A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  As he prepared to hoist himself into the saddle of the hired hack, Underwood was suddenly and painfully reminded of just how ill he had been and for how long. Since his early days of riding he had not needed to use a mounting block, but he found himself requiring one now. He simply did not have the strength in his weakened limbs to pull himself up and onto the horse. For a moment he wavered, thinking that perhaps he should not go on the excursion to West Wimpleford, but curiosity – as it always did – won the day. The horse was quietly led to the stone steps and Underwood mounted, grateful that the ostler, if he had noticed his capitulation, did not mention it, merely wishing him a pleasant ride.

  Apart from his bodily frailty, there was no reason why the sojourn should not be pleasant, for the day was warm and sunny, particularly for so early in the year. Underwood took his time, keeping his mount to a walk. There was no pressing reason for hurry. No one was expecting him to call, and his sadly neglected muscles were crying out for a gentle reintroduction to usage.

  As he looked about, admiring the countryside and enjoying the sun on his face, he slowly recalled his previous visit and with something of a shock realised that it was approaching nine months since he had been in this part of the world. Then it had been full summer, now it was early spring, so the aspect was rather different, but certain things were unchanging, such as the spires of distant churches, the fields, copses and farm houses. Now as then he compared the view to his home in Derbyshire and noted the altogether less harsh landscape. Here the hills rolled gently, rivers looked calm and shallow, unlike the steep crags and jagged limestone outcrops and the strongly muscular flow of peaty brown streams tumbling downhill, white-topped and frothing with the speed of their descent, looking for all the world like strong, foamy ale. It was quite astounding how a few miles of travel could wreak such an alteration in the scenery.

  He had been so taken with looking about him that it was something of a surprise when he reached West Wimpleford in rather less time than he had feared. He consulted his pocket watch and realized that it was still only early afternoon. The decision now was who to call upon first, Will Jebson or Rutherford Petch?

  Will won, purely on the basis that Underwood could be almost positive that he would be available, since the apothecary shop would still be open for business, whereas Captain Petch could quite likely be out and about in such fine weather and it would be more profitable to call on him in time to be invited to take tea.

  Underwood left his mount with the ostler at the same inn he had stayed at before and was gratified to be remembered by that gentleman – though, to be fair, being held up by a highwayman was a good enough reason for fame, since it had not happened in the district for a good twenty years until Underwood had the honour the previous year.

  The bell above the door of the shop jangled merrily when Underwood entered and Will looked up from serving a young lady, who was seated on a straight-backed chair in front of the counter. His face lit with a welcoming smile when he recognized his visitor.

  “Mr Underwood! How good to see you. Pray take a seat, I shall just finish dealing with this lady and I will be with you directly.”

  Underwood lifted his hand in acknowledgement, “Take your time, my dear fellow. I have no pressing need to hurry.”

  The young woman half rose to her feet, “Oh, pray do not allow me to keep you from your friend, sir,” she said hastily, “my errand is not urgent.”

  Underwood detected an accent, which he suspected was French, and he wondered at it, for even all these years after Waterloo, the French were still not particularly well received in the provinces. London was used to the influx of aristocrats escaping from the terror of the French Revolution, and no one cared where one might have been born, but that was only in the metropolis, not in the rest of the nation; the countryside had a long memory for lost and maimed sons, who could no longer help with the harvest and animal husbandry.

  Underwood crossed the floor and held out his hand to her, bowing as she took it, rather nervously he thought, “I wouldn’t dream of encroaching, madam. You must finish your business with Mr Jebson; I shall make myself scarce for a few minutes so you can speak in private.”

  “Non, non, please monsieur. Do not leave on my account. It is just a little toothache. I have been told to ask for clove oil – is that not right?”

  She turned appealing eyes on Will, who frowned slightly and shook his head, “Not to put too fine a point on it, madam, I think you have gone beyond clove oil. Your cheek is red and swollen and you look feverish. I dare swear you have an abscess and probably need to have the tooth pulled.”

  Underwood tutted and looked suitably sympathetic, “How very painful that must be,” he said, “But how rude of me not to introduce myself. The name is Underwood – but of course, you know that, you heard Mr Jebson address me.”

  She tried to smile as she bowed slightly to acknowledge his greeting, but it was evidently extremely painful for her to do so, as she winced as she responded, “How do you do, sir. I am Violette Molyneux.”

  “Ah, a French lady?” he asked with a friendly smile, to reassure her of his neutral reaction to her nationality.

  She hesitated for a moment before saying hastily, “From Flanders, sir.”

  Underwood doubted it, but he could understand her reluctance to admit the truth of her motherland, “Just so,” he said. “Now, about this poor tooth of yours. Shall I leave you to Mr Jebson’s ministrations? I’m told he is an expert at painless extraction.” He had been told no such thing, but what else could one say to an obviously frightened girl?

  She looked like a cornered doe, her large, long-lashed eyes casting about for some avenue of escape, “I have no time for that, sir,” she said hastily, “I must be at the theatre soon.”

  “The theatre? You are perhaps a chanteuse?” asked Underwood, employing a little French to try and make her feel at home.

  “An actress, sir, I’m afraid I do not sing well.”

  Underwood very nearly spoke aloud of his gratitude to the deity for this small mercy. He had been forced to spend several weeks in the company of an Italian Opera singer in Brighton, when her English husband (and his sister-in-law Cara’s uncle) Lord Peter Lovell, had been murdered. To say that Underwood had not enjoyed the experience was to vastly understate the matter. He had found her histrionics rather wearing to say the least, though he had had every sympathy for her newly widowed state and the horrific manner in which it had been brought about.

