The ornate crests tooled on the carriage doors told her that her visitor was none other than the earl himself – Cara’s father. With a heart pounding with panic and a stomach fluttering nervously, she automatically raised her hand to smooth her hair before descending with all the dignity she could muster to meet him.
The butler had already shown him into the best drawing room and Mrs. Rogers swiftly joined them there. She nearly turned tail and ran away again when she saw the expression on his face. He did not waste time or breath on a greeting, but embarked on his tirade the moment his eye lighted upon her, “So, where is that minx of mine? She shall know the full measure of my displeasure this time, let me tell you! I only gave her leave to come here on the strict understanding that she behaved with propriety – and what do I find? She has dispensed with the services of her duenna and is gallivanting about town with some unknown fellow, who, from all accounts – and believe me, there have been plenty! – is old enough to be her father. The jackanapes had better have money or breeding or both, or I shall see to it that he is flogged for daring to raise his eyes to my daughter.”
Mrs. Rogers opened her mouth, then closed it again with an almost audible snap – how did one explain this situation to an irate papa?
“Well, well?” he demanded impatiently.
She tried again, “Sir, I must ask you not to panic, but there has been an… incident…”
His gallop was swiftly halted. For all his bluster, his adoration for his daughter was deep. Though he would not have anyone know it, her health and happiness were more precious to him than his own. The very notion that she might be in some way hurt or troubled was enough to send him into an apoplexy. One eyebrow was raised to an incredible height and his voice was deceptively quiet as he said,
“Explain yourself, madam!”
She swallowed deeply and tried to do so, “Lady Cara is missing, sir. She was unfortunately…”
“Missing?” he intercepted hastily, “She has run away? Dear God, do not tell me you have let her elope to Gretna Green with this fellow?”
She sank wearily into a chair, finding that her trembling limbs would no longer support her, “Would to God that she had… My dear sir, Barclay Conrad was in town… Cara tangled with him, not only verbally, but she also struck him…”
At the mention of the name Conrad, the blood flooded into the earl’s face and for one horrible moment Mrs. Rogers thought that he might burst a blood vessel and drop dead before her. Even his eyes bulged and reddened, “That cur! Has he dared to harm her?”
“I don’t think so… I don’t know, but she has disappeared. Underwood went to find her, and has not returned. We fear the worst…”
“Underwood? Is that not the name of the fellow who has been romancing her?”
Cara had hidden her feelings well. Mrs. Rogers had no idea of any such possibility and her genuine surprise could not be mistaken for deceit, “There must be some mistake with the name sir. An affair is out of the question. Mr. Underwood is a married man.”
The earl was a man of the world. He was only too aware that being married in no way precluded an affair. Mrs. Rogers thought he was going to burst. Had wisps of steam issued from his ears, she would not have been in the least astonished.
“Devil take him!”
“What on earth gave you the idea there was a romance?”
“Every person who attended your son’s funeral. I received a flood of letters either congratulating me on my prospective son-in-law, or warning me that Cara’s latest flirt was probably an experienced fortune-hunter. I have driven her with the hounds of hell at my heels all the way from London, with barely a stop along the way.”
“Then you must be exhausted.” The motherly side of her nature reasserted itself and she began to bustle busily about him, “Seat yourself. I shall order refreshments.”
“I don’t want anything. Don’t fuss, woman!”
She ignored him and rang the bell.
“Every able bodied man in Hanbury is out searching for them. You can do nothing but wait. It would simply be foolish for you to make yourself ill.”
He could see she was not going to be deterred, so he allowed himself to be persuaded, though how she expected him to eat and drink when his precious darling was lost in this God forsaken wilderness, he did not know. He had not quite decided whether to be relieved or furious that Underwood would appear to be with her. God grant that he at least had the instincts of a gentleman.
*
Gil returned to the vicarage very late that evening. He was more weary than he had ever been and a depression was settling on him. His mother and Alistair had been enjoined to remain at Windward House for he really felt he could not have borne an evening listening to his mother go over and over the horror of the situation, envisioning a horrid fate for her elder son. Fortunately the removal of Dr. Russell to Hanbury Manor meant that there were beds enough for all. Gil felt Alistair was infinitely better off in the company of two loving women than with a step-father who was scarcely able to contain his own grief, let alone deal with a child’s sorrow.
Mrs. Trent met him in the hall, her face full of loving concern, “I’m so sorry, Reverend. I had no choice but to let them in.”
“Let who in, Mrs. Trent?”
“The Penningtons. They have been awaiting your return for hours. I put them in the study.”
Oh, dear God! Did he not have enough to trouble him, without adding Catherine’s in-laws to the brew?
He heaved a heavy sigh, then purposefully walked down the hall and opened the door. Their eyes turned towards him, but he could not see one spark of warmth of pity towards him. Their intention to leave his house with their grandson was writ plainly upon the determined features. His own chin subconsciously lifted and his shoulders squared as though to assume a heavy burden.
“Good evening,” he said quietly, “I apologise for my tardiness. Has Mrs. Trent provided you with refreshment?”
