A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (23 page)

Miss Hazelhurst indicated that he should seat himself on one of the settles, while she hoisted a huge kettle towards the fire.  He immediately rose and insisted upon helping her with her burden, and she reluctantly allowed him to do so, apparently not being used to such consideration.  They were still involved in this rather unseemly tussle when her brother made his appearance, watching them from the doorway as he scraped thick mud from his boots on the iron scraper set in a niche in the outer wall.

“Who’s your friend, Harriet?” he asked after a moment, observing Underwood with little interest and even less amity.  Underwood had not noticed him until he heard his voice and now glanced up, his interest caught.  In his voice and demeanour there was something vaguely familiar, something which made Underwood frown slightly as he tried to place it.  However the source of the resemblance eluded him and he was forced to conclude that in such a small community there were bound to be relatives living all around the district.  Probably Hazelhurst would turn out, prosaically to be a cousin of someone residing in the village.

“Vicar’s brother on a walk,” she answered shortly, finally forcing Underwood to relinquish his claim on the kettle and fixing it over the fire.

“Odd place to take a walk.”

“That’s what I told him – still, it wouldn’t do if we were all alike, now would it?”  She seemed almost happy now that the task was accomplished and actually smiled at Underwood, who was hovering by her side, wondering whether to walk across the room and offer his hand to his unwilling host.  He was wary of doing so, for Hazelhurst looked particularly unfriendly and if he were rude enough to refuse Underwood’s gesture, the latter would look a perfect fool – something he was not willing to risk in front of the woman.

As it happened the farmer was not quite as churlish as he had at first appeared and offered his own hand first, before seating himself, with the audible groan of a man who has risen early, worked hard, and is looking forward to a well-deserved rest.

“My sister and I are not church-goers, as you will no doubt be aware, but I have heard good reports of your brother, so for his sake you are welcome.”

In truth, Underwood was growing heartily sick of hearing good reports of his sibling.  It was peculiarly difficult for him to see saintliness in the annoying little brother who had been the bane of his youth.

“Thank you,” he said, a little stiffly, adding swiftly, “I could not help but notice how high you stand here.  Farming cannot be easy on such barren terrain.”

“Farming’s not easy anywhere, my friend. We have mostly sheep, a few cattle for milk and meat, and hens for eggs.  We manage well enough, but no man on a hill farm is ever going to die rich.”

“I suppose not.”

              “What is your own business, Underwood.  I think you are not a clergyman like your brother, even if you do dress like one.”

Underwood glanced down self-consciously at his garb before replying, “No, not clergy.  I tutor at Cambridge University – or at least I used to,” Underwood’s frown returned as he realized how unsettled his life had become.  He could no longer even tell another man how he earned his living.

Hazelhurst accepted a cup of tea from his sister, “What changed?” he asked bluntly.

Underwood considered it ironic that he had entered this house with the intent of asking questions and had neatly had the tables turned upon him.  He doubted he had ever given away so much personal information on so short an acquaintance in his life, “I’m to be married,” he answered, in an almost awed tone of voice.  It was the first time he had been required to say the words out loud and he was surprised to find the sound of them terrified him.  It was as though Hazelhurst read his thoughts, for he laughed unkindly and growled, “You must be ready for bedlam, giving up your freedom at your age.”

Underwood was offended, not least because he always congratulated himself on not looking anything like his true age.

“Anyone we know?” added the incorrigible Hazelhurst.

“Charlotte Wynter,” supplied his sister quietly, handing Mr. Underwood his tea.

The farmer spat copiously and accurately into the heart of the fire, causing a loud sizzle, “Dear God!  Brave as well as foolhardy, eh?  It’s advice I know you’ll not take, Underwood, but I shall give it anyway.  Stay away from the Wynters.  That family is a blight and a curse!”

Underwood maintained his calm demeanour.  He would have been surprised to have had any other reaction from the Hazelhursts; “You sound as though you know them well.”

“Well enough,” was the muttered reply.  He shifted in his seat as if suddenly aware that he had spoken out of turn and was mildly regretful.

