A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 2

  The governess tried not to be irritated, but having received several curt and ill-mannered answers to her queries, she finally snapped, “Oh, for goodness sake, Charlotte, what has put you in such a pet?”

  “You and Mr Underwood, if you must know,” said Charlotte pertly, “Your behavior was disgraceful! I shall tell papa that you were flirting with him, then where shall you be? Out on the street without a reference, that’s where!”

  Miss Chapell was well used to Charlotte’s vanity and self-importance, but she had never yet been on the receiving end of one of her moods and she was shocked for a moment by the vitriol in the younger woman’s tone. She did not quite know which of the several injustices to deal with first.

  “I was not flirting and nor was he,” she replied at last, feeling that this was the more vital item to refute, both for her own sake and the vicar’s, “We merely shared a joke and you are cross because you did not understand it! I therefore suggest that instead of causing trouble for others, you instantly rectify your deplorable lack of education and go at once to the library and find a dictionary, which will tell you the meaning of the word hypochondria.”

  “That’s put you in your place, Charlotte,” said Isobel, who had also been snubbed by her older sister twice, when she had made perfectly innocuous and pleasant observations on their journey home.

  “Oh, be quiet, you odious little toad-eater,” sneered Charlotte and went indoors with her pretty face marred by a bad-tempered pout.

  “Oh dear,” sighed Miss Chapell, “I do wish I had not lost my temper with her. Now we are in for a week at least of the sullens!”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Chapell,” said Isobel kindly, “I’ll go to the kitchen and ask cook to make her favourite dessert, that will put her back in a good mood. You know what a greedy thing she is.”

  Miss Chapell smiled and touched her youngest charge gently on the cheek, “If only everyone was as sweet as you, dear Isobel, life would be much easier to bear!” she said and went upstairs to take off her outdoor boots and her cape.

  In the sanctuary of her bedroom Verity sank onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. She was mentally and physically tired and not sure how much longer she was going to be able to continue in her present employment. Charlotte was now seventeen and feeling that she was far too old to have a governess and therefore grew daily more difficult to control. Isobel was the only member of the family with an inclination towards the academic but her father was not a man who felt that educating females was a useful pursuit. He saw anything beyond basic reading, writing and arithmetic as a waste of time, effort and more especially money. She would soon be sixteen – and quite old enough to be married according to her father.

  The sound of the gusting wind drew Verity to the window and she looked out on a scene of growing chaos with the treetops lashing about and the grasses in the paddock dipping and waving as the strengthening breeze passed across – it really was working up to be quite a violent storm and she shuddered, never having been very fond of high winds. She had, as a child, seen a huge oak tree uprooted and crashed down upon the roof of a cottage, which had broken open as easily as an eggshell beneath the weight of the branches. She had peered in through the front door as she passed and could never forget the oddity of seeing the room filled with leaves and twigs where the day before had been a warm and cosy home.

  She banished the memory, for if she continued with this train of thought, she would begin to recall her dear papa and then tears would fall in good earnest. She had lost him less than a year ago, but necessity had forced her into immediately searching for employment – the Reverend Chapell had rarely managed to hold onto his stipend when so many of his parishioners had required financial aid, but this generosity of spirit had left his daughter in severe penury at his unexpected demise.

  She turned her attention back to the problem in hand, wondering what her next step should be. She felt she might have made a bad error in making an enemy of Charlotte, who could not be relied upon to forgive and forget any slight, real or imagined.

  Verity was fond of Isobel, tolerated Charlotte, accepted the other sisters in the house for the shrinking violets that they were, brow-beaten and bullied by their over-bearing father. She disliked the son of the house, who showed every sign of following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a loud-mouthed misogynist. All in all, she could think of many reasons to leave and only one to stay, but still she hesitated. There was something fundamentally wrong in the way the young people were being raised, lacking a mother’s care being only part of the problem, and she felt a duty to try and right things before she moved on, though, in truth, she had no idea how she could ever hope to prevail against the will of Sir Henry Wynter.

