A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

“That’s all right, Abney.  I’m sorry to have disturbed your lunch.  Can you take care of Merryman for me?  I’m going to walk Mr. Underwood back to the vicarage.”

“Mr. Underwood?  Would you be the vicar’s brother, sir?”  Abney spoke directly to Charlotte’s companion, who had been looking vaguely about him, and took him rather by surprise, “What?  Er, yes, yes.  How do you do?”  Underwood extended his hand and Abney shook it warmly, after having wiped his own hand swiftly on his breeches,

“Fair to middling, sir, thank you.  I’m very pleased to meet you.  We are all very taken with your brother, sir.  He’s a very pleasant man, very pleasant indeed.”

“One of the best,” agreed Mr. Underwood, with a smile.  Abney delayed them no longer, with a cheery  “Good day” he took Merryman’s bridle from his young mistress and led the horse into the dark interior of one of the stables.

Charlotte turned to her still reluctant companion; “Will you come indoors and take some tea?”

“No, thank you.  A glass of water will suffice,” he said, “And I’ll drink it here before going on my way.”

“Very well.  I shall change out of my boots too, if I may, they were not meant for walking far.”  She crossed the courtyard and approached what appeared to be the kitchen door.  She disappeared inside and left him to look about.  The sun’s rays seemed to be drawn into the walled-in square, making it unbearably hot and almost blindingly bright.  Underwood felt he could gladly drink a gallon of water, not merely the glass for which he had asked.  Swallows – or were they swifts?  He knew not which, and cared even less – flew above his head and the tantalizing scents of cooking food began to drift across the courtyard towards him.

Charlotte returned bearing two rather overfull glasses, which slopped over as she walked, “When we’ve drunk our water, I’ll show you the short cut to the village.  Along the drive and up to the main road is such a dull walk.  It’s much prettier going through the woods.  There may still be a few bluebells.”

“The woods?”  Mr. Underwood was immediately on the defensive, lowering his glass from his lips and almost choking, “I hate to sound rude, but I have no desire to meet your father again.”

Charlotte laughed, “Don’t worry, you won’t.  He’s up at Higher Fold.  We are going by the lower path, through Shady Copse and over the stile.”  With that Mr. Underwood had to be satisfied.  He handed her his empty glass and she placed it beside her own on a convenient window ledge.

It was with great relief that he realized they were indeed entering the woods at a very different spot than that where they had had their last sighting of Sir Henry and he began to feel rather less tense.

“Abney was quite right when he spoke so well of your brother, Mr. Underwood.  We have all grown very fond of him.”  Charlotte spoke so warmly that it occurred to Mr. Underwood that his brother might well have an admirer.  He glanced keenly at his young companion, wondering how old she was and if she were quite vicar’s wife material.  He noted that she was quite tall for a woman, standing above his own shoulder, and very elegant in her movements.  He could not quite envision her in the setting of the draughty old parsonage, contending with the uncomfortable old furniture and his brother’s curious preoccupation with properly brewed tea.

“I’m glad he has drawn so favourable a picture, Miss Wynter.  He is, as I said, the best of men.”

“Are you the older, or is he?” she asked ingenuously, displaying not only her curiosity, but betraying, for the first time that day, her youth.  A woman of the world would never have couched the question in such bald terms.  Mr. Underwood smiled, delighted to feel himself regaining a little of his lost composure, “I – but only by a bare three years.  Are you the eldest in your family – which I understand is a sizeable one?”

“Oh no.  I fall in the middle.  I have four older sisters, one younger and youngest of all my brother, named Harry, after my father.”

“Are there many years between you all?”

“No, we arrived with monotonous regularity, one a year.”

“Your older sisters, are any of them married?”

“Maria, the eldest, she married last spring when she was just twenty.  My second sister Jane is supposed to be getting engaged, but my father keeps delaying the celebrations, and it is my belief that he wants to keep her permanently at home, for she acts as his housekeeper and hostess.”

Underwood was not much interested in the sister he had not yet met, but he was vaguely amused to have neatly learned her age without her knowledge.  Gad!  She was only seventeen.  He had thought her older.  It seemed aeons ago that he had been seventeen, but it was old enough to be married – and Gil was three years younger than himself.

“Oh look, there are some bluebells!  How pretty they are.  I do love bluebells, don’t you?”

Underwood was non-committal since he had never given the matter much thought.  He was not really an outdoor-loving man, preferring his books to wet grass and muddy boots.  Charlotte did not notice his lack of enthusiasm, and without further preamble she stepped off the path and picked her way past the tearing brambles, the unfurling ferns and the deep scattering of last year’s leaves.

Before Underwood could see what was happening there was a loud report and Charlotte was falling to the ground.  For one horrified moment he thought she had been shot and he hurried to her side.  Even as he reached her she was endeavouring to rise and he was flooded with relief, “What happened?  Are you hurt?”