“What manner of man is Sir Henry?  I own I have seen little to recommend him to me, yet I have to make the attempt, for Charlotte’s sake.”  Underwood sipped the tea Harriet had given him.  It was a strong and hearty brew, not in the least like the delicate tea favoured by his brother, but he found himself glad of its downright flavour.

His host shrugged non-commitally, “It depends on what you mean.  As a magistrate he is considered hard, but fair – as a man…”

“Yes?” prompted Underwood, when the pause became too long.

“As a man,” interrupted his sister bitterly, “He is selfish, ruthless and incapable of affection.  He uses people without thought for their feelings, and he casts them off when they no longer amuse him, or cannot be of use to him.”

“Harriet!”  Her brother spoke quietly, but she reacted as violently as if he had screamed her name at the top of his lungs.  She gasped and subsided into blushing silence.

“He seems fond of his son,” suggested Underwood diffidently, more to break an awkward silence, than from any desire to defend Sir Henry.

Harriet recovered herself swiftly and laughed harshly, “He’s proud of him, aye, I’ll admit that, but let’s face facts.  He has ruined the boy.  He’ll grow to be as arrogant and merciless as his father.”

Underwood wondered vaguely why she should care.  Harry was nothing to her.  Perhaps as a mother she could not bear to see any child being raised badly.  This thought prompted another.  Surely Tom Briggs had mentioned that she had a child – fathered by Sir Henry, if gossip was to be believed.  He longed to ask her the whereabouts of her child, but there was no way he could mention it without disclosing the fact that he was indeed fully aware of the village gossip he had previously and strenuously denied.  Yet again he was going to have to leave a place without asking any of the vital questions which plagued him.  Fighting a stifling feeling of utter frustration, he rose to his feet, “I have stayed long enough, abusing your hospitality with my uninvited presence.  Thank you for the tea, Miss Hazelhurst.”

“I’ll walk with you to the gate,” said the farmer, rising also, and accompanied Underwood out of the door.  Half way across the yard, he glanced behind him, as though to ensure they were not being followed, then he spoke quietly to Mr. Underwood, “You must forgive my sister’s outburst.  She feels she was treated very badly by Sir Henry.”

“In what way?” asked Underwood, maintaining the illusion of ignorance.  He did not fool Hazelhurst, whose lined and ruddy features split in an unkind grin; “Village gossip must be failing badly if you do not know that my sister had a child by Sir Henry Wynter.”

Underwood considered this remark, then decided that the moment had arrived for him to admit he knew at least a little of their affairs.

“I had heard something,” he said, a trifle warily, “But you must understand that my brother does not encourage the spreading of scandal.”

“No, I can believe he does not.  He’s a good man.  Well, since you are about to throw in your lot with the Wynters, I should like you to know the truth from me.”

“I would be very interested to hear it.”

“Have you been married before, Underwood?”  Hazelhurst asked the question bluntly, and though Underwood could not see what connection his answer might have with what they were presently discussing, he nevertheless answered it honestly, “No.  I was engaged once before, but she died before we were married.”

“You cannot know, then, what it is like to be shackled to another human being for twenty years – bad enough if there is some common ground to bind you, but intolerable if the partner you choose is the wrong one, in every possible way.”

“Is that what happened to your sister?” asked Underwood, growing more confused with every passing moment.

“Not to my sister, to me.  When Harriet came home and announced her pregnancy, my wife screamed abuse at her, and threw her out of the house – and I was too much of a coward to stop her.  I despise myself mow, but then all I wanted was a peaceful life, and I really believed Wynter would help her.  He gave her money – not much, but enough to get her to Manchester and pay for lodgings for a few months, and that was all he did.  By the time her child was born, she had nothing.  She had to scrape a living, doing whatever she could to survive.  Is it any wonder she hates Sir Henry, the author of all his misfortunes?”

“And the child?  What happened to the child she had?  I saw no evidence of another presence here with you – only two places set at the table, only two cups in frequent use on the dresser.”

