Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  ‘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!

  I trust I have answered your question satisfactorily,

  Your ever loving friend,

  Serena Hartley-Wells’

  Underwood smiled to himself at the thought of the long-widowed Lady Hartley-Wells envying the naughty Lady Love and her Spanish paramour. The lady was human after all – and her distrust of George Gratten was entirely understandable – he was a man who enjoyed the discomfiture of others when they had shown less than cringing respect for his position. Underwood had a fondness for the Constable, for despite his many faults, he had a fierce determination to see the law upheld and his loyalty was unswerving to those he considered his supporters in his role.

  As to his opinion of the woman who was calling herself Lydia Woodforde – well, to his annoyance he still could not quite draw a final conclusion. In this instance, only time would tell.

  *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Miles Gloriosus” – A Boastful Soldier

  For the second morning in a sennight Underwood found himself accosted in his own hallway by a visitor. He decided there and then to vary his routine – it was becoming all too obvious that every one of his acquaintance was aware that they would not only find him at home, but that he would also be trapped into hospitality by his need to break his fast if they called on him before ten in the morning.

  This time it was Jeremy James Thornycroft whom he discovered being aided over the doorstep by Toby, who was one of the few in the household who was strong enough to tussle with the wheeled chair which the legless Waterloo veteran was forced to use.

  Jeremy James tended not to visit Underwood at home because it was such a performance getting to Windward House, which stood a mile or so outside Hanbury, so that Underwood could have the isolation he sometimes craved, but near enough to feed his hunger for civilisation when he was feeling sociable.

  It seemed the Major had accomplished this journey, not, as Underwood feared, by making his young wife push him over a mile down the rutted lane, but he had hired a carrier’s cart, which could transport the chair as well as the man.

  Toby had already sent the carter around to the back door, where he would be entertained in the kitchen until Jeremy was ready to take his leave.

  Underwood, who was still ragged at the edges from his enforced child care of the day before, would have very much preferred to have told his friend to take himself off until a more respectable hour, but was compelled to be polite, knowing the effort it had taken to reach the house. With a repressed sigh he swept his hand before him, indicating that Jeremy should precede him into the dining room and his rapidly cooling repast.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, once he and his guest were served with coffee and he beheld a plateful of tempting breakfast delicacies such as devilled kidney and coddled eggs.

  “I need you to undertake a mission for me, Underwood,” said the Major, helping himself to bread and honey, though he had already eaten at home in Hanbury two hours earlier. Unlike Underwood he had never been able to shake off the habit of early rising.

  “Another one?” murmured Underwood thoughtlessly.

  Jeremy raised his brows, “What do you mean, ‘another one’? I’ve never asked you before.”

  “No, you have not,” Underwood sounded surprised, but in reality he was cursing his clumsiness in mentioning anything of the kind. It seemed he was incapable of keeping Mrs Woodforde’s secret for anything above twenty four hours, “I do beg your pardon, I must be thinking of someone else,” he added smoothly, trusting that his famed absent-mindedness would account for the slip and he would not be questioned further.

  “Who?” asked Jeremy James, who was nothing if not direct and as sharp as a tack.

  “Shouldn’t that be ‘whom’?” enquired Underwood, neatly evading the question by exasperating the old soldier with irrelevancies.

  “Never mind the lecture on grammar, Underwood,” he said briskly, “We all know of your superior intellect – I want to know if you are going to lend your famed intelligence to aid me!”

  “Certainly, if I knew what it is you want me to do,” said Underwood mildly, rather pleased that he had curtailed a dangerous line of enquiry.

  “Then allow me to elucidate,” said Jeremy, who couldn’t resist reminding Underwood that he was not a complete dunce, “I have an old friend ...”

  “Just the one?” asked Underwood, hiding a
smile.

  “Very droll,” said the Major with a grimace, “Can we stick to the point?”

  Underwood filled his mouth with egg, just to show that he intended to interrupt no more and was all attention.

