A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (4 page)

“Most beneficial, sir, thank you. Of course we can never hope for her mind to regain its old sharpness, but since the excess laudanum has been reduced, she has been brighter.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” The comment was nothing less than the truth. He had been horrified to discover that the old lady had been manipulated and almost defrauded out of her estate by an avaricious great nephew and his accomplice, a slimy lawyer. Underwood’s actions in uncovering the plot and restoring Rutherford to his rightful place as Miss Greenhowe’s heir might have nearly killed him, but to see the happy household restored he knew that the risk had been worth the price he had paid.

Hearing voices in the hall brought Miss Cressida Petch and her companion Matilda Fettiplace out of the morning room and their faces lit with delight at the sight of Underwood engaged in pleasant discourse with the butler.

They descended on him like a pair of chattering parrots, one to each arm, and never taking a breath, they led him away, calling for tea over their shoulders to the grinning Brimblecombe, who had caught Underwood’s helpless look as they two women bombarded him with questions and exclamations of delight.

His head was spinning by the time Rutherford arrived at the same time as the tea tray. The ladies had a strange talent for being able to interrogate him without seeming to stop to listen to the responses, but still pick up every scrap of information he offered. He seemed to have given them an exhaustive account of every living soul in Windward House, and they had offered the same for every person under the roof of Pershore.

Rutherford, who knew his sister and cousin well, laughed aloud to see Underwood’s harried expression and crossed the room to rescue the poor man before he sank beneath the onslaught of feminine curiosity.

“Brimblecombe tells me that we have the great Underwood in our midst,” he said, holding out his hand and grasping his guest’s in a firm handshake, “Is it really you, Underwood? The man to whom I owe my life and my liberty?”

Underwood had to admit that yes, it was indeed he.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Vice Versa’ – Literally, things having been reversed

              Underwood found that the horse ride in warm spring sunshine had indeed had a beneficial effect – or perhaps it was the tonic which Will had pressed upon him and with which he meticulously dosed himself before settling to the high tea the ladies provided. Nevertheless, whatever the reason, he ate far more than he had been used to consuming in recent months. A light repast of sandwiches and cake was more to his current tastes than a formal dinner and he was able to acquit himself reasonably well.

              The two women chattered amiably, telling him of all that had occurred since his last visit, and Rutherford lounged on the settee, delighted that for once it was not he who was being subjected to the relentless questions and harmless, but mindless, gossip.

              Once Cressida had realized that Verity was with Underwood on his short holiday, nothing would satisfy both ladies but an immediate consultation with Brimblecombe as to which evening would be most suitable for a dinner party at which the Underwoods would be guests of honour.

              Underwood was surprised that it took such organisation, but Rutherford laughingly assured him that life had changed a great deal at Pershore House. No longer was it a prison for his sister and cousin, but rather a procession of delightful engagements of all sorts. Without the dour tyranny of Ormund Luckhurst, who had inveigled himself into running the estate in Rutherford’s absence, the house had become a haven of joyful celebration.  Even Miss Greenhowe was less confined to bed now that she was no longer being drugged into near insensibility by overdoses of laudanum forced upon her by the conniving Luckhurst and his crooked lawyer Attridge. Of course she was still befuddled by age and illness, nothing was going to alter that, sadly, but she had more occasions of clarity that she had before, and was no longer in danger of having her estate defrauded away from her.

              Underwood was nothing if not astute, “And how do you feel about all this jollity, Captain Petch?” he asked cynically, knowing that it would be the very essence of torture for him if Verity suddenly took it into her head to become a professional hostess – he treasured his peaceful life too much and felt that he was required to entertain far too often as it was.

              Rutherford’s expression of unconfined joy was allowed to slip for just a second, but not before Underwood had noticed, “It makes the ladies happy,” he said swiftly, “And after all the anguish I have put them through, it is the very least I can do.”

              “I imagine you are still finding it a little difficult, though?”

              Rutherford heaved a great sigh, and admitted very quietly, so that his sister and cousin should not hear his complaints, “A little. They don’t quite understand the concept of how odd my life has been for the past few years, first in the Peninsular, with all the privations of war, and coming home to the reality of my dead and maimed comrades, then prison and transportation. When a man has faced so much, listening to them fussing over new table linen and which of the neighbours to invite for dinner is frustrating to say the least. But, pray, Underwood, say nothing. I would not discomfit either of them for the world.”