  “How fascinating. I enjoy a visit to the theatre myself. Perhaps I could bring my wife to see the play?”

  She managed another small smile, “That would be nice, sir, but alas we move on tomorrow to the next town and I must help with packing up the costumes and scenery otherwise I will find myself without employment.”

  Jebson thought that it was time he intervened, “Well, miss, you really need to have that tooth looked at, so I suggest you try the oil of cloves for now but if you have no improvement, perhaps you will see a medical man when you next stop?”

  “I will, of course,” she said gratefully. “How much do I owe you?” She began to search her reticule and when she drew forth a tiny, draw-string purse; it became obvious to both Underwood and Jebson that it was pathetically light. Was it perhaps penury that dictated she could not have the tooth pulled, rather than pressure of time?

  “That will be thruppence,” said Jebson hastily and handed over the vial, neatly wrapped in brown paper. The girl laboriously counted three pennies into his hand, confirming that there was not very much more than those few copper coins in the purse.

  Underwood looked grim. To his certain knowledge the medication cost more than Jebson had said – toothache was not unknown in his own household, with two young children and his wife’s fondness for sweets. He said nothing, however; it was not his concern and it was typical of what he knew of Will Jebson’s kind heart that he would not have let the young woman go without some relief from her very obvious discomfort.

 
When she had left the shop, Jebson felt free to finally greet his visitor as he would wish to. He came around the counter and shook Underwood firmly by the hand, saying as he did so, “How very good to see you, Mr Underwood, and looking so well. Come into the back room and I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  “That would be most welcome, Will. I have ridden over from Dacorum-in-the-Marsh and let me tell you that my old bones had forgotten how it felt to ride a horse. I dare swear I shall be laid up for a week after this.”

  Will Jebson smiled fondly and led his guest into the room behind the shop, where young Joe, his apprentice, was busily rolling some pleasant smelling concoction on a wooden contraption which, with a few hefty pushes, produced perfectly round pills.

  “Leave that for the minute, Joe and take care of the shop, will you please?”

  “Yes sir,” said Joe, moving with such alacrity that Underwood guessed that pill-making was not his favourite occupation. He surmised it became rather tedious after a while.

  While he set the kettle on the bracket over the fire, Will invited Underwood to take a seat on the cushioned settle and asked about his state of health. He was rather concerned that his erstwhile patient did not seem to be particularly over-enthusiastic about how he was feeling.

  “What’s the trouble, Mr Underwood?” he asked, when he took the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “You don’t seem fully recovered to me.”

  “Oh, I’m well enough, Will,” said Underwood, “A little weak still, perhaps. But it is this infernal melancholy which I can’t seem to shake off. I feel hopeless and useless and there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  Jebson was more worried by this admission than he cared to show. He spoke in a rallying tone which owed more to his desire to help than from any real conviction in the truth of what he was saying, “Well, you know the poison you were fed will take a good while to leave your body, my friend. You were dosed little and often for a good while, and it makes sense that it will take the same amount of time to clean your system. You’ll feel happier when you are finally free of all that. Are you eating well, taking care of yourself in other ways?”

  “I try, but I don’t seem to have much appetite,” answered Underwood.

  “Umm,” muttered Jebson, “I think I’ll make up a tonic for you and see if we can’t get you fighting fit again.”

  “If you insist on doing so, make sure it is pleasant,” warned Underwood, “for I refuse to take anything which it not delicious! I have had a bellyful of foul tastes.”

  “I’ll warrant you have,” said Jebson, laughing, “Now, tell me how Mrs Underwood does, and your children?”

  Underwood explained that Verity was with him but had remained in Dacorum-in-the-Marsh, helping the vicar. “She intends to come with me, though, in the next few days. She wants to call upon the Petches and also you and your wife, if she might be allowed.”

  “Of course,” said Jebson heartily, “My wife would be honoured to have her to tea, perhaps. I’ll mention it to her and let you know.”

  “I would love to meet her myself – I have not yet had the pleasure. And I believe you also have children?”

  Jebson’s face was momentarily marred by a strangely sad expression, which he quickly banished, “Indeed I do. My two little girls are the light of my life, but I should warn you that they have a way about them that some people find a little odd.”

  Underwood was intrigued, but felt it impolite to pursue this further. He would doubtless find out how the children were ‘odd’ when the time came to meet them.

  They exchanged the relevant information, Underwood providing Jebson with his friend Draycott’s address and Will telling Underwood where to find his own little cottage.

  “You don’t live above the shop, then?” asked Underwood in surprise. It would be the most normal arrangement for a shopkeeper to live on the premises.

  “It would not be a suitable environment for my children,” said Jebson, “Too many dangerous ingredients and their condition is such that they could not be made to understand that they should not touch anything, much less eat or drink it.”

  Underwood slowly began to understand that the girls must indeed be far more challenged than he had previously imagined and his heart went out to his new friend. It must be a trial to be called upon by everyone around to bring about cures for their ailments, but to know that you cannot help your own flesh and blood in their direst need.

  They parted on a handshake then Underwood returned to the inn to collect his mount and make his way to Pershore House.

  He found Rutherford was not at home, but due back at any moment. Miss Fettiplace and Cressida were delighted to see him, as indeed was Brimblecombe, the butler, though his greeting was rather more restrained than that of the two ladies. He merely smiled as he opened the door to the visitor and so far forgot himself as to shake Underwood warmly by the hand and ask after his health, something which he would never have presumed to do to any other caller.

  “I’m well, Brimblecombe, thank you. And is Miss Greenhowe still well? I trust her new medical regime has been providential?”

  “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 wit
h 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.”