  “As I was saying, before your wit got the better of you, I have an old friend – no, he is more than a friend! I will admit to you, Underwood, as I would to no one else alive, I owe the man my life. It was he who dragged me from under the dead horse which had fallen on my legs – they were already mangled beyond saving by the explosion which had killed the horse, but trapped as I was, I would have died of blood loss within minutes if he hadn’t pulled me free and fixed tourniquets.”

  Underwood made no comment, but his mind raced. This was an important moment in his relationship with Thornycroft, who rarely, if ever, spoke of his battle experiences, and certainly he never told anyone the true story of how he lost his legs – though he had several very colourful yarns which could not possibly be true, including Napoleon himself slashing him with a sabre.

  Jeremy noted Underwood’s silence and was grateful for it. His bitterness at the loss of his limbs meant that he never admitted weakness of any kind. He had even designed and had made a special saddle so that he could ride a horse, though it tired him beyond measure as he needed all the strength left in his thighs and his upper body to keep him mounted. To tell Underwood now the real story of how he had relied upon another man to save him was galling, but his friend needed to know how important Rutherford Petch had been, and still was, to him.

  “Rutherford Petch is a hero in the truest sense of the word, Underwood. He never alluded to his actions again and refused to listen when I tried to thank him. He insisted he was just doing what any other soldier would do – but I know he went beyond that, far beyond. He risked his life to save mine. This was still the heat of the battle and he could have been forgiven for keeping his head down and charging away, but he didn’t. He dismounted, calmed a panicking horse, secured the reins by tying them around his thigh and saw to me before yelling to two infantrymen to drop their rifles and help him to drag me up and throw me over the saddle on my belly. He yelled in my ear that he’d have me court-martialled if I dared to fall unconscious and that I was to hold on for dear life. I didn’t need telling twice, though how I held on I’ll never know. It’s astounding what you can do when your life depends on it. But I know that if his horse had taken off, he would have been dragged across a battlefield with his head bouncing on the ground like an inflated pig’s bladder. He directed the horse back towards the lines and slapped its rump, frightening it into haring back, carrying me to safety and leaving himself exposed and without a mount. I still don’t know to this day how he survived. Like me he had a dozen different versions of the truth, but I understand from others that he had to stop another galloping, riderless horse, stricken with terror and ready to kill, with flailing hooves, any man that approached it. Oddly enough, we were not even particular friends before the incident, good companions, who trained together and took our ease in the same places, occasionally played cards with each other, but nothing more. Of course, to me, and I believe to him, we were closer than brothers afterwards.”

  “I can imagine,” said Underwood softly, “Is he in some kind of trouble now?”

  “More trouble than you can conceive of,” said the Major morosely, “You’ll know by now that Adeline is determined to celebrate my fortieth birthday with a huge party?”

  Underwood was aware of, and dreading, the event, so he merely nodded.

  “She wrote to invite him to attend, not unnaturally, since it is due to him that I’m here to see my fortieth year.”

  “You received no word from him?” hazarded Underwood, “And you wish me to find him for you?”

  “On the contrary, we had a reply and know exactly where he is,” said Jeremy, “That’s the problem.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” said Underwood, mildly irritated, “Where do I come in to all this?”

  “The missive came from his younger, and only, sister. She confided that Petch had been accused of stealing a valuable diamond necklace from their Great Aunt, was found guilty and transported, and now resides in Australia, where he is fully expected to remain for at least fourteen years – that’s if he survives that long.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Underwood, astounded at this twist in the tale, as tragic as it was unexpected, “Either you were vastly mistaken in him, my friend, or there has been a terrible miscarriage of justice.”

  For the first time Jeremy James smiled, relieved that Underwood had seen to the root of the problem without his having to employ his most persuasive tactics, “I’m not mistaken, Underwood. Petch is the best man in the world. He would no more steal than cut off his own hand. I need you to prove his innocence and gain a reprieve for him. Are you with me?”