  She had thought the time of feudal rulers was ended many years ago, but apparently not here in Bracken Tor. Sir Henry was the nearest thing to God these people knew, owning, as he did, their homes, their livelihoods, their futures. One word from him and a man could see his entire life disintegrate before his very eyes.

  Verity’s prim mind would have liked to skirt the issue of Sir Henry’s rights over the women in the district, but honesty compelled her to acknowledge that even in this the man still held total sway. His by-blows littered the outlying villages and he freely and proudly admitted it. She found it extremely distasteful that he had, in one of his drunken rambles, told her that he had been infuriated that his wife had continually produced useless daughters, when he had at least three illegitimate sons. The final birth had thankfully been the longed-for son, but his wife had died as the child was born and he had been as jubilant at her demise as he had at the arrival of the boy.

  At first Verity, in her desperation, had been so thankful for her employment that she had tried to overlook Sir Henry’s myriad failings, but this had been the moment when she had ceased to merely despise him to actively disliking him. She now tried to avoid him as far as she possibly could, though she was occasionally obliged to eat at the same table as the family.

  With all this in mind, and still stinging from the unpleasant exchange with Charlotte, Verity was beginning to seriously consider her position in the Wynter household.

  She could think of nothing that could possibly happen that would make her change her plans.

  Perhaps it really was time for her to look for another job.

  *

  CHAPTER THREE

  (“Telum Imbelle Sine Ictu” - An ineffectual argument)

  Left alone in the vicarage drawing room, Mr. Underwood took a few moments to look about him. The furniture had evidently been inherited with the house, for it was dark, heavy and old-fashioned – puritanical in design, purely practical and far from comfortable. He walked past the vast fireplace and squeezing between the overcrowded chairs and tables, made his way to the window.

  He immediately decided that the effort to reach this destination had not been worth the aspect afforded, for this particular room overlooked the churchyard. The wind seemed to have grown more boisterous – or did it simply blow more savagely over the open space between the walls of the church and the vicarage? A couple of saplings lashed about, almost bent double by the stronger gusts, and only the two ancient yews refused to yield to the growing gale. They deigned only to bow slightly and rustle a little, like irritated dowagers who refuse to be drawn into an unbecoming display of temper.

  Mr. Underwood seemed to sink into a reverie as he stared out at the bending grasses and the moss bedecked headstones. His face grew more drawn than mere tiredness dictated, and there was a hint of melancholy in his eyes which could not be explained by the depressing proximity of the graveyard. He did not hear his brother come back into the room and Gil was rather concerned by the picture he presented. The vicar had been convinced that his brother had succeeded in putting his past behind him, that he had recovered himself fully, but this unguarded moment made it clear that no such transformation had taken place. Mr. Underwood was as haunted now as he had been ten years before.

  “Come to
the fire, old fellow. There are howling draughts by the window, and Mrs. Selby is bringing the tea.”

  Underwood stared blankly at his brother for a moment before he came to himself and remembered where he was. He straightened his shoulders in a visible effort to shake off his previous mood and managed a slight smile, “I hope my bedroom is at the front of the house.”

  Aware that he had made a serious error of judgement, the vicar answered diffidently, “I thought it would be quieter for you at the back.”

  “Too quiet!” retorted his brother emphatically.

  “I’ll speak to Mrs. Selby after tea.”

  “Please do.”

  Mr. Underwood sat down and watched his brother with faint amusement as he fussily unlocked the tea caddy and carefully mixed measured spoonsful of the two different sorts. The kettle was lifted from the trivet by the fire just as the wisp of steam grew steady and the first drop was used to warm the pot, before being emptied into a small bowl provided for the purpose.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for Mrs. Selby to do all that in the kitchen?” he asked when the ritual was almost complete. It was the vicar’s turn to look appalled, “Oh dear me, no! I’ve tried and tried to teach her the art of tea-making, but she insists upon a slapdash approach which quite ruins the flavour!”