She looked stunned, “I don’t know, something caught my skirt and dragged me down, and there was that horrible noise.  My ankle hurts.”

Underwood shifted aside the long train of her velvet riding habit and discovered the cause of the noise and her fall.

“Oh, dear God!  A man trap!”  She had been exceptionally lucky.  It appeared that here too the gale had done its work well.  A fairly thick section of dead branch had either been kicked by her, or dragged by her heavy skirts into the middle of the trap and its weight had tripped the mechanism and as it had snapped shut the material had clogged it and successfully protected her from the worst of its strength.  It had merely grazed her ankle, tearing the knitted silk stocking and closing upon the edge of her leather shoe.  Even as he watched blood began to seep into the livid gouges left by the teeth of the trap in her white skin.

“A trap?”  He could barely hear her, so low was her voice, “Oh no!  I’m not caught in it, am I?”

He glanced up at her face and saw that she was white and frightened.  He smiled reassuringly, “No, no.  Only your dress.  Your ankle is a little cut, but it is nothing too serious.  I’m afraid I’ll have to tear your dress to get you out.”

She swallowed deeply and closed her eyes, “Do it then, and be quick!  I want to go home.”

It surprised him to feel the sudden surge of sympathy for her.  She looked so young and vulnerable.  He took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

He searched his pockets, hoping that he had his penknife with him, for velvet would be the very devil to try and tear.  Fortunately he found it and he lost no time in slashing away the piece of cloth held in the cruel grip of the trap.  The vicious teeth sent a shiver down his spine.  Had she actually fallen into the trap, her leg would probably have been severed.  Her father must be the most inhuman creature alive to have set these things about his grounds.  Perhaps his daughter’s lucky escape would serve as a warning to him.

“I’m going to have to remove your shoe.”  She merely nodded, then winced as his fingers quested for the fastenings.  Moments later she was free and he was able to wrap her injured foot in his handkerchief.

“Wait here, whilst I run back to the house for help.”

He was astounded by the reaction this simple instruction provoked.  She shot upright from her reclining position and gripped his arm in a panic, “Don’t dare to leave me here alone!”

“Why on earth not?  I won’t be long and you are still on your father’s land.  What could possibly happen to you?”

Aware of his bemusement she seemed reluctant to voice her fears, and when she did it was in a shamed undertone, “I’m afraid of being left alone.  There was a murder here.”

He grinned, though not unkindly, “Afraid of ghosts?  There’s more to fear from that monster you were riding earlier, than long dead victims of ancient crimes.”

  “I’m not afraid of ghosts!” she retorted testily, “And it wasn’t an ancient crime.  It only happened last year and they never found the culprit.”

Mr. Underwood was rather taken-aback, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place to pursue the matter, “Very well, put your arm around my neck.”

“Why?”  she asked suspiciously, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to carry you.”

She managed a small laugh despite the feeling of shock she still sustained, “You couldn’t!”

Without further ado, and without the aid of the requested arm about him, he swept her up into his arms, and was pleased to notice that a blush crept into her cheeks.  Embarrassment was not going to be entirely confined to him this day then!

*

CHAPTER FIVE

(“Necessitas Non Habet Legem” - Necessity knows no law)

For all his bravado Mr. Underwood was staggering slightly by the time they came within sight of the house, and his breathing was rather heavier than it had been before.  Miss Wynter was no light weight and was apparently too shy to even put her hand on his shoulder and thus give him some small aid in supporting her.

Charlotte had used the intervening time to covertly peruse his face, and she was not displeased by what she saw.  He was somewhat older than she had first imagined, being rather nearer to forty than thirty, but his blond hair was undimmed by silver, and the creases in the skin around his eyes and brow gave him a sad and abstracted air that quite enchanted her.  She uncharacteristically found herself wondering what troubles life had served him to give him that air of quiet melancholy.  She was not much inclined towards considering the feelings of others and told herself that such thoughts were a distraction, taking her mind away from the throbbing pain in her leg and the utter mortification of being clasped against the chest of a man she had met only an hour before.  She might also have done well to plan exactly what excuse she was going to offer her father when he discovered that she had disobeyed his strictures in leaving the house in the company of a man without Miss Chapell or a groom to chaperone her.  Sir Henry had asked her to direct Underwood off the estate, not accompany him to the vicarage.  The magistrate guarded his daughters as only a man who had misbehaved appallingly himself could do.

Mr. Underwood was aware, even if she was not, that reaching the house had become of prime importance.  He could see that beneath the ragged hem of her torn dress, the once white handkerchief was now completely red, and they were leaving a clearly discernible trail of blood behind them as they travelled.  Evidently the wound was much deeper than he had first assumed.

Their arrival must have been observed from one of the windows, for as they crossed the lawns, a host of people swept down the terrace steps to meet them.

