A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (9 page)

When she had recovered sufficiently to wipe the tears from her eyes, Miss Chapell managed to gasp, “I don’t think I could ever bring myself to call you
Chuffy
, Mr. Underwood.”

“I should hope not!  If you really insist upon dropping my surname, I suggest you use my initials, C.H.”

“That seems very unfriendly.  Can’t you possibly tell us your real name?”  Ellen spoke in her most wheedling tone, but it had no effect on the determined Underwood.

“No.  If my boys were ever to discover my guilty secret, I should never have their respect again!”

“Good Heavens!  What can it be, to make you detest it so?”

“I should leave things well alone, if I were you, Ellen.  I think Mr. Underwood has borne enough of your meddling,” intercepted the doctor cheerfully, “Now, I have work to do, and Miss Chapell’s horse will be growing restive.”

Verity leapt to her feet, smitten with remorse, “Poor old Noble!  I had quite forgotten him.”

Since, at the beginning of the conversation, Verity had told her friend the original purpose of her journey, the doctor’s wife had the sudden, blinding revelation that she ought to ensure her two visitors stayed in each other’s company for at least the rest of the afternoon.  With this in mind, she brightly suggested that she accompany them to Tambrook Falls, filling the position of chaperone and having a breath of fresh air all in the same happy notion.

Underwood allowed himself to be persuaded because he had nothing better to do, and lacked the necessary energy to either walk home, or think of a good reason for not going to see one of the local beauty spots.  He was inclined to hope that the two ladies, who appeared to be quite well acquainted, would content themselves with their own company and leave him to indulge in a quiet nap.

It also occurred to him that fitting three adults into the two seats of the gig was going to be a rather crushing experience, but since neither lady seemed to find this a problem, he kindly refrained from mentioning it.

In his hope for peace, he was destined to be disappointed.  Ellen Herbert thought she scented an air of romance and was determined to leave the pair alone together as soon as the falls were reached.  She was exceptionally fond of Verity Chapell, and thought she had found her ideal partner in the challenging persona of Mr. Underwood.

Fortunately Underwood was neither a mind reader, nor a particularly astute judge of the female character, or he would have been seriously concerned by the affectionate glances Ellen occasionally bestowed upon her companions.  Romance was ever far from his thoughts, having, many years ago now, fallen in love with a young woman who had died, tragically young.  The hurt he had endured then made the thought of ever suffering so again quite out of the question.  He had submerged himself in a world where women rarely entered, and he fully intended to remain thus until the day he died.  The truth was that had he realized Ellen intended to thrust him into Verity Chapell’s society with the intention of encouraging matrimony, he would have immediately set out on the four-mile trek back to Bracken Tor with never a backward glance.

However, since he was blissfully ignorant of her intentions, he quite happily hoisted himself back into the gig and prepared to enjoy some glorious views.

In this he was not disappointed.  They climbed on a steady gradient, leaving the village behind and gaining the moors.  Craggy, heather-strewn hills gave way to rocky expanses of moor-land, with icy peat-darkened streams tumbling musically over stone-lined courses. The falls themselves, when they were reached, proved to be surprisingly high, and surrounded by a rainbow dancing haze.  The water encouraged the growth of a wide range of plant life, from moss and ferns, to bushes and quite large trees, but the soil was sparse and easily washed away.  As a result the riverside rocks bore the bare and bleached roots of vegetation, snaking across their surface, as bulbous and gnarled as whitened knuckles hanging on for grim death. Mr. Underwood was enchanted by the variety and richness of the region.  He had always thought the rolling hills of his own native county were quite the loveliest area of the country, but nothing he had heard or read had prepared him for the simple magnificence he found in this little known spot. 

Ellen, as she had already planned, lost no time in making her excuses and taking herself off for a long walk, leaving the other two comfortably seated upon a flat rock, Miss Chapell with her drawing equipment balanced on her knees and Mr. Underwood contentedly watching both her and the falls in turn.

When Ellen had disappeared from view behind a rocky outcrop, Underwood was assailed by a moment of vague guilt, “Do you think I should have offered to go for a walk with her?”

