An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

“That was thoughtful of him.  He had assumed Cara and I would spend our honeymoon there, but Italy seemed preferable.”

“Italy seems preferable to me too, but Brighton will suffice.”

*

Entirely unaware that her husband and child were at the vicarage, Verity was just rising from her bed as the clock struck eleven.  She had tried to recapture the elusive weariness with which she had awoken much earlier, but the birdsong outside the window and the stray beams of sunlight which managed to evade the heavy velvet curtains and shine directly into her determinedly closed eyes, could not be denied.

Presently, arrayed in an elegantly simple morning dress and soft, indoor shoes, she drifted down the stairs, surprised to be met with silence.  She popped her head around the kitchen door and sniffed appreciatively at the myriad, glorious aromas before catching the eye of the cook and smiling warmly, “Good morning, Mrs.

Threadgold.  Has Mr. Underwood taken Miss Horatia out?”

“He has.  Toby was with them too.”

“I don’t suppose you know of their destination?”

“The vicarage, ma’am.”

“Oh?”  She hesitated for a moment, digesting this information, before adding, almost to herself, “I wonder why he has gone there?”

Mrs. Threadgold missed nothing and was only too happy to share her acquired knowledge, “The invitation to the Reverend’s wedding arrived in the post.”

“Did it indeed?  Then poor Gil is to be subjected to Underwood’s razor wit – no wonder he did not wake me.  Ah, well, Gil is old enough to take care of himself, he does not stand in need of my protection, I’m sure.  I suppose you would be dreadfully cross, my dear Mrs. Threadgold, if I were to ask for a slice of that delicious smelling bread and some honey?”

Mrs. Threadgold, in common with most elderly retainers, maintained a demeanour which was much more severe than her warm heart dictated.  She countered grumpily, “It’s still hot from the oven.  You’ll get a stomach-ache if you eat it before it cools.”

Verity hid a smile; “I’ll risk that.  Do we have any of Lady Hartley-Wells honey left?”

“We do, but it would be more properly described as Miss Cromer’s – it is she who really keeps the bees and gathers the honey herself.”

“She is well able to do so, for it would be a courageous bee indeed which dared to sting Miss Cromer.”

Mrs. Threadgold grinned in spite of herself, “Madam, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

A very short time later Verity was wandering in her over-grown garden, a slice of bread and honey in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.

It was a lovely warm day, but not the lazy, energy-sapping heat of August when the effort to do anything at all was too great.  No, this was June, the month when the garden sprang into sudden, resplendent, glorious life, the insects and flowers in joyful harmony.  Even Verity’s unkempt, untamed wilderness looked attractive, the all-too present weeds hidden, for the moment by a mask of prettiness.  She knew the loveliness would be fleeting, but it would do for the time being.  Neither she nor

Underwood had ever possessed a garden of their own before this, their first home together and the past year had been far too busy for them to begin work outside, but the task could not be much longer delayed.  Poor Toby did his best, but he could not be left to tackle this mammoth task alone.  He was taken far too much for granted as it was.  There could not be many freed black slaves who worked as hard as he did – and his undefined role in the household meant that he was quite as likely to be asked to mind the baby as he was to cut firewood, muck out the newly acquired horse or even cook, when Mrs. Threadgold was absent.  Not that he minded.  His devotion to the family was complete, but whereas Underwood had swiftly and easily fallen into the habit of using the man, Verity still had a sneaking and unresolved guilt about their employment of him.  He had been so badly treated by his former masters that it seemed horrible to her that he was still in service, albeit at a remarkably good rate of pay.  Underwood might unconsciously take advantage of another’s loyalty, but he was neither unreasonable nor miserly.  Toby was well-paid, well-cared for and had as much free time as he required, but the truth was he had no life away from the

Underwood family.  The colour of his skin meant that he was almost always viewed with suspicion by the working classes, and with shame and pity mixed by the upper classes who did not know him.  He was accepted without question by the Underwoods and their circle, but outside that, he was little more than an outcast.

Underwood, who could be, at times, remarkably obtuse, never even seemed to notice any of this and thought his black friend and servant perfectly content with his lot, but Verity sensed his hidden frustration, though she was far too shy ever to broach the subject.

She turned her thoughts away from the seemingly impossible task of making

Toby happy, to the subject of Gil’s marriage.  This, too, was a source of vague disquiet.  Gil had spent many years quite happily alone, yet here he was, not eighteen months after his wife’s tragically early death, contemplating matrimony again.  Verity found it hard to understand his reasons.  It was not that she did not like Cara – on the contrary, she thought her a lovely, lively young woman, but that was part of the problem.  Gil was so very serious and his late wife Catherine had been made a little staid before her time by widowhood and the raising of her boy alone.  How on earth

Gil would adjust to a life lived in the wild social whirl of London’s aristocracy after so many years of dealing with the grinding poverty of most of his previous parishes, she simply did not know.