              “Your secret is safe with me, my friend, and now, I think I should be on my way, otherwise it will be dark before I reach Dacorum-in-the-Marsh.”

              “I’ll ride with you, if I may, at least part of the way, to see you safely back.”

              “There’s no need, I assure you,” said Underwood, “I’m reliably informed that my brush with the highwayman was unprecedented and not expected to occur again.”

              “I’ll come, all the same, it will get me out of the house,” said the younger man decidedly.

              Underwood began to see that Rutherford Petch’s problems were greater than he was acknowledging in the presence of his female relatives. It really seemed that he could not bear to be in the house at all. Underwood knew that he had been out riding almost all day and had returned only to eat – now he was insisting on going out again – these were not the actions of a man who was relieved to be home. He made no further demur and accepted the offer of company. He wished the ladies farewell and assured them that he and Verity would be delighted to accept their hospitality the following Wednesday evening for dinner, and with that he and Rutherford took their leave.

              Once they were well away from the town and sure that they would not be overheard by anyone who might carry tales back to his aunt, sister and cousin, Rutherford began to talk to Underwood and it seemed he was mightily relieved to be able to unburden himself. Underwood knew only too well what a priceless gift silence could be, so he said nothing and merely listened to the young man as he finally allowed himself to say all the things he had been bottling up since his return from the antipodes.

              “I’m sorry, Underwood, it must seem dashed ungrateful to you, the man who secured my release, but I do not think I can endure much more. I’m more a prisoner now than I ever was in Australia. The chains that bind me here are stronger than the thickest iron. One look into my sister’s face and I’m unmanned and I cannot say her nay, no matter how irritating her request or silly her comment. I ride to try and escape for a while, but out there on the estate it is almost as bad. One tenant after another; always with requests, demands, complaints. If I have to inspect one more cottage for damp, or give an opinion on whether a plough horse is too old for the job and needs to go to the knackers for glue, I shall go mad. There is nothing for me here, nothing that makes me feel alive, just one grinding day after another of nothingness. Out there I was hungry, I was tortured under a blazing sun, or too cold and wet, flogged and over worked; every day was a fight for survival – but at least I knew I was alive!”

              Though Underwood could not understand the younger man’s desire for such disquieting adventures – he was far too fond of his home comforts for that - he could certainly sympathize with the core of his complaint. Underwood, too, lived in a house almost entirely comprised of women – especially now that Toby, his black servant and friend, was married and had built his own small cottage in the grounds of Windward House.

              Underwood adored his wife and idolised his two daughters, but there were times when the utter femininity of the atmosphere in the house grated on his nerves. If a man could not find a chair to sit upon for reams of taffeta and muslin, and his desk drawers were found to be secured by the handles to each other by a length of pink ribbon which refused to come undone until attacked with a pair of scissors, then he could happily return to his bachelor quarters at Cambridge University. It made little difference that his eldest daughter Horatia had tearfully explained that she was only trying to make Papa’s desk ‘pwetty’, he still wanted to bar her from ever entering his study again – but what kind of a domestic tyrant would he be, to smother kindly meant urges in a small girl?

              “I quite see that the ladies can be trying, my friend, but what can be done? They are as they are.”

              “Dear God, don’t I know it,” groaned Rutherford, “but mistake me not, Underwood, no matter how hard I try, I am not going to be able to maintain this facade of happiness. And I fear for them when they realize how miserable I am and how utterly I despise the life they foresee for me.”

              “I can see that the life of a country gentleman will never satisfy you, Rutherford, but what can you do about it? It was the life you were born to, after all, and has not exactly been forced upon you, nor should it be such a shock to your system to come back to it, no matter how many and varied your wanderings.”

              Rutherford shifted awkwardly in his saddle, causing a loud creaking, and momentarily disturbing the horse’s steady plodding, so that Underwood was forced into controlling his own mount, which was pushed aside by the rump of the other animal.

              “I’m going back,” said the young man decidedly, when equilibrium was restored.