  Underwood needed no second bidding. His fondness for Jeremy James was strong but his sympathy for a man so shabbily repaid for service to his country and his fellow man called out to a sense of what was right within him which he could not ignore.

  “I’m with you, my friend. Give me the address of young Miss Petch and leave the rest to me. If Rutherford is an innocent man then we’ll just have to find a way to prove it.”

  The Major thrust out his hand to shake Underwood’s, “I knew I could rely on you. But will Verity approve? Adeline will flay me alive if I upset her dearest friend.”

  “You may safely leave Verity to me. She has as strong a belief in justice as I have myself. She will not see an innocent man suffer.”

  As he released his friend’s hand, Underwood looked at his palm with distaste, “Really, Thornycroft, honey and butter! I swear Horatia is a more mannerly eater than you are.”

  “Sorry, old fellow,” grinned the Major, able now to laugh again, secure in the knowledge that Underwood was on the case and would not rest until Rutherford Petch was on a ship bound for England.

  *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Odi Profanum Vulgus et Arceo” – I stand aloof from the common herd

  To Underwood’s surprise, Verity was rather less understanding that he had assumed she would be when he informed her of his proposed visit to see Miss Cressida Petch in West Wimpleford in the County of Shropshire.

  “Oh, Underwood, you do make me cross sometimes!” she said testily, amply demonstrating her annoyance by the use of his surname, which she only used when speaking of him to others, or when he had particularly irritated her. She knew he actively disliked his Christian name of Cadmus, so she never used it in company, though personally she thought it rather charming and failed to understand his aversion. He was not much fonder of Horatio, which begged the question as to why he had inflicted it on his daughter – but apparently he did like the female form of the name, or so he claimed. Verity suspected he had just wished his daughter to carry at least one of his names – for if she ever married, or course the Underwood would be gone forever.

  “I?” he asked incredulously, “What have I done, pray? One of our dearest friends has requested my aid in a matter which means a great deal to him and I have acquiesced – how can that possibly discommode you, my dear Verity?”

  She waved her hand imperiously, dismissing his excuses as she would swat away a noisome fly, “Naturally I’m not angry that you have offered to help Jeremy James – I would expect nothing less. I am, however, put out by the timing of it. Lydia Woodforde is due to arrive in Hanbury any day now and you had pledged your attention first to Lady Hartley-Wells. Now you arrange to leave town just when I need you on hand to help me with the wretched girl.”

  “Oh!” the disappointment in his tone made his wife look askance at him.

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh’?” she asked suspiciously. So well attuned was she to her husband’s moods that she detected at once an unspoken request – or more likely – demand upon her.

  “Well, I rather imagined you would be coming with me,” he ventured, a hint to wheedling in his voice, “You know h
ow I detest solitary travel.”

  “Really, Cadmus, you are, on occasion, the most exasperating creature alive. How can I possibly leave town just now? And what exactly do you propose I do with the children? They are far too young to be dragged half way across the country on the off-chance that some unknown woman will agree to be interviewed by you about the humiliating fact that her brother has been transported to Australia for theft!”

  Underwood looked thoughtful, “Put that way, I can see the difficulty,” he acceded eventually, “however I beg you will calm yourself, my love. On reflection I shall go alone. I would dare to speculate that you have no immediate need of my presence, you know. In fact, I rather think my absence could very well be a good thing.”

  “And how do you expect to justify that assertion?” she demanded, still brusque, but slowly, imperceptibly, becoming accustomed to the notion that Underwood always did exactly as he wished, no matter what her opinion, so she might just as well preserve her dignity and energy.

  “You are so very sweet and accommodating, my love, that it will give the young lady time to get used to being in the company of Mrs Woodforde and her friends. She will lower her guard if she thinks she is under no obligation to answer awkward questions or feels that she is not being held in suspicion. By the time I arrive home – and I think I shall only be gone for a few days after all, or so I trust! – she will be lulled into making silly mistakes – if, indeed, she is an imposter. I think you must agree that would save us all a great deal of time and trouble.”