Mrs. Threadgold appeared at the scullery door, “Madam, Lady Hartley-Wells is here to see you.”

Verity started violently, slopping her tea carelessly onto the stone path beneath her feet, “Oh dear,” she murmured, automatically glancing down at her garb to see if she was fit to greet guests.  She had been so deeply engrossed in the cares of the day, she had not heard the sound of the housekeeper’s approach.

“I’ve shown her into the drawing room,” added that formidable lady severely.  In her day a lady was never caught unawares.  The mistress of the house would never be found wandering about the garden with damp shoes and dress hem, clutching a piece of bread and honey like a ragamuffin child.

“Pray tell Lady Hartley-Wells I shall be with her directly.  I must run and wash my hands.”

“No need, dear child,” called Lady Hartley-Wells from the dim interior of the house, “I shall join you outside.  This is the one place in the world I can escape from

Cromer’s disapproval and get my shoes wet.”

She was as good as her word and stepped out of the house, her out-moded style of dress and enormous feathered turban looking horridly out of place in the wild, untidy garden.  Verity never knew how she stifled her laughter when a stray branch almost knocked the headdress flying and left it decidedly askew.  Lady Hartley-Wells was made of sterner stuff than to be defeated by nature.  With an impatient hand she grasped the offending article, tugged it from her grey locks and flung it back up the garden to be caught by the astounded Mrs. Threadgold.

At this Verity quite forgot her position as mistress of the house and flew to give her elderly friend a warm embrace.  Lady Hartley-Wells pretended to be cross at the liberty taken and pushed her firmly away, though not before she had accepted the hug, “Good gracious, girl, you’ll have me over!  Those roses badly need deadheading; you will have no further blooms if it is not done directly.  Mrs. Threadgold, perhaps you would be good enough to find me some strong scissors – oh, and some tea, since

Mrs. Underwood has so far forgotten herself as not to offer.”

This was more Mrs. Threadgold’s notion of how a lady ought to behave and she went off quite happily to do her bidding.  Verity smiled, “How brave you are

Serena.  I should never dare to order her about as you do.”

“Nonsense!  She thrives on it.  Now what is all this I hear about Gil Underwood marrying the London chit?”

It seemed it was going to be a very long afternoon.

*

CHAPTER TWO

(Fabas Indulcet Fames” – Hunger makes everything taste good)

“What gift are you to bestow upon the happy couple?” asked Lady Hartley-Wells, when she and Verity had finally seated themselves, the roses dead-headed and a pile of weeds heaped by the lawn-edge.

“Underwood has chosen it.  I must say I was pleasantly surprised to find he had such good taste.  Nothing he owned before I met him had led me to believe he had the faintest idea of style.”

Lady Hartley-Wells laughed, “I can well imagine it.”

“It is the loveliest rosewood tea-caddy you ever saw.  The lock and insets are silver and the containers and mixing bowl inside are ebony and silver.  Gil will adore it – you know how he treasures his tea.”

The older lady was indeed well acquainted with the reverend gentleman’s preoccupation with perfectly brewed tea and she smiled, “I can see that Gil will be delighted with that – but what of the young lady?  I know she does not share her future husband’s obsession with the tea-leaf.”

“I thought I would be terribly predictable and offer to paint her portrait – or do you think that is too obvious?”  Verity asked anxiously.  This matter of presents had been another worry.  It was the age-old question – what did one give to the person who had everything?  Cara was the daughter of an earl and since childhood she had only to express a desire for something for it to be instantly gratified.  Those sorts of riches were beyond Verity’s comprehension and it made her feel extremely inferior.  She imagined Cara must be the sort of person who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.  In this she did the lady some injustice.  Cara had indulgent parents, it was true, but she was neither spoiled nor proud.  Along with her knowledge of her good-fortune in life, there had been ever-present reminders of the misfortunes of others.  It was for this reason she had been drawn to Gil.  He was the first man she had met who had been entirely uninterested in her father’s wealth and social position.  Gil saw beyond what most men looked for in her and she found it strangely exciting as well as rather daunting.  With Gil there was no pretence.  She had to be herself – though a better self that he might not despise her for taking the easy way in life, relying on her good-looks and fortune and not working hard to ensure people liked her.  She had, in the past, been used to being accepted no matter what she did, but Gil changed all that.  He would not tolerate bad behaviour, he did not indulge her when she sulked and he looked askance at her when she tried to get her own way by guile.  She found very quickly that though he was a man to be much admired for his high standards, those standards were very hard to live up to – and she surprised even herself by being concerned whether she attained them.