              Underwood thought he had misheard him, “What?” he exclaimed, startled, then he relaxed, thinking that Rutherford meant that he was turning about and going back to Pershore House, “You are going home?” he asked.

              “No, I’m going back to Australia,” repeated Rutherford, more forcefully, “It’s where I belong now.”

              “Can you do that?” asked Underwood, very vague as to the rules which governed a penal colony, but also with the notion of earning himself some time to try and assimilate the extraordinary statement his companion had made.

              “Of course,” said Petch, impatiently, “They need all manner of men out there to create civilisation. Not all who go are convicts. Many free men are attracted to the idea of making a new and better life there than they could ever hope for here.”

              “But what about the Pershore Estate and your sister? You cannot mean to desert them again and leave them to the tender mercy of vultures like Ormund Luckhurst and Attridge.”

              “Don’t concern yourself with that. I shall settle all before I go. I’ll find a man I can trust to help Cressy run the place – she did a fine job before our beloved cousin Ormund interfered. And she will marry soon enough, and her husband can take over the burden.”

              Underwood could see that there was little point in arguing with him, he had obviously thought long and hard about his future, but even so, he could not resist a few timely reminders of how tough he was making his life when it could be so very easy – or relatively so, at any rate.

              “It seems a very long way to go to find freedom, my friend. Would not a frank discussion with your sister and a new way of doing things here in England suffice?”

              “I don’t believe I could ever prevail upon her to understand how stifling I find life here. She will expect me to marry and produce a parcel of children.”

              “Would that be so very bad?” asked Underwood softly, recalling his own horror at the idea of offspring until the moment arrived that he became a father and the advent of that small, helpless baby, who had been laid in his arms and had wrought a miraculous conversion.

              Rutherford looked uncomfortable, Underwood could almost detect a slight reddening of his cheeks, “I’d like children,” he said, “but I find the idea of another woman ...”

              “Another woman?” exclaimed Underwood, not slow to pick up on nuances when it suited his purposes, though Verity could well have doubted this ability. “You met someone for whom you care in Australia?”

              “I suppose I did,” admitted the young man, “But I am a fool for even thinking of her. She is married already or at least I assume she is, the laws there are very different, you see. She certainly has children, but her husband is a wretched little bully who beats her and I intend to take her and her little ones away from him as soon as I am able.”

              Underwood began to vaguely see what might attract a man like Rutherford Petch to the new country with which he had fallen in love – normal rules of society held no sway there. He would be perfectly able to take a woman away from her husband and live with her without a hair being turned. There would be no consequence for his actions, no disbarring of her from other women, no hypocritical criticism of their situation. In short, as he had so graphically described, he had complete freedom to live his life as he chose.

              “This young lady is amenable to your proposal, is she?” asked Underwood, with what Rutherford thought was a remarkable degree of astuteness.

              “I have no idea. I have not asked her – I had not the opportunity, but she put herself at risk to help me and I want to return the favour.”

              He was lost for a moment in thought, recalling how Florrie Taggart had pretended to go along with her husband’s plan to accuse him of raping her, so that he could see him hanged rather than freed, jealous that the hated rich man was about to resume his old, untroubled life. Instead she had used their time alone together to warn him of the plot and encourage him to run to the garrison in town, fully aware that she faced a beating from her thug of a spouse. She had shown him small kindnesses before that too, finding extra bits of food from her own rations, knowing the Taggart was keeping his convict workers on the verge of starvation. Such selflessness meant a great deal more in the wilds than it did here in safe and civilised England. Here it was mere comfort; there it could mean the difference between life and death. He could see her still, standing in the blazing sun, one child on her hip, the other two little urchins clinging to her ragged skirts. It took courage to be kind in so inhospitable a place and in such circumstances, but Florrie had managed it. She deserved compassion for that if nothing else.

              “You could not help her in some other way?” Underwood asked diffidently, aware that it was always unwise to appear to be in opposition to young love.

              “I have sent her money, but I cannot be sure she has received it. Taggart is all too likely to have taken it for himself. I need to see for myself that she is well and happy.”

              Underwood gave him a long, considering look, “You know what your trouble is, don’t you Petch?” he asked, at length.