Hazelhurst looked surprised that his guest had noticed so much in so short a space of time, “I declare, you don’t miss much, Underwood,” he said, with reluctant admiration, “she lost the child.  Several years ago now.  It was a blessing, really, though she can’t see it that way.”

  “Was it a boy or a girl?” asked Underwood.  The farmer hesitated for a few minutes before saying gruffly, “What the devil does it matter now?”

“Boy or girl?” persisted Underwood.

“A girl.”

They parted company at the perilously leaning gatepost and Underwood barely noticed his surroundings on the homeward journey, so deep and baffled were his thoughts.  He wondered exactly how long ago was ‘several years’, and if a man could grow so tired of a virago wife that he could bring himself to thrust her over a precipice, knowing that the magistrate who was going to try him owed him a favour.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

(“Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio Est” – Lover’s quarrels are the renewal of love)

The morning of the cricket match dawned clear, with high, fluffy clouds and the promise of sunshine later in the day, much to the relief of all concerned.

Since the thunderstorm of the week before, the weather had been intermittently wet and misty, and all had feared a ruined game.  It was considered to be one of the most important occasions of the year, second only to the Harvest Home, with every man given a day away from his labours and every woman and child leaving their spinning and weaving untouched by the fire.

Mr. Underwood might not have looked forward to the match quite so enthusiastically had he known just how many of the players were baying for his blood.  Two of Charlotte’s erstwhile suitors were members of Sir Henry’s eleven, not to mention her brother and the rejected Pollock.

Calden’s team was not much better disposed towards him, having been told the newcomer was Cambridge’s ace batsman and a killing bowler.

Happily unaware of all this ill-will, Underwood calmly took his place at the crease and was stunned when the first ball hurtled past his ear, missing him by a fraction of an inch.  Unfortunately for the man who bowled it, this seemingly deliberate attempt on his life merely placed Underwood on his mettle, giving him the anger, strength, and determination to hit the next ball for an incredible distance, much to the delight of the crowd.  The vision of Charlotte clapping proudly and dancing excitedly on the edge of the village green was enough to convince Underwood that his heroism must continue; sadly it also raised the ire of the four men who were out to prove him a fool and a fraud before the obviously infatuated Charlotte.  From there the match descended into carnage.

Underwood had easily knocked up his promised half century before it was borne upon him that this was rather aggressive play for a simple village match.  When his opening partner was lost and Harry joined him at the stumps, Underwood hoped things would calm down a little, but he was destined to be disappointed.  Harry’s first action was to slash viciously at a ball, then yell, “YES!” at the top of his voice.  Since only an idiot would attempt a run at that juncture, Underwood, with years of experience at his back, wisely ignored the instinct to obey the call and held his ground.  Harry was livid to find himself run out on his first ball.  Since his intention had been to run Underwood out, his fury knew no bounds and the entire village had the pleasure of seeing Sir Henry’s spoiled boy grow red in the face and throw his bat deliberately in the general direction of the vicar’s brother.  That gentleman neatly side stepped the missile, then stood with one foot crossed negligently over the other and elegantly helped himself to a pinch of snuff whilst his new partner hurried across the field.  The crowd went wild.

Things calmed down a little when Abney came in to bat and Underwood was able to have a well earned rest, since the groom was one of those shy batsmen who would not dream of tapping anything beyond the odd single.

Sir Henry scored a very respectable twenty, then it was Gil’s turn to join his brother.  He waited until the last moment before shedding his coat and caused quite a stir when he walked across to the stumps, dressed in pale biscuit-coloured breeches and his shirtsleeves.  For a year he had preserved his dignity, careful never to be caught out in anything other than his severe clerical garb.  This casual outfit showed him to possess a figure even better than his brother’s, broader of shoulder and thighs well-muscled and clearly defined in his tight breeches.  The light breeze ruffled his hair as he walked and many a feminine heart was felt to flutter.  Suddenly Gil seemed very much more man than clergy, and even Charlotte was prompted to give him a second glance.