Verity had already begun to concentrate on her task and answered him almost absent-mindedly, “She seemed quite happy to be alone, but by all means go after her, if you feel you would like to walk.”

“No, I’m more than content to sit here.”

Nothing more was said for quite some time, then Miss Chapell finished her initial sketch and turned her attention to her companion.  He had leaned back against a convenient bank, closed his eyes and gave every appearance of deep slumber.

“Are you asleep, Mr. Underwood?” she asked quietly.

“Not any longer,” was the reply, and she laughed rather unkindly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, but did not sound particularly sincere.

He roused himself, sat up straight and looked at her, “What was it you wanted?”

“Just to show you my sketch.”  He took the proffered book from her hands, and was impressed by what he saw.  With a few simple lines, she had managed to capture the essence of the view; even the water seemed alive with movement and the trees were stirred by an invisible breeze.

“That’s remarkably good,” he said, after a moment, “Do you think I might have it?”

“Of course, but I do have other drawings which have taken more time and which are much better.  The one I did of Bracken Tor church, I thought really quite good.”

“No, I should like this one.  It will look very well on my study wall in Cambridge, and I shall be reminded of a pleasant day.  But do you never wish you could earn your living doing this, rather than teaching?  It seems a pity that such a talent should be relegated to a mere hobby.”

She blushed deeply at his praise, and at the thought that he might imagine she had shown him merely to elicit such words from him, “You are too kind, Mr. Underwood.”

“Not at all.  I hope I could never be accused of being insincere.”

“Oh no!  I did not mean to suggest any such thing.  But I rarely show my work to people and I’m not a good judge of my own skill.”

“I’m certainly no expert, but this I should not be ashamed to have on my wall.”

“Thank you,” By now she was desperately embarrassed and longed only for a change of topic to take the conversation away from her and give her an opportunity to recover her calm, “Tell me, Mr. Underwood, how do you intend to go about finding the identity of that unfortunate girl?”

He had never been asleep, but had been contemplating this very problem, so it was not difficult to persuade him into discussing it, “The most sensible course would be to try and discover how she travelled to the area.  If she came by the Stage, for example, it might be possible to trace back through their records and find from whence she came.  That would be extremely helpful.”

“And if she came another way?”

“That would make things a little more difficult, but I must own my instincts tell me she travelled on the Stage.”

“Why?”

“Because it would appear she came a long way.  I cannot believe that local gossip would not have filtered through to someone who knew her.  All our lives touch those of others, no matter how transiently.  We walk the same routes day after day, we go to places of work, we buy from shops.  You only have to recall how many persons greet you each day to realize that.  But had the young woman been planning to travel a great distance, she would have told those people not to expect to see her for some considerable time, or even ever again, if she had thought she might move away permanently – had that been the case, they would never have had a reason to be concerned about her disappearance.  It would account for the fact that no one ever came forward to report her missing.”

“Yes, that makes sense – and if she had changed her clothes, as Dr. Herbert suggested she might have done, then no one would recognize the description of her clothing either.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think you will ever find out who she was?”

“I have the greatest confidence that I shall – and the greatest determination to bring her murderer to justice.”

“If it is not an impertinent question, may I ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you feel so strongly about the matter?  After all, the girl has been dead for a year now, and nothing is going to bring her back.  Why do you feel the need to find her killer?”

He did not look into her eyes, but looked beyond her towards the falls and the sound of the torrent almost drowned out his quiet reply, “I don’t really know how to answer to that question.  There was just something so terribly sad about that bare little grave.  It reminded me of something which happened – something I’ve been trying to forget for a long time.  I failed then.  I don’t intend to fail now.”

She wanted to ask him to explain more fully, to tell her how he felt he had failed, but his expression was suddenly cold and remote and she felt she would be encroaching upon his privacy.  It was obviously deeply personal and she was sorry she had gone so far.  It was with some relief that she saw Ellen approaching.  It was easy enough now to end the conversation without awkwardness and she did so, but with a slight feeling of disappointment that they could not have passed through the difficulty and taken their relationship onto a more intimate footing.

