Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“Quid Faciendum” – What’s to be done?

The swaying of the carriage on the way back to Windward House was having a soporific effect on Underwood, that and the two glasses of claret he had drunk over dinner, but Verity had never been more wide awake.  She had thought of nothing but the agonies poor Mrs Woodforde and her unfortunate child had endured in the years they had been forced to exist apart from each other.  She could no more imagine her life now without hers and Underwood’s daughters, than she could bear the loss of her eyes or her limbs. Horatia, taking the feminine form of her father’s middle name and just coming up to seven, and sweet little Clarissa, named after Verity’s own deceased mother and just over one year old, and walking unsteadily, but still with the chubbiness of babyhood.

“Cadmus, are you really going to refuse to help Mrs Woodforde?”

Mr Underwood was nothing if not adept at self-preservation and though he had, on many occasions, been accused of failing to understand the female psyche, he was not about to fall into this particular trap.

Verity had the sweetest nature of any woman he had ever encountered – he had spoken nothing but the truth when he had said as much earlier in the day, though he had indeed been using his wiles to try and wheedle his own way with her - and she was notorious for gathering lame dogs to her as though they were her long lost children, which accounted for the fact that at any one time, Underwood could be sure to have a houseful of persons who were not related to him. Toby, their black manservant was a case in point. Toby had been a very successful bare-knuckle pugilist, who had one day decided he was sickened by fighting and had refused to continue.  Since there was a great deal of money riding on the fight, he found himself beaten very nearly to death by the disgruntled crowd, who had gathered to watch him win or lose. Luckily Underwood and Verity had come upon the melee and had taken him home to tend his wounds.  Verity had nursed him with her own hands and since that day there had been no question of his ever leaving their service, though he could probably have found greater remuneration in the employ of another.

Underwood refused to lie to his adored wife, but he also baulked at being manoeuvred into performing a task he either didn’t want or which he felt was beyond his powers, “My dear Verity, you know I’m far too idle to refuse or accept any assignment offered to me. I shall do as I always do and drift along as aimlessly as possible until forced into action.”

And with this non-answer, which was entirely untrue in any case, since Underwood could never resist a challenge, Verity was obliged to be content.

*

Unfortunately for Underwood, he was forced into action far sooner than he had hoped for the very next morning he encountered Sir George Gratten in his hallway as he descended the stairs heading for a late breakfast – something which had become his habit since fatherhood had claimed him.  He found the sight and sound of young children eating was rather too gross for his early morning sensibilities and he invariably saved himself the bother by eating later and making up for his paternal deficiencies by enduring afternoon tea with his daughters, when he could better cope with spillages and ceaseless chatter.

“Good morning, Sir George, what an unexpected ...” he hesitated over the word, and then added hastily, “pleasure. To what do we owe the honour of a morning call?” He spoke the words politely, but without real warmth all the while hoping that the call was not upon himself.

“’Morning, Underwood,” said the older man, torn between his habitual gruffness and pride at the sound of his new title. Underwood was not his favourite person.  He admired the man, but he found his insouciance infuriating, especially when it involved the solving of a crime which had foxed everyone, but which Underwood unravelled with ease. However Underwood was also extremely mannerly and never failed to use the title which the Constable had so recently received. “Your maid just admitted me and has gone off to find her mistress. I’m here for another sitting with your wife. Damned fine job she’s making of my portrait. You have a treasure there, my dear fellow, did you but know it.”

Underwood recalled when he heard this, that Sir George had commissioned Verity to paint his portrait as a gift to the town to remind them of their great good fortune in having a Knight of the Realm as their Constable.

“Oh, I know it,” murmured Underwood, immensely relieved that he was not to be called upon just yet to discuss the Woodforde case with the Constable of Hanbury.

Verity, however, had other ideas.  Having been told of Sir George’s advent, she came into the hall and spoke to both gentlemen at once, “Ah, good, you have found each other.  That saves me the trouble of bringing you together.  Sir George, Underwood has something he wishes to discuss with you, so why don’t you go into the dining room and take coffee together whilst I set up my easel, then we can begin work.”

Sir George was never reluctant to take either food or drink so he obligingly preceded Underwood in through the door indicated by the younger man.