“We require nothing, sir,” said Mr. Pennington stiffly.
“Well, I’m afraid I do. I have been out on the moors and I am chilled to the bone. You will forgive me if I take tea.”
He rang the bell and presently Mrs. Trent arrived to be given her orders. Nothing more was said until she returned bearing the tea tray, then the Penningtons watched in curious fascination as Gil went through his usual ritual of tea-making. Neither had seen such careful preparation since their grandparent’s day.
Gil mixed the different sorts from the locked caddy with seeming indifference to their observation of his every move and presently sank back in his chair to relax and drink the china dish of tea, “I presume,” he began kindly, “that you have come to see Alistair? I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, but he is presently visiting my sister-in-law and will not be home until tomorrow.”
Mrs. Pennington eyed him warily, not quite sure if he was being sincerely helpful, or merely mocking them, “We did not come here just to see Alistair, sir, but to have words with you. You must know you have no moral right to keep the boy. He should be allowed to come home with us.”
Gil gazed calmly at her over the rim of his cup, “Madam, it was never my intention to keep you from the boy, and please believe me when I say that you may visit as often as you desire, but Catherine left Alistair in my charge and that is how it will remain!”
“And what has that to say to anything? We know nothing about you. Catherine was a hot-headed, undutiful daughter …”
“I will brook no criticism of my wife, madam!” snapped Gil, with uncharacteristic vigour.
Her husband intervened, “We have no wish to speak ill of the dead, sir, so that subject will be left closed. Instead, I insist you tell us how you intend to raise the boy. You obviously know nothing of our faith, but in our care, Alistair will be placed in an excellent Catholic school …”
Gil was rarely rude to anyone, certainly not to guests under his own roof and he always deferred to age, but this was too much. His harsh comment cut across Mr.
Pennington’s tirade, “That is out of the question. Alistair’s health is far too frail to withstand the rigours of a boy’s school, certainly for the foreseeable future.”
“And how do you intend to educate him?” The tone was sarcastic, but Gil had a ready answer, “My brother and I will teach him between us. Underwood spent twenty years tutoring at Cambridge, so I think you will find nothing amiss with his methods. I myself will take care of his spiritual health.”
This momentarily wrong-footed the Penningtons, so the direction of the discussion veered off at an angle, “You have a moral duty to raise him in the faith of his father.”
“I think I have a moral duty to follow the last request of my late wife.”
Mr. Pennington grew heated in the face of Gil’s composure, “The boy was not hers to give to any stranger. He is the child of our son!”
“I imagine it was just such evidence of your belief in ‘ownership’ which prompted Catherine to leave Alistair in my care, and not in yours, sir,” said Gil coldly, taking them both by surprise, “This is a child we are discussing, not a dog or a horse. There will be no further prevarication. When Alistair has had time to grow used to his loss, I shall speak seriously to him about the future. Then he will be allowed to make his own decision as to whom he wants as his guardian. You may be sure I will abide by that choice – I trust you will do the same.”
Mr. Pennington laughed harshly, barely able to believe what he was hearing.
“You are going to let the boy dictate to you? What figure of authority do you think you will be to him? You will bear a closer resemblance to a figure of fun.”
“I can think of nothing I should like more. Alistair is a little boy who has, in the space of a few short years, lost both his parents. Do you not think that far from imposing authority upon him, it behoves us to see that he does have a little ‘fun’? God knows he’s endured enough tragedy to last a lifetime.”
This passionate entreaty meant nothing to the Penningtons, who had faced their own tragedy with a stoicism born of the belief that life was only to be lived as a preface to the eternal life to come, “It is easy to see you have no children of your own, Mr. Underwood. Boys especially need firm handling. Your way will see the child grow up wilful, dishonest and idle!”
Gil rose suddenly to his feet, “Now I have heard all I want to hear, and more! You have encroached upon my time for long enough. Alistair will be brought to visit you tomorrow, at the inn. I have nothing further to add. Good night to you both.”
With the study door held open for them to pass through, they could hardly refuse to leave, so they walked past him, heads held high. Gil could not summon the energy nor the inclination to accompany them to the front door, so he left them to show themselves out and the last sound they heard from him was the slamming of the study door behind them.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
(“Dum Vita Est Spes Est” – While there’s life, there’s hope)
A sudden sharp pain in his chest brought Underwood half-awake and he struggled to open his eyes against the weight of utter weariness. He had slept, but only fitfully, haunted by strange dreams, and even stranger aches and pains. He had found muscles he did not even know he possessed. He was stiff, but not as cold as he had been the night before. When he glanced to the side, the reason became evident. Cara was nestled against him, fast asleep. The vision made him smile slightly. She looked very pretty, her golden curls against her pink cheeks, ruddy in the dancing firelight.
It was borne upon him then that he could see her quite clearly – there was light in the cave. Immediately he was fully awake and looking about him. Three lanterns had been placed on convenient rock shelves, two more candles had been lit just above their heads, and the fire, far from sinking into embers as it should have been, was roaring and licking furiously against fresh logs.
