very soon he came to a high stone wall alongside which the path wound.  It was marked now with the prints of horses’ hooves and was apparently frequented, though over-grown on either side by a tangled mesh of brambles and nettles.  When he came to an open doorway set deep in the wall, he decided to walk through it and try and find his way up to the house.  After his disturbed night he was growing increasingly weary and had taken so little heed of his route that he now doubted his ability to find his way back.  Neighbourliness surely dictated that Sir Henry, or some other member of his family, would see him back to the vicarage – preferably in some form of vehicle.

On the other side of the gateway he was plunged into the sudden gloom of too closely packed trees and neglected undergrowth.  He fought his way through for what seemed like hours, until, more by accident than design, he stumbled into a clearing and was confronted by a very irate gentleman, who was holding a long-barrelled gun to his shoulder.

A crashing in the bushes away to the right of where they stood indicated that whatever quarry had been within the man’s sights had now made good its escape.

“What the devil?”  As he spoke the man turned and Mr. Underwood found himself staring down the barrel of the gun, “Who the hell are you?  What in Hades are you playing at, you blithering idiot?”

Underwood remained quite calm, undoubtedly aware that any unexpected movement could result, quite literally, in the loss of his head, “Good morning.  The name is Underwood.”

“Damn your hide!  I don’t care what your name is.  Do you know that you’re trespassing on private property?”

“Would you mind turning that weapon away from me?” Underwood looked and sounded tetchy – but seemed not in the least afraid.

The older man lowered the gun with obvious reluctance, “Underwood?  I suppose you are some relation to the vicar?”

“His brother.”

“Well, he should have more sense than to let you wander about alone.  Don’t you realize these woods are littered with traps?”

Mr. Underwood was unimpressed, “Animal or man?”  he asked coolly.

The man shifted uneasily, “As far as I’m concerned, poachers are animals,” he answered testily, “How did you get in here?  The usual method of approach is through the lodge.”  Underwood waved an arm in the vague direction of his arrival; “There was an open doorway in the wall.”

“So that is how the rogues are getting in.  That should be locked and bolted.  I’ll see to it that no one enters that way again.”

“That, of course, is entirely your own affair, but in the meantime I’ve lost my way and was hoping for a little help.”

“You have a cursed strange way of seeking aid, I must say!  Follow me.  I think my daughter Charlotte is riding in the paddock.  She can set you on your way.”

From this Underwood assumed he was speaking to none other than Sir Henry Wynter himself, and not, as he had thought, an outdoor servant, but he made no comment upon it, for the irascible old gentleman was looking increasingly bad-tempered.  Evidently he did not care for trespassers, poachers or having his sport interrupted by clumsy interlopers.

A further ten-minute walk lay ahead of Mr. Underwood, but he bore it with fortitude.  His companion made no attempt at conversation, so Underwood likewise remained silent.  He was not much taken with Sir Henry and no wish to further the acquaintance.  He did, however, take the opportunity to examine the man more closely, albeit covertly.  Mr. Underwood had an abiding interest in his fellow man and despite his aversion to this particular specimen, he could not completely ignore his existence.

Sir Henry strode on, seemingly unaware that he was being thus scrutinised.  Underwood was given the distinct impression that the magistrate thought that no one would be impertinent enough to do any such thing.

Underwood could, in fact, have been forgiven for his original assessment that Sir Henry was one of his own game-keepers, for his black coat was so old and worn that it appeared dark green, his breeches were soiled at the knees and stretched tight over his bulging stomach.  His face was the unhealthy, broken-veined red of the habitual drinker.  His hair was extremely thin on top, but far too long and untidy at the back and sides.  Underwood, whose personal appearance was of the utmost importance to him, was not impressed and could only hope that Sir Henry tidied himself a little for his sessions on the Bench.  He estimated his age to be somewhere around mid-to-late fifties, but he could quite easily have been younger, for his face bore all the hallmarks of a full and debauched life. 