“What’s this all about, Underwood?” he asked as he accepted a cup from his host and sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant brew within.

Underwood, outwitted by his wife, gave one small sigh, then proceeded to tell Sir George the story he had heard outlined the evening before.

The fact that the Constable listened in silence to the unfolding tale should have alerted Underwood to impending danger. Sir George was too fond of the sound of his own voice to avoid interruption unless he was gravely concerned. He was shaking his head firmly before Underwood had even finished speaking.

“You seem dubious, my friend. Take my word on it; I do understand it is a complex case.”

“Indeed it is, Underwood, and if you had the sense you were born with, you would leave it well alone.  Women are capricious creatures and they’ll turn on you in the wink of an eye if you don’t give them the answer they crave!”

Underwood laughed softly, “Good God, George, you make the entire breed sound like rabid dogs.”

“Believe me, I’d sooner face a rabid dog than frustrated motherhood.  I don’t think you fully comprehend the situation, my friend.  If this girl is an impostor, you will be wrenching Mrs Woodforde’s child from her for the second time.  All the concentrated hatred that she felt for her husband will be doubled and thrown at you.  Hell hath no fury, Underwood!”

“Ah, but I could be restoring her child to her, George,” he countered reasonably, apparently unmoved by the dire warnings. It did not occur to him that the Constable’s opposition had the effect of pushing him in entirely the other direction. In the space of seconds he had altered his stance from reluctance to determination. Perhaps it was not only Gratten who felt a competitive edge to their relationship.

“You could – but do you really believe it to be so?  And even if she is the missing daughter, she has spent the past twenty years having her mind poisoned by a vindictive, bitter man.  A man who was capable of tearing her sobbing from her mother’s arms and keeping them apart for two decades.  Do you honestly think he has had anything good to tell the child about her mother?”

Gratten had a valid point.  Lydia – if she was the real Lydia – had been subjected to years and years of her father telling her all sorts of lies about her mother.  It stood to reason he wasn’t going to tell her anything good, otherwise how would he justify keeping them apart?  He had obviously only relented now so that they could collect the money.  Lydia would probably show a pleasant enough face at first, but who knew what resentments were churning in her brain-washed head?  She could be severely mentally damaged by her upbringing.  It was hard to imagine what twenty years of vitriol could do to a child and young woman.  Underwood could very well have been delivering a vengeful murderer into Mrs Woodforde’s trusting hands.

“There is one small thing you can do for me, Sir George,” said Underwood, casting a wary look towards the door in case Verity had left her studio and was on her way back to join them. He was not yet ready to admit to his wife that he had decided to undertake the task given to him by Lady Hartley-Wells.

“Yes,” prompted Gratten briskly, alert to finding himself making a promise he didn’t want to keep, “What is it?”

“In your official capacity could you write a letter to the authorities in Bridgetown, Barbados, asking about Lydia and her father?  It seems they have been living there for the past ten years or so, safe, no doubt, in the knowledge that the unfortunate Mrs Woodforde could not afford to pursue them that far.”

“That would make an excellent starting point for the investigation, Underwood.  It so happens that I have living there, a friend of my school years, with whom I maintain a sporadic correspondence.  He might, perhaps, aid our search for a father and daughter going by the name of Woodforde.”

“We may find something even more useful, my friend.  Lydia claims that her father’s death is the reason she has finally been allowed to return to England.”

“Woodforde is dead?” Sir George asked in surprise.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” answered Underwood dismissively, “I suspect that he is not only alive and kicking, but here in England, keeping an eye on his daughter.  This is all about the money and nothing to do with daughterly affection.”

“Then why on earth are you helping her?  Surely Mrs Woodforde would be better for never having met the girl, if all she is interested in is her inheritance.”

“Some things are more important that money, sir, and I can only hope that Lydia discovers that in spite of her father’s machinations.”

“Quite, but if she does not, you could be storing up future heartache for a woman who has only asked to hold her beloved child in her arms once more.”

“That is a risk, I admit, and I will, of course, warn Mrs Woodforde of any possible consequences, but in the end one can only protect people to a certain degree – after that they have to take their chances.  The fact is, the girl is here and whilst I would not have advised Mrs Woodforde to go looking for her, she does deserve to know the truth – what she does with the knowledge is entirely in her own hands.”