Questions and answers flew, amidst cries of dismay and anxious comments, but nothing very constructive was done until Isobel quietly remarked, “Charlotte is bleeding all over the steps!”  Whereupon the cries turned to full-blooded shrieks and Mr. Underwood was rushed up the steps and into the house, where at last he was able to lay his burden upon a convenient sofa and ask quietly how she did.

“I’m happy to be home.  Thank you, Mr. Underwood.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, I assure you.  I’m only sorry a very pleasant outing had to end so uncomfortably for you.”  She noted that when he smiled thus he suddenly looked young – almost boyish, in fact – and that his teeth were white and straight except for one engagingly crooked eye-tooth.

“You’ve been very kind,” she told him, rather breathlessly, never suspecting for a moment that his words were merely polite platitudes – Underwood was nothing if not meticulously civil.

As he brought himself upright, he was approached by a dark-haired young woman, considerably smaller than Charlotte in height, though apparently a little older, dressed in unrelieved black but for a white lace collar at the throat, “If you would like to follow me, sir, I’ll have some refreshment brought to you.”

“Our governess, Miss Chapell, Mr. Underwood,” said Charlotte, impatiently pushing away an offer of
sal volatile
from one of her sisters.  Miss Chapell was charmed to be offered his hand and shook it with a tiny smile.  So many people considered the governess to be little more than a glorified servant and treated them as such.  It made a very pleasant change to be greeted as an equal.

Underwood bade farewell to his erstwhile guide and voiced a wish that her recovery be speedy and complete then he turned and accompanied Miss Chapell from the room.  His departure was unremarked by all but Charlotte, who was already growing weary of the fuss her siblings were making, and longed for the doctor to come so that she could be rid of them all.

Meanwhile Miss Chapell showed Mr. Underwood to a small, but richly decorated withdrawing room, where he found a tray already laid upon the table.

“Would you like some tea, sir?”

“Please.  Perhaps you would care to join me?”  Miss Chapell smiled again, “I should be delighted, thank you.”

As she poured the tea with one hand, she lifted a silver dish cover with the other hand and offered him the sandwiches which lay beneath.  By this time poor Mr. Underwood was ravenous, due not only to the lateness of the hour, but also the unaccustomed exercise and he had no compunction at all in accepting the hospitality of the still-absent Sir Henry.

“Is what I hear true, that you are the vicar’s brother?” she asked, as she handed him a cup and saucer.

“Is there anyone in this village who has not heard that I am the vicar’s brother?”  There was the slightest edge to his voice which did not go unnoticed by Miss Chapell.  The tiny giggle, hastily stifled, which she gave did not quite match the severe aspect her plain garb tried to portray, “I’m so sorry.  We must seem to be unforgivably impertinent, but you should understand that we are so very cut off here, very little happens and any visitor is of prodigious interest to us all.  I’m afraid news of your arrival was all around the village within hours.”

“The hope of remaining anonymous is rather remote, then?”

“I should say so.”

“Since you know so much about me, may I be allowed to know a little of you?  We should be kindred spirits, since I too earn my living by trying to din a little learning into reluctant youth.”

“I hardly think we can compare your career at Cambridge with mine, here, but it was kind of you to put it that way.”

“I am impressed by the speed and accuracy of the news-gatherers. How on earth did you know it was Cambridge?  And I must disagree, there is little difference between our respective careers.  It is simply a question of degree.  I am driven to despair more frequently and completely than you because I have more and older charges.  Essentially it is the same.”

“You are a very unusual man, Mr. Underwood,” she said and she meant it.

“I?”  He hesitated with his cup midway to his lips, as though stunned, “Not at all.  The most extraordinary thing about me is my complete and utter ordinariness. You’ve simply had the misfortune to meet me on a most unusual day.”

A knock sounded on the door, which then opened and a white-capped head appeared around the edge of it, “The carriage is here for Mr. Underwood, Miss Chapell.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

With the utmost alacrity and efficiency, Mr. Underwood found himself being ushered out of the house and into the waiting vehicle.  He barely had time to shake Miss Chapell’s hand and express a hope that they meet again, before being bowled off down the drive at a spanking trot, passing, he noticed, another vehicle going the opposite way and containing, he assumed, the doctor.  He was given the distinct impression that he was wanted off the estate with all possible dispatch – and he was not wrong.  The family thought he would be much safer away before the return of the master.

His anxious brother, who had been sent a garbled message via a very young and breathless groom to explain the whereabouts of his missing sibling, was hovering worriedly at the gate of the parsonage, not quite sure what injuries to expect when Underwood descended from the carriage.

He was caught between extremes of emotion when his brother finally made his appearance, for it was obvious he was unharmed, but then he was travelling in one of Sir Henry’s vehicles – and he was not a man much given to generous gestures, as the Rev Mr. Underwood was only too aware.  Relief therefore fought with irritation and curiosity and Gil was rendered speechless, being unable to decide which emotion should be given free rein first.