Presently the trees thinned out a little, then, unexpectedly, the two men stepped out of the shelter of the wood and into bright sunlight.  Mr. Underwood blinked in the glare and as his sight cleared he saw that they were standing at the edge of a well-trimmed paddock, around which was trotting a chestnut stallion of impressive proportions, and upon whose back reposed a young lady, sitting side-saddle, and whose hair was exactly the same shade as her mount.

To say that Underwood was startled would be to much understate the matter.  The animal, the ease and grace with which his rider sat him and the spectacular matching of colour were all magnificent.

Sir Henry could not fail to notice his companion’s amazement and grinned unkindly, “Way above your touch, Underwood!” he said.  The younger man glanced down at him, astounded that a father could speak so coarsely of his own daughter, and equally appalled that he should have so misinterpreted his admiration.  He found it impossible to prevent an expression of disgust pass briefly across his face.

Sir Henry merely laughed, thinking he was annoyed to have been thus caught out, and called to his daughter, “Charlotte, get down off that nag and come here.  I have a caller who is very eager to meet you.”

Underwood could gladly have melted back into the shade of the trees.  The last thing he desired at this moment was to be introduced to this dashing young woman, who had obediently slid from her horse’s back and was now leading her mount towards him.  He was hot, tired and dishevelled, his hair must be full of dust and dead leaves, from his passage through the wood, his cravat disordered, his coat dirty.  God alone knew what other coarse remarks Sir Henry was about to make, and judging from the father, what manner of woman was she?

He prepared himself for excruciating embarrassment and was pleasantly surprised when she drew off her glove and extended a long, white hand towards him   

“How do you do?”  Her voice was lovely, melodious and sweet, neither too loud nor too quiet; not particularly cultured, nor yet as vulgar as her father’s.

“Do I mistake the matter or are you the Reverend Underwood’s brother?”

He took her hand and bowed formally over it, “You are entirely correct, madam, I have the honour to claim Gilbert Underwood as my kin.  I understand I have the added honour of addressing Miss Wynter?”

“Indeed you do, sir,” interrupted the father, apparently unable to bear being excluded from the conversation for any length of time, “Charlotte, you will oblige me by showing Mr. Underwood off the estate.  He evidently finds it impossible to follow the simplest of directions and has already lost himself once.”  With that, and without even a cursory farewell, Sir Henry disappeared back into the woods, leaving Underwood suffering the unaccustomed sensation of blushing violently.

By now his humiliation was complete and it occurred to him that he would far rather stare down the barrel of Sir Henry’s loaded gun than now meet the gently laughing eyes of the lovely Miss Charlotte Wynter.

“Before you leave, Mr. Underwood, may I offer you some refreshment?”

“Please don’t put yourself to any inconvenience on my account.  Your father has somewhat mistaken the matter and I am not quite the imbecile he takes me for.  Simple directions to the vicarage will suffice, and you need not put yourself to the trouble of accompanying me.”  He knew he sounded stiff and unfriendly, very possibly even pompous, but he felt so disadvantaged that he could not escape from her society soon enough.

“Please forgive my father, sir.  He does not mean to be quite so offensive as he sounds.”  She smiled pleasantly and he found himself smiling back, albeit rather ruefully, “Oh, I think perhaps he does!” 

She laughed gaily, not in the least abashed, “Very well,” she agreed, “he does!”  She looped the dangling rein more firmly about her hand, “Come up to the house whilst I stable Merryman, then we can have a drink before seeing you back to the vicarage.”

He allowed himself to be persuaded and fell into step beside her as she led the stallion across the paddock, through the gate, past the long lawns which ran down from the wide terraces of the house – a fairly new façade tacked onto an older building, he noticed – but imposing in its way.  They skirted around the house and entered the stable yard, which was empty but for one grubby old dog, scratching its ear with a hind foot and groaning with pleasure.  Charlotte called for the groom, who came rushing from a tack room, hastily shrugging himself into his waistcoat, “Beg pardon, Miss Charlotte, I was just having my dinner.  I wasn’t expecting you back from exercising Merryman just yet.”