He was right, of course, thought Sir George, damn it, he usually is! 

Lydia had to be investigated for the sake of all who were embroiled in the tale.  He could not allow a fraud to be perpetrated now that he knew all the circumstances.  If the girl was an impostor she fully deserved to be exposed.  Should she be the real Lydia, but in thrall to a wicked, selfish man, then that also needed to be exposed.  Woodforde was obviously a contemptible wretch who would stoop to any depth to finance his appalling lifestyle.  Had he really faked his own death and made his child complicit in the lie merely to claim an inheritance to which he had no right?  If so, it lay with Sir George and Underwood to make sure that he never achieved his aims.

Verity appeared at the door, “I’m ready for you, Sir George, if you and Underwood are done.”

“We are, Madam, I shall be there directly.”

Verity cocked an enquiring eyebrow at Underwood as Sir George passed her to leave the room. He shrugged elegantly, “You have your wish, my love. Lydia Woodforde shall be investigated and hopefully restored to her loving Mama’s arms.”

She smiled delightedly, “I can always rely upon you, my sweet, to do the right thing.”

When she had gone Underwood pondered her words. The right thing? He was still unsure if this was ‘the right thing’. He had the feeling that he might very well come to regret ever allowing himself to meet Mrs Woodforde and her ‘daughter’. There was something about the whole matter which troubled him and it was more than the money involved. He was sure, now that he had voiced the possibility, that Mr Woodforde was very much alive and was using his daughter and estranged wife for his own nefarious ends. Why he had such a conviction he had no idea, but as he thought about the circumstances of the prodigal’s return and the convenience of its timing, the more aware he was that he could be plunging himself into very deep and murky waters indeed.

*

CHAPTER THREE

“Vinculum Matrimonii” – The bond of matrimony

Mrs Woodforde wore her years of sorrow on her face, with deep grooves across her forehead and by her mouth and her hair prematurely grey. Her eyes were pouched and held a depth of sadness which quite tore at Verity’s heart. The very obvious distress in which she had lived for so long made the younger woman determined to do all she could to alleviate it.

They met for the first time in Hanbury Spa and Underwood was not present, having elected to stay at home and try and teach Horatia her letters whilst her mama took a well earned break from domesticity.

The ladies sipped the waters and listened to the string quartet, playing softly as a background to the incessant chatter of the patrons, grateful that there was something to fill any awkward silences. Mrs Woodforde and Verity had never met before and the knowledge the younger woman had of her companion’s background made it almost impossible for her to speak naturally on any subject other than the sudden reappearance of a lost daughter.

Fortunately Lady Hartley-Wells had no such inhibitions and chatted easily to both ladies in turn until they both began to relax.

“Tell me about your husband, Mrs Underwood,” said Mrs Woodforde, once they were at ease with each other, “Serena tells me that I can safely leave my troubles in his hands, but I should like to know how you feel about him concerning himself with this matter.”

“He is the kindest man, the most considerate. I can assure you that he will do his utmost to help you.”

Lady Hartley-Wells held her tongue, though she felt she could perhaps have argued with the word ‘considerate’ when applied to Underwood, who was, it could not be denied, very kindly, but he had a lively notion of consideration, more often than not ensuring his own comfort above everyone else’s, even his wife and children. But she felt this was a minor flaw in a man who spent his life aiding others.

“I hesitate to ask, but he will be discreet? Whichever way this goes, I should hate my business to be broadcast. Poor Lydia must not be forever the child who caused a scandal.”

Verity laid a comforting hand upon her companion’s arm, feeling the largely fleshless bone beneath the silk sleeve. The woman had obviously been living on the edge of her nerves for years and Verity could only hope that it was not too late for her body to recover from the ravages incurred by constant misery.

“I promise you that neither Underwood nor I would dream of discussing your private affairs, but I feel I must remind you that if this matter should come to Court, it would be entirely out of our control. Secrecy would be impossible.”

Mrs Woodforde managed a sad smile, “I understand that, Mrs Underwood, but I live in hope that your husband can find some compelling evidence which will render legal action unnecessary.”

“He will do his best. But perhaps, in the meantime, you could tell me a little of what has been going on? It might be easier for you to confide in me and I could pass on information to my husband – only, of course, if you agree.”