Lady Hartley-Wells, who had been sheltering the wayward heiress whilst she lived in Hanbury, knew Cara better than most and was able to reassure her young friend, “My dear, the bride would like nothing more – in fact, so sure am I that she would not, I have come here to commission you to paint such a portrait of the happy couple as my own wedding gift.”

Verity’s laugh had more than a little relief in it, “Of course, I shall do whatever you ask, but that brings me back to my original problem – if you intend to give them a portrait, then I cannot.”

“Then why not paint a landscape for them?  I cannot imagine anything more romantic than having a picture of the place where I met my husband.”

Verity was much struck by this simple solution, “My dear, what would I do without you?  Of course, there could be nothing nicer.  I shall begin work without delay.  Naturally you understand the portrait cannot be kept a secret – I shall have to ask Cara and Gil to sit for me.”

“Oh, yes.  I have already warned them both that their presence will be required.”

“As to the fee…” Verity hated to charge her friends and usually gave her pictures away, or charged ridiculously small amounts, but Lady Hartley-Wells would brook no argument; she waved an imperious hand, “You shall receive the rate I would pay to a London artist.  It is a wedding gift, after all.  And it is high time, my dear, you began to value your talent as you ought.  Your work is easily as good as any I’ve seen, and think how it would sting that husband of yours if he found himself living upon your income instead of his own.”

Verity smiled wryly, “I don’t think it would bother him one little bit,” she said decidedly.

*

The Underwoods did not meet again until dinner, when they were able to relax for the first time in weeks.  There had been a flurry of dinners, dances, theatre-trips and concerts and this was the first time they had dined alone at home since the beginning of the summer influx of visitors.

It was a warm evening and so the tall windows stood open, the curtains stirring slightly in a soft breeze, even though it meant that the candlelight was attracting the odd large moth into the room.  Horatia was sleeping peacefully, tired out by the exertions of having to order her older cousin about all afternoon.

Verity was eating fruit, a dreamy, far-away expression on her face which Underwood thought, as he looked down the long mahogany table at her, he loved best.  Her face was always at its loveliest when she thought herself unobserved.  Once she knew she had drawn attention, her shyness would overwhelm her and she would retreat, almost physically, her eyes dropping, her smile fading.

She suddenly felt his eyes upon her and returned his smile, “What is it?” she asked softly.

“Love,” he responded enigmatically, adding swiftly, lest she demand more romance of him, “You look rather pensive, my dear.  Nothing troubling you, I trust?”

“Not really, though I must own I am viewing this coming wedding with a certain amount of trepidation.”

“Good God, why?  You don’t imagine a mismatch, do you?”

“Oh, no, no!  I do not mean dread for Gil and Cara, I meant for myself.  There will be so many people there, whom I must meet and converse with – and not just ordinary people, Cadmus, but the cream of society.  How can I not fear to make some dreadful
faux-pas
and ruin everything for Gil?”

Underwood had no such qualms; he possessed a healthy disrespect for the aristocracy, having seen far too many of their so-called
noble
sons behaving with less decorum than an ignorant swineherd.  He gave a snort which graphically demonstrated how little he thought her fears were justified, “Pray put that thought from your mind, my love.  Your manners are infinitely better than any viscount I ever encountered.  If Cara and her parents are half the people I imagine them to be, they will have a certain discernment.  Let us be brutally honest – if they were as proud and aloof as you fear, they would never have countenanced the notion of allowing Gil to marry into the family.  Cara would have been whisked off to a maiden Aunt in the wilds of Scotland, never to be seen again until some bucolic laird claimed her.”

“I suppose not.”

Underwood had a sudden thought which drew a wicked grin from him, “If you feel you must worry over something, let me present you with this gem.  Gil will be obliged to invite Mother’s brothers to the ceremony – and that will include Uncle George, who, to quote my sainted brother when at his most sanctimonious, is an ‘outrageous old rip’!”

Verity had met Uncle George only once, and it had been more than enough.  The kiss he had bestowed had been rather less than avuncular and his hands had strayed alarmingly.  She grew a little pale when she thought of him being introduced to Cara’s starchy mama.  Underwood was quite right; it was unlikely to be her own minor gaucheries which were going to embarrass poor Gil.  She swiftly banished the thought – imagining Uncle George let loose on polite society was the food of madness.

“Did Gil tell you who else is to be invited?”

“Oh, yes, but I misremember most.  I know he included the Herberts, the Thornycrofts and Lady Hartley-Wells.”