  It occurred to Mr. Underwood that he was not the only member of his family who had spent rather too many years alone. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware than many little habits acquired over the years could all too easily turn from quirks into eccentricities and doubtless caused great amusement amongst the irreverent young.

  He said nothing more, but accepted his cup with a nod of thanks. The first sip proved to be nectar, but whether this was due to the care taken or merely the result of his tiredness and thirst was a debatable point. He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, “Perhaps you are right, Gil. The kitchen may not be the best place to make tea.” Rev. Underwood took this as a compliment and smiled with gratification, “I’m glad it meets with your approval. And now that you are a little refreshed, perhaps you can tell me how things are with you? Have you seen mother recently?” Mr. Underwood jerked himself upright and opened his eyes, “God bless my soul! My cursed memory. I should have told you sooner. Mother sent her love and bade me tell you she is getting married.”

  “Married!” The vicar leapt so swiftly to his feet that he almost overturned the table upon which stood his precious tea things, “Great Heavens! She is over sixty years old! What the devil are you thinking of, letting her talk such nonsense?”

  Underwood, mildly irritated that responsibility for these tidings should suddenly have become his, answered, “Apparently she does not think it nonsense – and since she reached her majority before I was born, I could hardly raise an objection!” He looked and sounded testy and this seemed to calm his brother a little. He sank back into his chair and raised his teacup to his lips with a slightly shaking hand, “This is something of a shock to me,” he admitted apologetically. Mr. Underwood raised one eyebrow, “I am not exactly delighted myself, but since father has been dead these twenty years, and she expressed a desire for companionship to warm her declining years, I felt there was little I could do or say which would appear anything other than small-minded and selfish.”

  The vicar was forced to acknowledge the sense of the pronouncement, but he still looked pale and shocked, “Did she give you any indication when she intended to go through with this piece of folly?”

  “She did not. But she does not seem to be in any particular hurry, as she expressed a hope that either you or I might yet beat her to the altar.

  The Reverend gentleman immediately took hope from this, “So that is her game,” he declared triumphantly. His brother showed no sign of comprehending this comment,

  “You seem to read more into this than is apparent to me, Gil. Pray enlighten me.”

  “Do you not see? She is simply trying to shock one or the other of us into matrimony. She is hoping this madness of hers will put the idea of marriage into our minds.”

  Mr. Underwood seemed unconvinced, “If that is her intention, it has sadly misfired upon me! She has merely reinforced my belief that I had better avoid women more assiduously than ever before. If they are still capable of such recklessness at her advanced age, how much more chaos could they cause a man with youth on their side?”

  The vicar, sure that he had correctly read his mother’s intention, was able to smile again, “Think nothing more about it. A little firmness is all that is required. I shall write to her this very evening. You will soon see that she will take note of my strictures.”

  His brother remained impassive, “I trust you are right, Gil, but I would not place a wager on the outcome, if I were you.”

  The Rev. Mr Underwood merely smiled contentedly, “We shall see, we shall see,” he said.

  “She wants you to perform the ceremony,” commented Mr. Underwood, and having cruelly saved the worst until last, had the satisfaction of seeing the smile slide from his brother’s face.

  They drank their tea in silence for a few moments, each busy with their own thoughts, until the vicar chanced to glance towards his companion and notice that once more he had slipped into that same curious reverie he had experienced when looking out of the window onto the churchyard. It took him several seconds to decide that he must say something, for he was loath to intrude upon his sibling’s private thoughts, but obviously the air must be cleared between them if the visit was to have any hope of success.

  “Won’t you tell me the real reason for this visit?” The question was softly asked, with no hint of accusation or reproach, but Mr. Underwood looked almost as startled as if there had been great measures of both, “Great Heavens, Gil! What a thing to ask. Naturally I have come to visit my only brother in his new parish. What other reason could there be?”