The voluble Abney took care of any awkward silence that might have ensued, “Good afternoon, Reverend.  Here he is, safe and sound!  I hope you haven’t had too worrying a time?”

Gil smiled weakly, “Not at all, Abney, thank you for bringing my brother home.”

“No trouble at all, sir.  There’s not the least little thing to concern you.  Miss Charlotte will be as right as rain in no time.”

“Miss Charlotte?”  There was a distinct hint of annoyance in the vicar’s voice, which his brother recognized, even if Abney did not; “What has happened to Miss Wynter?”

Underwood hastily intervened, “Come indoors, Gil, and I shall tell you the whole story.”              Bidding the grinning Abney farewell, Mr. Underwood slipped his hand under his brother’s elbow and quietly led him through the old oak door.

They had barely entered the parlour before the vicar found himself exclaiming,

“What on earth have you been doing now?”

“Now?”  Mr. Underwood had had an extremely trying day.  He was hot, tired, and still hungry.  The implied criticism in Gil’s tone was rather more than he could take,

“What do you mean by
now
?  You make it sound as though I do little else but fall into scrape after scrape…”

The vicar was on edge himself.  He had been told a confusing and confused story, which somehow involved his brother and a sprung trap.  He was not inclined to take care with his words when he answered, “Is that not precisely what you do?  You seem to be entirely incapable of minding your own business!”

“And what exactly did you expect me to do with the wretched girl?  Leave her lying among the bluebells?”

“Bluebells…” Gil’s mouth dropped open and the word was a strangled gasp, “lying?  Dear Lord, what
have
you been doing?”

Mr. Underwood gave his brother a very severe look, “Evidently not what you are imagining!  I hope you know me to be a gentleman.  Pull yourself together, Gil!    Kindly remember I was brought home in her father’s carriage.”

The vicar drew his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow as he sank into the nearest chair, “Perhaps you should just tell me everything – from the beginning.”

“A very sound idea.”

*

Since the afternoon was still not very far advanced and the vicar felt a curious need to keep his brother firmly under his eye, he suggested that perhaps a tour of the church would be of interest?

Though Underwood did not share Gil’s deep devotion to all matters religious, he was nevertheless immensely intrigued by the thought of the older sections of the little church and he readily agreed to this plan – or at least he raised no objection, which amounted to the same thing in his opinion.  He was unaware that he had rather hurt his brother’s feelings by his seemingly lukewarm attitude.

Somewhat heartlessly he noticed nothing amiss, and if he thought the vicar was a little quiet, he imagined it merely a remnant of the morning’s mood of worry.

The Rev. Underwood was very proud of his church and Underwood’s enthusiasm for the architecture, the stained glass, the rood screen and the enclosed pews, eventually worked upon his injured vanity and very soon there might never have been any awkwardness between them.  Parts of the building were indeed very old, and Underwood’s interest was genuine.  It was a minor miracle that many of its beauties had survived the more turbulent years of England’s history and it was only the remoteness of the village that had saved it.  Being completely cut off from the outside world every winter was a fact of life for those who lived there for it was by no means unusual to have snow as early as October and as late as May.  Having been told these things, Underwood could only shudder delicately and express a hope that the weather would not suddenly turn inclement during his stay.  He was reassured by the vicar’s affirmation that he had heard there had never, in living memory, been a warmer May than the one they were now experiencing.

Returning to the vicarage across the churchyard well over an hour later, Gil was tempted off the path by the sight of a couple of fallen branches.  Underwood obligingly followed his brother intending to help him shift the debris, but his attention was caught by a small, unkempt grave, almost hidden beneath the shadow of the drystone wall.  That he noticed it at all was somewhat surprising, for Gil had been hurrying him past the graves, under the mistaken impression that the very sight of these stark reminders of death would plunge his brother into renewed depression.  Mr. Underwood was blissfully unaware that he had planted this notion in his sibling’s mind with his strongly spoken wish the previous evening not to have a room which overlooked the graveyard.  He had simply not wanted his first view in the morning and his last at night to be the windswept desolation of a country churchyard.  There was nothing more sinister to it than that, but the vicar was ever cognisant of a painful past event which had devastated his brother.

He therefore silently berated himself for having been foolish enough to linger and tidy the churchyard, and tried to hurry Underwood on when he hesitated over the lonely little mound, with its poignant, one word epitaph, almost obliterated by long grasses and tussocky weeds.

Underwood’s eye had been drawn to it as he passed because it was so uncared for and overgrown.  In such a small community, family graves were used over and over again, and there were very few residents who did not have at least one remembered relative whose remains had been gently laid to rest within the grey walls.  It seemed to Mr. Underwood that almost every other grave was tended but this one.