“I think that would be easier,” agreed the older woman, “this is very painful for me and though I recognise the sense of Serena’s advice, I cannot help but feel that I am betraying my own flesh and blood by even thinking of denying her.”

“Oh, I do understand,” said Verity earnestly, “I should feel the very same way, but if there is the slightest doubt, it must be addressed.  Think how terrible it would be if this girl should be an imposter and the very moment she claimed her inheritance, she were to simply walk away and leave you bereft again – you owe it to yourself to protect your poor heart from more damage.”

“Quite right too,” intercepted Lady Hartley-Wells briskly, “Now, Henrietta, give us as much insight into the girl as you can – it will make Underwood’s task that much easier.”

Mrs Woodforde looked thoughtful, “As a matter of fact, I have a bundle of letters which I have exchanged with Lydia – I kept copies of my own missives on Serena’s advice, just in case we ended up in Court. Would you like to take those for Mr Underwood to read? He might read things into her words that I have missed.”

Verity smiled encouragingly, “That is an excellent notion.  I will take them and you have my word I will return them to you as soon as he has perused them.”

It took no time at all for Mrs Woodforde to cross the town square to her hotel and return with the letters, neatly secured with a red ribbon.

The ladies, manners dictating that they preserved the illusion that there was no hurry to begin the investigation, decided to take tea together before they parted company, Verity to her carriage, driven by the stoic Toby, who had amused himself in a hostelry until he had spotted her coming out of the Pump Rooms and hurried across to her; and Lady Hartley-Wells and Mrs Woodforde to their respective abodes.

Underwood, frazzled long before he had reached ‘
G was a Greyhound, As swift as the wind; In the race of the course, Left all others behind’
in
‘The Alphabet of Goody Two Shoes’
was delighted to see the mother of his children and gladly handed over their offspring so that he could pretend an overwhelming enthusiasm for the female meanderings of the two Woodforde women. He assured Mrs Underwood that he needed the peace and quiet of his study in order to read the letters and make appraisal of their meaning. His mood was not much improved when his wife informed him that Horatia knew all her letters very well and had been funning with him.

              Lydia was nothing if not dutifully polite.

‘28
th
June, 1827, Cadwalleder’s Hotel, London,

Dear Mama,

I can think of no other way to address you, but so many years have passed since I called anyone mother, that I feel odd using the words.  I can only hope that this letter does not distress you too greatly.  My first desire was to come directly to see you, but I felt my arrival might be far too shocking.

Yes, at last, I am in England once again.

Of course the circumstances are unpleasant.  Papa passed away several weeks ago in Barbados and as soon as I had overseen the arrangements for his interment I booked a passage upon a ship bound for home.  Yes, I still think of this as home, though it is so long since I was last here.

The chill is biting my bones and I spend most of my day hunched over a fire, trying to warm my frozen fingers.  I hadn’t realised how accustomed I have become to the sunny climes!

But, enough of me.  I want to know how you fare and if you feel inclined to allow me to visit you.  I do understand that this letter will be a surprise to say the least, so I will understand if you wish to take some little time to think about my proposal.

I look forward to hearing from you and I send you my sincerest regards and affection,

Your daughter, Lydia Woodforde.’

The replies were equally polite but overlaid with tortured longing.

‘7
th
July, 1827 Millwood House, Derbyshire,

My sweetest child,

I can scarcely hold my pen my hands tremble so.  I despaired of ever living to see this moment.  Please do not wait another moment but travel here post and I will take care of any expenses you may accrue.  I cannot wait to hold you in my arms once more,

Your loving mother’

‘20
th
July, 1827

Dearest Mama,

Your greeting has made me very happy and I will endeavour to be with you just as soon as I can.  There are, however, several matters of business I have to attend to before I can journey North. Papa left his affairs in a tangle and I am obliged to sort everything before I can come.

It would make me very happy if we could continue to write to each other and exchange all the news that I have so sorely missed.

Yours in affection, Lydia’

Underwood read this last note with some suspicion.  It didn’t suggest a high degree of eagerness.  Surely the girl would have dashed to her mother’s side, after a twenty year separation?  Unless, of course, she was too afraid to spend a long period of time with the older woman.  If, as Underwood suspected, Lydia was a callous imposter, she would be much wiser to try and garner as much information as she could in the innocent guise of friendly news from home.  She was probably too ignorant of the facts to risk going North so soon.  The nearer she could leave the meeting to the fateful birthday and the transfer of funds, the better it would be.