“Here is Ellen.  I think it is time we made our way home.”

Underwood rose to his feet, “I’d rather we never mentioned again what has just been said.  I should not … No matter.  Please just forget it.”

She made no reply, simply smiling her acquiescence, then turning her attention to her returning friend; “Did you enjoy your walk, Ellen?  You should have lazed with us.  It has been a delightful afternoon.”

Ellen was optimistic enough to take this to mean that her plans for a romance were well on their way, and her smile was benign.

*

CHAPTER NINE

(“Dolce Domum” - Home Sweet Home)

The welcoming aspect offered by the lighted windows of Wynter Court was greatly at variance with the attitude of its owner.  Sir Henry was anything but welcoming – in fact it was some time before he even made his appearance, and the Underwood brothers found themselves being entertained by several young women who were obviously not used to male visitors, and by the only son, an arrogant young buck who gave the distinct impression he had several other things he would much rather be doing.  Mr. Underwood barely restrained himself from imposing a punishment of translating several hundred lines of Latin grammar, fortunately recalling just in time that he was not dealing with one of his more wayward students.

It was an uncomfortable beginning to the evening.  And it didn’t get much better.

Mr. Underwood had always considered himself to be incredibly gauche when thrust into the company of flirtatious and self-assured young women and could not have believed it possible for him to feel more ill-at-ease, but this family of timid, unaccomplished and, for the most part, unattractive girls, caused him to reassess the situation.  They possessed no conversation, no poise and seemingly no talents.  Other than Charlotte, they had somehow managed to miss all the loveliness which can belong to the red-haired woman and had gathered together all the negative aspects of the colouring.  Charlotte’s hair was a rich auburn, but her sisters covered the whole range from strawberry blond to bright red – and none had inherited the particular shade which would have suited her skin type and eye colour.  Their fashionably pale flesh seemed only to emphasise the freckles that adorned them in abundance; the red of their hair made their high foreheads appear to shine with a slightly greenish tinge in the candlelight.  Compared to the bright joyfulness of Charlotte they all gave the impression of being cowed and spiritless. 

Mr. Underwood, who had expressed such fears of being exposed to the fire of the redhead, had little to fear from these – except perhaps the distinct possibility of being bored to death!  He felt sure they did not have a temper between them.

To make matters infinitely worse, they all looked to their brother with adoration, never realizing that his manners were coarse, his wit lewd and his interest in anything other than himself and hunting was non-existent.  Only Charlotte treated him with the healthy, affectionate contempt of an older sister for a younger brother, much to Underwood’s relief, for he felt he could not have held his tongue if she too had hung upon the boy’s every utterance.

As for the daughters of the house, Underwood despaired of ever remembering which sister belonged to which name, so insipid were their expressions and blank their eyes.  His memory was not particularly reliable, being more inclined to retain strange facts and Latin quotations than names and faces, and this procession of limpid creatures, with no spark of fire to make them even slightly memorable, was going to be a nightmare.

Maria he could identify simply because she was the only one who wore a wedding ring.  Fortunately for him she had remained a Wynter, for she had been paired with their Father’s cousin Edwin, the man who would inherit the estate under the entail, should Harry fail to reach his majority.  All this had been hastily explained to him by the vicar on the journey to the Court, and Mr. Underwood astounded himself by first proving to have listened, and second for having retained the information.  He could only assume that it had made so deep an impression on him because of the thought which had passed through his mind at the time, which was that Sir Henry had a peculiar determination to ensure that, one way or another, only his direct descendants should ever live in his home.  To Underwood it was indicative of the overweening ego of the man, and gave him much cause for cogitation.

Maria’s husband was a weak-chinned weasel of a man, considerably older than his bride, and rather inclined to treat her with amused contempt.  His attempt at
bonhomie
included a very disparaging remark about his wife which Underwood certainly found offensive, and which one glance at his brother confirmed that he too viewed the comment in the same poor light.  It did not augur well for the future.