To make his transformation even more complete, he was quite as good at cricket as was his brother and soon had thirty five to add to the rapidly rising score.

By the time the first innings were over, Underwood could look forward to his tea with a stunning ninety three under his belt, closely followed by Gil’s forty eight.

Charlotte flew across the field to meet and congratulate the brothers, whilst Pollock, Harry, Lithgoe and Radcliffe glowered from the sidelines.

“Have you any idea, Charlotte, why not only Calden, but half of Bracken Tor were trying to kill me out there?” asked Underwood, smiling down at the young woman who was positively bouncing as she clung to his arm.  She had the grace to look a little shame-faced, “Well, I believe Mr. Radcliffe and Mr. Lithgoe had both cherished a hope that I might accept their offers of marriage, and even Mr. Pollock had grown most particular in his attentions before you swept me off my feet.”

“I do think you might have warned me that I was going to be facing half a dozen rejected males.” he complained, “Jealousy is a terrible thing.”

“Do you think they are jealous?” she asked ingenuously, her green eyes peeping mischievously sideways at him.  Underwood looked at her lovely face, the burnished thickness of her shining hair, “Oh, yes,” he murmured, “I think they are very jealous indeed – and with every good reason.”

A magnificent repast had been laid on trestles under the trees which skirted the green.  Sir Henry had not stinted, and there was not one female in the village who had not added a pie, cake or savoury to the haunches of roast meat Sir Henry had provided.  It was a merry gathering, with food to spare and barrels of ale for any who wanted it.

Underwood was just downing his glass of ale when a voice behind him almost made him choke; “I’m looking for a Mr. Underwood.”  The voice was loud and boisterous, the voice of a young man who was vain and arrogant and well used to getting his own way.  Confidence oozed from every syllable.  Underwood turned, “I am Underwood,” he said shortly, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you that counts, my friend,” answered the young fellow, grinning and making no attempt to lower his tone, “You advertised in the London papers for information concerning a young woman who was murdered here last year.”

Underwood inwardly cringed, but there was nothing he could do to stem the flow.  He did not look about him, but was even so was painfully aware that complete silence had fallen over those who were near enough to hear what was being said.  He made no reply, but waited for the man to continue – useless now to try and silence him.

“I’m here to claim the reward you offered.  You see, Mary Smith was my wife.”

There was a ripple of bemused comment, but Underwood refused to be shocked, “You have taken a great deal of time to come forward and claim her,” he said evenly.  The man who claimed to be the husband of poor dead Mary was not in the least put out to be thus challenged, his grin remained firmly in place, “I’m a sailor,” he replied, “I’ve been at sea for over two years.  A friend presented me with the newspaper on my return and I came straight here on the overnight mail coach.”

Underwood decided that the interested listeners had heard quite enough and hastily brought the conversation to a close, “Very well.  We cannot discuss this here and now.  Are you planning to stay at the inn?”

“I wasn’t planning to stay at all.  I came to collect my money and go.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple – and nor am I!  Do you think I am such a gull as to hand over large sums of money to the first man who tells his tale?  I suggest you bespeak a room and I shall meet you at the inn later this evening; shall we say nine o’clock?”

“Certainly.”  The man turned and looked about him, “Do you object to my staying and watching the rest of the match?”

Underwood objected strongly, but could hardly say so.  He nodded curtly, offered food and drink, then turned his attention back to Charlotte, who, he found, had watched the whole scene unfold with astonishment and was now looking at him with worried eyes.  He silently led her to a spot some distance from the crowds and invited her to sit upon his spread coat.

  “What was that man talking about?”  She asked quietly.  He did not immediately answer her, but addressed himself to his full plate.  He chewed methodically for some moments then swallowed and spoke almost casually, “It was just as he said.  I advertised in the London newspapers for information.”

“But why?  I don’t understand.  What has all that to do with you?”

“Nothing, I suppose.  I merely found it untenable that anyone should be murdered and little or no attempt made to find the culprit.”