Poor Henrietta Woodforde.  She was a pigeon ripe for the plucking.  Her overwhelming desire to have her child restored to her had completely blinded her to the possibility that she might be taken for a fool.  Her husband had deserted her twenty years before, but he was still pulling her strings, manipulating her, controlling her life from behind the scenes.  Underwood found it hard to believe that people could be so utterly heartless and cruel – and all for a few measly guineas.

He quickly shuffled the papers and to his surprise found letters which Mrs Woodforde had evidently forgotten were included in the bundle, for they were some of the correspondence exchanged between herself and Lady Hartley-Wells. This was not entirely within his remit and he debated whether or not to scan them too. In the meanwhile he returned to the letters between Lydia and her mama – there was plenty of time to read what Serena Hartley-Wells had to say later, if he chose to do so.

‘My dearest Lydia,

If, as it seems, you cannot yet travel north, then perhaps you will indulge a fond mother by writing to me.  There are so many questions I long to ask, so many tiny details of your life I need to know.  Who, for example, was your chaperone and helpmate when you came of age and went about in society?  Did your papa take care of all these aspects of your life?  Please do not tell me that he allowed you to run wild, even if you were so very far from civilised company in Barbados.

Your loving Mama’

‘Dear Mama,

It seems so strange to know that for all those years you were thinking of me and wondering about how I was managing to live my life without you.  Of course Papa provided everything I could ever need.  During my youth I was cared for by a black slave called Dulcie.  She had children a little younger than me, so I was never lonely.

When the time came for me to begin attending more grown-up functions, I was cared for by Lady Persephone Lovatt, whose husband was a Plantation owner and an aide to the Governor of the Island.

She oversaw my education, took me shopping and made sure I was dressed appropriately.  Though I realise now that life in the Indies is much more relaxed than here in England, even so there is a rigid code for the upper classes and she assured me that I would be quite ruined if I did not behave as a young lady should.

Your daughter, Lydia’

The next letter in the pile was the one from a Lady Hartley-Wells to Mrs Woodforde, expressing shock and horror that Lady Lovatt should have been given charge of a young and impressionable debutant. When Underwood realized it did indeed mention Lydia, he felt justified in reading it.

‘My Dear Henrietta,

I could scarcely believe it when you asked me if I had heard of Lady Lovatt – the notorious Lady Lovatt!  I still can’t imagine how sheltered your life must have been to have avoided all mention of her over the years.

Even though I am rarely in London these days, I have still heard the tales.  Surely you must know that her husband accepted the post of aide to the Governor of Barbados merely to get his wife away from her lover, Enrico Fernandez.  My dear, he was the gardener, no less!  And Lady ‘Love’ as she is quite accurately known, is near old enough to be his mama.  I understand there was no keeping them apart, however, and within months the black-haired bounder had found a way to follow them.  ‘Red’ Lovatt adores his wife so, he has refused to condemn her and thinks the swarthy young fellow is merely a passing fancy.  They have remained in Barbados these seven years, in their odd little ‘ménage a trois’.

I have to say she is not the woman I would have chosen to bring my daughter out, but I must admit that her breeding is impeccable.  If anyone knows how to conduct herself in the highest circles, it is Lady Lovatt.  Lydia will have been shown all that she needed to know as far as etiquette is concerned for Persephone Lovatt comes from a long line of aristocrats and her blood could not be bluer, though she has rather besmirched the escutcheon with her recent behaviour.  Still if her husband has no problem with her taking a young lover, then who are we to complain?

Perhaps there is a little part of us all that envies her?  She has, after all, only behaved as many a man has done and she has been brave enough to be open and honest about it!

There, now I know I am growing old, for once I would never have admitted such a thing!  I beg you will ensure that this letter is never shown to anyone – most especially that pompous old gossip, George Gratten - whilst I still have breath in my body.  I have a fearsome reputation to maintain, as you know, dearest Henrietta, and the least softening towards the likes of Lady Love would utterly undo me!