No one else was there, but clearly there had been a visitor. It was daunting to know they had been observed whilst they had been asleep – chilling, in fact.
Cara woke as he tried to extract his arm from beneath her body. She sat up, yawning and stretching, “Hello. Do you feel better? You frightened me, I couldn’t wake you.”
“I’m so sorry. The last thing I recall was having a devil of a headache.”
“Has it gone now?”
“Not really.”
“What about your cough? You were hacking in the night – well, I suppose it was night.”
“Strangely enough, much better – though God knows why. I should be dying of pleurisy having spent the night in this place. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous – what is there?”
“Plenty. I have no wish to unnerve you, but we had a visitor whilst we were asleep.”
She shuddered, “Oh, heavens! I don’t like that notion.”
“Nor do I. I must endeavour to hold slumber at bay. I need to find out which way our friend arrives.”
He was taken with a fit of coughing and the pain in his chest sharpened and stabbed. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and Cara, watching him, realized that he had been exaggerating his recovery. Concern was etched on her face as she studied him, listening with horror to his agonising spasm. He sounded very bad and sleeping on a cold, stone floor, miles below ground with an open fire was not going to help him.
She handed him a drink of water when at last the paroxysm finally passed and asked quietly, “What are we going to do, Mr. Underwood?”
“Don’t concern yourself too greatly, my dear. This cannot go on for much longer. The man wants us here for some reason and he is sure to come out of hiding soon.”
His words proved startlingly prophetic, for at that moment a voice shouted from the shadows, booming and bouncing off the walls and roof, making it impossible to determine the precise direction from whence it came, “Good day to you, Mr. Underwood, you slept well I trust? Underground, Underwood! That’s very funny! And judging from the state of your health it won’t be long before you are underground permanently. It wasn’t the cough that carried him off, but the coffin they carried him off in!” The jeering had a cruel edge to it and Cara shivered, creeping closer to her companion. She thought he sounded insane, and that frightened her more than anything else. A sane man might be reasoned with, but a lunatic would have no compunction about torturing or killing them.
Underwood was more alarmed than he cared to show. It took a moment for him to recover his wits sufficiently to reply. Making a valiant effort to stifle any further coughing, he called back, “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Revenge, Mr. Underwood. Sweet, sweet revenge. The dish that’s best served cold. And you are cold, aren’t you?”
“Against myself, I assume?”
“Oh yes!”
“Then kindly take the young lady out of here and restore her to her friends. She can have no possible connection with myself – and whatever ill service it is you imagine I have perpetrated against you.”
“Imagine? You are a callous creature, aren’t you, Underwood? You trample your way through life, pushing aside anyone who gets in your way, not caring for the damage you do and the pain you inflict.”
Underwood, who considered himself the most caring of men, was irritated beyond measure by this cavalier description of his character – especially coming, as it did, from a man who had assaulted and terrified a pregnant woman, and abducted another, causing her a painful injury. Added to this he was tired, uncomfortable and feeling decidedly unwell. He was not about to use his words with caution, “You snivelling little coward! If you were half a man you would show yourself and have this out face to face, instead of lurking in the shadows like some medieval assassin. If you think I have done you some injustice, then fight me and cease to frighten helpless women with your games!”
“You don’t deserve a fair fight – you deserve the pain caused by my actions, as I have suffered the agony inflicted by yours! I lost my father and one of my sisters thanks to your meddling. Another is trapped in a miserable
marriage to a man not fit to wipe her boots. I’m reduced to penury, living on another man’s bounty, with a whore for a mother. Do you really think that merely smashing your face to a pulp will repay me for all that?”
Underwood racked his brains – who the devil was the man?
Suddenly, with a clarity which stunned him, Underwood knew who his adversary was and the knowledge frightened him deeply.
He was not dealing with a man, who could see things with a measure of maturity and some of the sense which the years bring; he was facing the anger of a boy, seventeen or eighteen years old and with all the selfishness that youth bestows. A spoilt, petty, cruel boy, who could only see the world from his own self-centred point of view, who only cared how things affected him, and whose early years had giving him a grounding in maiming and death on the hunting field which had effectively desensitised him to the pain and suffering of others.
He was about to call out the name, but some instinct stopped him. No, better that the boy thought him ignorant for the moment.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. I have never wreaked the chaos you describe upon anyone. I have merely done my duty. If the crimes I have exposed have rebounded upon their families and friends, then I am of course, sorry, but the sin was not mine, nor the fault, but their own!”
This was digested in silence. Underwood waited a moment, then continued, in a calmer and kinder tone, “Whoever you are, you cannot wish to hurt Lady Cara. Do not, pray, compound your error by including her in this. She has nothing whatever to do with our quarrel.”
“I won’t leave you here alone with that madman,” she whispered fiercely. He laid a hand on her arm to quieten her, “You will do as you are told, young lady!”
There was no reply. The man in the shadows was gone.
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 20