Though she did not move a muscle, he nevertheless felt her withdraw from him, “Are you suggesting my Papa did nothing to bring the murderer to justice?” she asked icily.

He glanced down at her stiff, white face and hastily reviewed the response he had been about to offer, “I make no such suggestion.  I was not here to see what efforts were made, I only know they were unsuccessful.”

“My father prides himself upon his sense of justice.  If there had been any way of finding that girl’s murderer, he would have employed it.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve you,” he said, determinedly taking another mouthful of food, as though hoping that the action would cut short any further discussion.  For several seconds the ploy seemed to work, for she fell silent and he ate.

“Is that why you have been asking so many questions in the village?”  She had evidently used the few minutes for quiet reflection.

He nodded curtly.

“And Verity Chapell has been helping you, hence her sudden interest in the doings of the Court staff?”

“Yes.”

“You beast,” she spat viciously, “You absolute villain!  How dared you?”  She leapt to her feet and he was forced to grasp her wrist to prevent her from running away from him, “Come, Charlotte!  Be reasonable.  How have I deserved this abuse?  Surely my actions have been laudable?”

She stared contemptuously down at him, her cheeks a furious red, “Laudable?  You have used us all.  We welcomed you into our community, we gave you hospitality and respect, invited you into our homes, and all the time you were seeing each and every one of us as a potential murderer!”

“Not you, my dear,” he protested.  She wrenched her hand from his, “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

The hurt look on his face gave her cause for hesitation, as did his next words,

“I’m sorry you choose to see things in this light.  Since you have obviously made up your mind to hate me, there is little I can say in my defence.”

Her anger receded as quickly as it had risen.  She was confused.  She had lived her life with a family who repaid anger with greater anger; whoever shouted the loudest usually won the argument.  She did not understand his submission, and she did not like the feelings of guilt it engendered in her.  She found it was impossible to fight with one who did not fight back.

“I suppose I should hear your defence,” she conceded gruffly, “If you think you have one.”

He did not speak for a moment and she waited in silence for him to begin, trying not to be distracted from her fury by the way the sunlight glinted on his bright hair and how dark his eyes seemed when they looked deep into her own.

“It was her grave, so small, overgrown and neglected.  It wrung my heart to see it.  No one should die like that, Charlotte, forgotten, unmourned, uncared for.  I simply found I could not rest until I had righted a wrong and discovered a name to carve upon the stone.  As for my secretive behaviour – that was at Gilbert’s request.  He thought I should not investigate the matter for fear of rousing unpleasant memories, so I had no choice but to keep the reason for my questions to myself.”

“Not quite to yourself,” she said harshly, “You confided in Verity.”

“I needed her help, there was nothing more to it than that.”

The sadness in his eyes told her that he was speaking the truth and she felt herself, almost unwillingly, sinking back onto the ground beside him.

“Does this mean I am forgiven?”

She looked steadfastly at her hands, intertwined in her lap, “I don’t know.  Half of me can understand what you have done, the other half is still angry that you should have so deceived us all.”

“That is not unreasonable.”

“Do you have nothing else to say?  Nothing to make me forget my anger?”

“No.”

His honesty was unassailable and suddenly Charlotte felt laughter welling up inside her, “You are impossible,” she said, but the laughter burst through and she could not control it, though her head told her that she had never been less amused in her life.  He put his arm around her to support her lolling body, his own seriousness fading slowly as he watched her helplessness.  As he looked at her, feeling her body sink against his own, he was suddenly overtaken by a desire he had never experienced before.  Her laughter ceased abruptly when he kissed her and she found herself responding to his passion.  In that moment she forgot everything and it was several dizzying seconds before she realized they were in plain view of the entire village and that her behaviour was that of a hoyden.  She pushed him weakly away, but fortunately he too had come to his senses and he released her, hoping she didn’t notice that his breathing was faster and deeper than normal.

“I do beg your pardon, Charlotte.”

“Pray don’t.  I was quite as much at fault.  Now you must finish your tea.  You have to prove yourself as good a bowler as you were a batsman.”