The second daughter Jane had taken over the position of hostess since her sister’s marriage, but she did not fill it well.  She had little control over the household staff, the younger members being sullen and reluctant, the older completely disillusioned.   Underwood, used to the almost military precision with which the Universities were run, had never expected to see a home managed so badly.

Emma and Eliza were both struck dumb by the arrival of the two gentlemen and could barely force the words “Good evening” from between trembling lips, before blushing vividly and relapsing into an embarrassed silence.  The youngest, Isobel, hid behind Charlotte and peered at the brothers with large, frightened eyes, and Underwood was put forcibly in mind of a mouse, face to face with a large, hungry cat.  It made him wonder what the devil she thought he and Gil could do to her to make her fear them so.

The family was gathered in the music room when the brothers were shown in, by the same pert maid Underwood had seen on his previous visit.  She grinned wickedly at him and almost caused him to bolt before they had even entered the house.

When introductions were completed, the silence which fell was so strained that Mr. Underwood could barely stand it.  He was desperate for something to do, so he wandered across the room to admire the pianoforte – an obviously superior instrument, which looked as though no one ever touched it – not even to dust it, he noticed with irritation.  Being a music lover, he hated to see so fine an object misused.

In the normal course of events he would not have dreamed of drawing attention to his interest in music, knowing his brother would be at pains to point out how well he played, but on this occasion it seemed infinitely preferable to the stilted conversations he was being forced to endure.

“I see you are admiring the piano, Underwood.  I always think it rather a pity to waste so expensive an article on a household who cannot be bothered to learn how to play.  Charlotte has quite a pleasant voice, but unfortunately she has only Miss Chapell to accompany her.”  Edwin Wynter spoke as though having only a mere governess as accompanist was an insuperable obstacle to excellence and Mr. Underwood found himself experiencing the most uncommon – for him, at least – sensation of bridling like a guard dog facing a housebreaker.  He could almost feel his hackles rising, not only for the dismissive attitude towards Miss Chapell, who had already proved herself to be a most estimable young woman, but for the taking of the uninvited liberty of Wynter’s in dropping the prefix ‘Mr.’

“As a matter of fact,” he heard himself saying testily, “I play a little myself, if Miss Wynter wishes to entertain us.”  By the time the full horror of this pronouncement was borne upon him, it was too late to retract.

Charlotte was on her feet and limping towards him, with remarkable alacrity, her eyes shining, her voice slightly breathy with subdued excitement.  The guests could not fail to be enraptured by her singing; what better way could there be to draw Underwood’s attention to her many charms?

“That would be delightful, Mr. Underwood.”  She began to riffle the music sheets to find a suitable song and Underwood realized, with sinking heart, that he was neatly trapped – annoyingly by his own hand.

The experience, however, was not quite the torment he had envisioned.  The recital he and Charlotte gave was mercifully short, and she did sing very prettily indeed.  His only real regret was the glance he gave his brother which showed the vicar was viewing them both with a smile of indulgent pleasure, which stated more clearly than words ever could that he thought they made a charming couple.  Underwood could feel himself being mentally sized for Wedding Clothes, and silently berated his mother for putting the thought of wedlock into his brother’s mind.  Well, let Gil dream his little dreams, but Underwood knew his game and was ready to repel any attack.

Had he but known it, Gil was not the only person to see, with new eyes, himself and Charlotte together.  They made rather a stunning picture, her fire, his ice.  She so bright and vivacious, he so serious and cool.  To meet them separately they seemed an ill-assorted pair, but side by side they looked somehow right.  There was a
frisson
of alarm amongst the Wynter clan, for Charlotte was Sir Henry’s favourite child, and Underwood, judging from the curses of the past few days, his least favourite man.

They performed two songs, both of which were old-fashioned enough for him to know well then accepted the enthusiastic applause with becoming modesty, leaving the floor for others to take.  Not to be outdone (he seemed to resemble his cousin in this respect) Edwin Wynter offered to play whilst his wife sang, but his frequent wrong notes rather marred the effect, especially since he continually berated his wife for the tuneless efforts, declaring her to be tone-deaf.