“I know Serena had been asked.  She came to see me today and asked me to paint a portrait as a wedding gift.”

Underwood smiled gently at the use of Lady Hartley-Wells’ Christian name – so very few people were invited to make free with it.  He was still obliged to refer to her by her full title.

“I hope she’s intending to pay you,” he said cynically, but the grin swiftly slid into an unbecoming gape when she revealed the exact figure settled upon, “By Jupiter!  That’s more than I earned in a full term at Cambridge.”

“It’s more than you’ve earned in a year since we have been married,” was the tart response.  This matter of earnings was the only cloud on an otherwise sunny horizon between the couple.  Underwood had been asked by several doting parents to tutor sons aspiring to University, but he steadfastly refused all offers, some of which had been exceedingly generous.  Verity did not really object to his desire to avoid teaching – on the contrary, having spent quite some time as a governess, she understood completely, but she did feel she had the right to be consulted.  She felt he ought to consider that it was she and Horatia who were obliged to live upon his reduced income.  He still seemed to spend very large portions of his life entirely forgetting he was now a married man with all the responsibilities which that entailed.  They were not poor, of course, for besides Underwood’s well-invested capital, he also worked extremely hard at his writing; he set examinations and translated for his erstwhile employers at Cambridge, but it could not be denied that tutoring would bring in a very useful extra income.  Verity had begun to fret that when the day arrived that Horatia should require things like a Grand Tour or a London Season, there would not be sufficient funds to realize her dreams.  If she had taken a moment to think about this worry, she might have felt it somewhat ironic that she should have geared her entire past existence towards merely being happy, but was now smitten with the burning ambition to better her daughter.  She had always despised ‘pushing’ mamas, never having truly understood the feeling of panic which assails any loving mother when imagining the lot of a precious child alone and penniless in a harsh world.  Sons were not such a worry – they at least could work for a living, or marry well, but girls had no haven.  Uneducated they were condemned to the drudgery of service; educated, they were almost as badly off, with no work but that of a governess on offer.  The only chance of marriage for a girl without dowry was to a poverty-stricken clergyman or a widower with a horde of motherless children.  Verity had no intention that such a fate would befall her Horatia.  She had known the misery of life as a governess, until the miracle that was Underwood had come into her life.

Underwood, as usual insensible to all but the most direct attack, took this comment to be light-hearted and smiled with sleepy amiability, “We must see if we cannot drum up a few more commissions for you whilst we are in London.”

“I suspect there are more than enough struggling artists in London, my dear,” she replied, half irritated, but wholly forgiving.

“None can compare to you, my love.  I wonder if we ought to spend some time in London prior to the wedding?  You will want some new clothes, I imagine?”

Verity was at once contrite.  This was a loving concession indeed from the metropolis-hating Underwood – and remarkably insightful for a man who saw clothes only as a decent covering.

“There is no need on my account, Cadmus, I assure you.  Why should I pay London prices when my dressmaker here in Hanbury is so skilled?  And as you rightly say, Gil will not be ashamed of me, no matter what I wear – and that, after all, is the important thing.  But what of yourself?  Does Gil want you to have a smart new outfit?  You are to be his best man.”

“What’s wrong with what I already have?” he asked, rather belligerently, glancing down at his coat self-consciously.

“Nothing at all.  You always look perfectly groomed,” reassured his wife hastily.

Happily in accord once more, they rose from the table together and wandered into the parlour where tea awaited them.  Toby always seemed to know the exact minute when they would be ready to leave the dining room.

“I never asked how Gil is feeling, now that he has made the irrevocable step towards matrimony,” asked Verity presently, as she handed the teacup to her husband – it was the tea which reminded her of her brother-in-law, though she was not conscious of the connection.

Underwood looked thoughtful, “I’m not entirely sure.  He was diffident, to say the least.”

“Oh, dear!  You don’t think he has changed his mind?”

“I’m sorry to say that even if he has, it is far too late now.  Gil would never do anything so ungallant as to jilt a young lady.”

“No, of course he would not.  But I should feel extremely concerned if I thought he wanted to do so.”

Underwood raised a quizzical brow, “My dear Verity, as your husband I ought to have the right to tell you, without fear of contradiction, that you must leave this matter well alone.  It is Gil’s affair and Gil’s problem.  However, I have very little confidence that you will heed any edict of mine, so I must beg you, please, do not involve yourself.”

Verity smiled at his tone, but she was mildly annoyed by his comments,

  “Cadmus, how very provoking you are!  What can you mean by saying such things?  I hope I am not an undutiful wife.”

“My dearest Verity, you are quite the most undutiful wife since Eve – and I would not have you any other way – but leave Gil alone.”