  “My dear fellow, I have been in Bracken Tor for precisely a year and have seen nothing of you in that time. Mistake me not, I say this not to offend you, nor to have you imagine I feel offended with you. We are brothers, and brothers are often apart for much longer periods with no hard feelings on either side, but ever since I received your last letter, I have had the strangest sensation that something is amiss. You have never felt the need to take a sabbatical before, so why do it now? Will you not confide the reason to me?” Mr. Underwood hesitated for a long time before he raised his eyes to meet his brother’s and said quietly, “You know me too well, Gil. I should have known I could keep nothing from you.”

  “Sometimes I do not feel I know you at all,” replied the vicar with a smile, but his was quietly relieved that his meddling had been so well received – not that Underwood would have been anything but remorselessly polite, that was really the trouble. When he chose to, Underwood could transform civility into a refined torture for those who were fond of him.

  “Did you know that Elinor’s house has at last been sold?” This apparently innocuous and unconnected snippet of news had an altogether unexpected effect upon the vicar. He seemed to look a little paler and to eye his brother anxiously from behind the rim of his teacup.

  “I had no idea. I knew it had been let several times in the past.”

  “No, this time it has been sold and not let,” asserted Mr. Underwood, placing his now empty cup and saucer carefully on a convenient table.

  “How came you to know of it?”

  “It was a very curious circumstance - almost unbelievable, in fact. It seems there was considerable repair work needed to the structure of the house.”

  “Having stood for the most part unoccupied for so many years, that is scarcely surprising,” temporized the vicar reasonably.

  “Quite,” agreed Mr. Underwood, then continued, “Some of the renovation work involved the replacing of some rotted floorboards and when they were lifted a small box was found, containing quite a bundle of letters.”

  “Letters?” repeated the vicar, but in a tone which suggested that he might know
what direction the conversation was going to follow.

  “Yes, and they were all addressed to me.”

  “Oh.”

  Underwood glanced at his brother, then resumed his story, “The workman who found them handed them to the new owner, who, it seems, is a man of high morals. The sort of man in fact who would never read letters which were not addressed to him. He wrote me a charming little missive, explaining the circumstances of their discovery, and forwarding them belatedly to the addressee.”

  “Dear God!” Gil could not be accused of blasphemy, for the tone in which he spoke these words transformed them into a prayer, “Do not tell me they were from Elinor?”

  Mr. Underwood nodded his head, “Intercepted by her uncle and, for God knows what reason, hidden by him and not destroyed. They were delivered to me ten years too late.”

  “Did you read them?”

  Underwood shrugged, but the casual gesture held a world of meaning, “I could not bear to do so. What if there should have been some hint of what had been happening to her, poor girl? How could I ever live with myself then?”

  “It must have been incredibly painful for you.”

  His brother did not attempt to deny the suggestion. He gave a humourless little laugh, “Incredibly,” he agreed, but as though the word did not encompass the full depth of feeling, “I cannot begin to describe the jolt it gave me when I recognized the handwriting, as clear and neat as though it had only been written yesterday. The paper had not yellowed, nor the ink faded.”

  The vicar could think of nothing to say. He could well imagine his brother’s distress and sympathized silently with him. He could not picture a more macabre situation than to receive letters from a loved one who had lain ten years in the grave, and he could easily believe that his brother’s nerves had taken a shock from which they would take time to recover. Small wonder that Underwood had needed to get swiftly away. He thought, with a pang of guilt, of the jocular reference he had made to hypochondria when discussing his brother with Verity Chapell and Charlotte Wynter. In the light of what he had just heard, that now seemed to have been horribly unkind as well as unjust. He felt he must voice his regret, even though his brother had no idea he had been the butt of a joke, “I’m terribly sorry – and I also apologise if I seemed unsympathetic when you first arrived. Naturally you are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish.”