Charlotte took the opportunity to draw Mr. Underwood across the room to a couple of straight-backed chairs, which stood in a window embrasure, sufficiently far away from the rest of the gathering for them to have private words.

“You play beautifully, Mr. Underwood,” she told him, her eyes shyly lowered.

“No, I’m merely competent.  It is simply a matter of practise – something which I’m sadly lacking at the moment.  If I have any talent at all it is due to a teacher I had as a boy, who rapped my knuckles with a cane every time I made a wrong note.  You would be amazed how well it concentrates the mind of a twelve-year-old boy!  Though, of course, in those far off days, I played the harpsichord.”

Edwin made another glaring mistake at that moment and Mr. Underwood winced, “Would that she were here right now!”

Charlotte giggled nervously, not at all sure if he were joking or serious.  He certainly looked rather grim when his glance lighted on the unfortunate Edwin, “I think you are teasing me, sir.”

He appeared to be astounded by the very suggestion, but again she could not be sure that he was in earnest, “I?  Believe me, you entirely mistake the matter, Miss Wynter.  I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to tease a young woman.  I don’t think it is a thing I have ever attempted.  It has always seemed to me to be a rather perilous undertaking.”  He now sounded so severe that she knew he must be jesting and she could barely restrain a shout of laughter escaping her, only the knowledge that it would claim the attention of the rest of the room, and put an end to their
tête-à-tête
made her control herself.  A hasty change of subject seemed wise.

“Did you enjoy your visit to the Falls?”

“Falls?”  For a moment he was at a loss to understand her then the puzzled expression cleared from his face, “Of course.  I had forgotten about that, there has been so much else to occupy me.  Yes, indeed, a lovely place – which reminds me, are we to be joined by Miss Chapell?”

“No, she never joins us when we have guests.” 

“Her choice, or yours?”  Her youth gave him leave to ask questions which he would never have presumed to ask an older and more sophisticated woman.  She noticed the note of cynicism in his tone, but made no comment upon it.

“Her choice, of course,” she said emphatically then added ingenuously, “If the truth were told, it is because she does not care very much for Cousin Edwin.  He has the heartiest dislike of servants presuming to rise above their station, and thinks we have made a grave error in allowing her to become so familiar.  Whenever he sees her, he is always rather unkind.”

“Unkind?  In what way?”  Was it her imagination, or did he sound annoyed?  She eyed him curiously, but he remained impassive.

“Oh, he does all sorts of things.  Usually he asks her questions which he knows she cannot possibly answer, then makes a great issue of how very ignorant she is, and how unfitted for her position as our governess.  Of course, he does it so innocently, one would never guess he was being vicious, and she is made to look a perfect fool.  Father always laughs and declares she is not worth her hire, and Verity has to try and leave the room without provoking more tormenting.  She never cries before them, but I know she does when she is alone.”  She hesitated then added in a whisper, “I think he’s a beast!  I can’t imagine what papa was about, making Maria marry him.  She begged to be allowed to decline him, but there was to be no release for her.  I think she hates him too, though she plays the dutiful wife.”

Mr. Underwood did not find this at all difficult to believe, but it was not his habit to become embroiled in the problems of those he could not help; to do so simply led to frustration and a feeling of inadequacy, neither of which could be said to be conducive to the peace of mind of any man.  So instead of asking the questions which beset him, he changed the subject, “Does your father intend to join us at all?” he asked, wondering if she detected his eagerness to hear a negative reply to his query.

“Oh yes, he will be down presently.  He never comes in here.  He says he cannot bear the family
en masse
unless his glass and his stomach are full – or about to be filled!”

A glance about the room, reminding himself of the unprepossessing gathering, served only to make Mr. Underwood concur heartily with his absent host.  In an effort not to give Charlotte any indication of his unchristian and uncharitable thoughts, he searched for another topic and happily remembered her injury, which he had so far neglected to mention, “I see you are on your feet again.  I trust that means you are fully recovered?”