Presently he reached the large old house, which was used by the two Misses Dadd for their school – and which was the reason he had neglected this path before today. The measles epidemic had materialised as Dr. Herbert had feared, and the place was in quarantine until further notice. All was quiet so he assumed that the young ladies had either been sent home, or were confined to their beds. Gil had told him that the elderly ladies taught the daughters of respectable, but generally impecunious gentlefolk, and the clergy, hence the far-flung situation of the building. Hill Farm, the home of Hazelhurst, was their nearest neighbour – and not a particularly helpful or friendly one, if the two ladies were to be believed.
Once past the school the path began to climb steeply and Underwood found the going increasingly difficult. It was not for nothing, then, that Hazelhurst’s place was called ‘hill’ farm.
When he stopped briefly to catch his breath, Underwood glanced back and was surprised to see just how high he had climbed. Bracken Tor was laid out below him like a child’s toy village. He could see every detail, from the church and graveyard, to the trees which marked the boundary of Sir Henry’s property. He could even see the twisted chimneys of Wynter Court peeping over the top of the foliage. He was glad the morning mist had lifted, for all this would have been lost to him, for when he looked up he could scarcely make out the tops of the higher hills, mantled as they were with broken, grey clouds.
He walked on and was beginning to think he had been misdirected by his brother, for apart from the stony track beneath his feet there was no indication of any dwelling place in this inhospitable spot. Even the sheep were few and nervous, running wildly at his approach. At last a single stone gatepost, set askew, proclaimed the presence of Hill Farm up ahead.
He still had a good distance to walk, but presently he found himself in the muddy courtyard of a large, stone-built farmhouse and allowed himself the luxury of a well-earned rest upon a conveniently low stone wall. He was still puffing and blowing when he was horrified to hear a volley of vicious barking and a woman’s voice commanding the dog to be quiet and asking of him, “Are you all right?”
It was salutary for him to have to admit to himself and her that he was even more out of condition than he had previously thought. He lifted his head and managed a smile; “I shall be when I have regained by breath!”
She looked him up and down with a half smile and a look in her eye which Underwood was more used to witnessing in men when observing pretty wenches. Much to his chagrin he found himself growing red in the face.
“You do know you are trespassing, don’t you?” she asked, her hands upon her very shapely hips. Underwood could not help but let his eyes wander over her. She was that sort of a woman, born to be looked at and enjoyed, and knowing it. If she was, as he suspected, Harriet Hazelhurst, he could quite understand what Sir Henry had seen in her. From her dark hair to her slim ankles, just visible beneath the hitched up skirts, meant to avoid the worst of the mud, she was perfection. Not his type, of course, but as a scholar, he told himself, he had the capability of admiring loveliness where it might be found, and understanding its allure to other men.
He did not answer her question, but asked one of his own, “Are you Miss Hazelhurst?”
“I am. And who might you be?”
“My name is Underwood.”
Evidently she had caught his admiring glance for she said with disgust, “Good God, not the vicar!”
“His brother,” he told her swiftly. She shrugged indifferently, “Not much better! What do you want with us?”
“I don’t want anything at all,” he assured her, “I just happened to be out walking and growing rather tired, as you saw for yourself, I hoped to beg for a drink of water.”
She gave him that same half crooked smile he had noticed before – one which clearly said, “I don’t believe a word you say.”
‘“Just happened’?” she mimicked unkindly, “My dear sir, no one ‘just happens’ within five miles of Hill Farm. It is the God-forsaken end of the earth! If you have taken the trouble to walk up here, you must have a damn good reason.”
He spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders, the picture of innocence,
“I’m prepared to admit that I had not realized the road led only to here, but I promise you, there was no other motive.”
She hesitated, swayed by his candour, but only for a moment, then with pure venom she spat, “Are you sure you have not listened to village gossip and come up here to try your luck with me? Oh, I know what they say about me, and I don’t give a damn!” The fact that she felt the need to voice this remark told Underwood that she did care, very much indeed, what was said about her, but he felt it safer to keep that opinion to himself.
“Miss Hazelhurst, you may believe me or not, as you wish, but I am very happily betrothed to Miss Charlotte Wynter, and I am not the sort of man who seeks adventures of the kind you are suggesting. No other woman holds any interest for me whatsoever. Now, do you think I might be granted that drink of water?”
The mention of the name Wynter, as he had supposed it would, appeared to shock her and it was several seconds before she recovered sufficiently to speak again,
“You had better come indoors. I’m about to make tea for my brother, and I’ll not have it said I was ever unmannerly to a visitor, albeit an uninvited one.”
He followed her across the yard, warily watching the dog, a great ugly brindled thing, a breed which Underwood did not recognise, but it appeared to have lost interest in him the moment its mistress spoke to him and it lumbered off behind an untidy outbuilding. She led him into the house, kicking off her pattens as she reached the door and he likewise scrubbed his boots on a piece of sacking, evidently placed there for the purpose. He found himself in the kitchen, not so very different from the cottages down below in the village, except somewhat larger. The floor was stone slabbed, the fireplace equipped with hooks and spits for cooking and before it stood two wooden settles, high-backed and uncomfortable, but the only seats the room offered. Down the centre of the room was a vast wooden table, clean-scrubbed and worn with years of use. To one side of the fire was a basket which contained a greyhound bitch, happily suckling several puppies, which looked to have a common ancestry with the beast outside.
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 Underwoo
d 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.
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 23