Underwood had no objection to this plan, but it still all seemed excessively secretive. Surely the two women could speak freely in their own home? He said as much and while Miss Fettiplace shook her head violently, Miss Petch merely looked uncomfortable, “I’m sure things have not come to such a pass as Matty is intimating, Mr Underwood.”
There was the sound of a carriage drawing up outside the window, which looked out onto front drive and Miss Fettiplace threw a triumphant glance in the direction of her charge.
“That will be Mr Luckhurst, or his lawyer, you may be sure,” she said, in a normal tone, much to Underwood’s relief. The whispering was beginning to grate on his nerves. “One of those turncoats downstairs will have sent the footman to fetch him the very moment Mr Underwood arrived,” she added bitterly.
The noises from the hall denoted an arrival and voices came to Underwood through the closed door, “Don’t worry, Brimblecombe, I shall see myself in, I know the way!” The sarcasm aimed at the servant was obvious and Underwood guessed that the old man had tried to prevent the newcomer from disturbing Miss Petch and her guest. It would appear that he, at least, was not one of the “downstairs turncoats”.
The door opened with rather more alacrity than was strictly necessary and Underwood wondered if the interloper had hoped to catch part of their conversation – if so he was sadly disappointed. They all sat in silence as he walked into the room, looking askance at him.
Manners forced Underwood to his feet, but one look at the man who had barged into the room made him regret the necessity of being courteous. Corpulent and red faced, Mr Luckhurst, for it was indeed he, had an arrogant air which was obvious before he even opened his mouth, which all too soon he did.
“A visitor, Cressida? Pray introduce me, then you might explain why, against my explicit instructions, you have disturbed our Aunt’s peace?”
Miss Petch blanched as she stuttered over her words, “Ormund, this is Mr Underwood, an old friend of Major Thornycroft, and I do assure you most sincerely, that Great Aunt Jemima has no notion that there is anyone in the house.”
“But, my dear Coz, it is her house. Do you not see how rude it is of you to invite strangers under a roof which you occupy solely on the goodwill of your relations?”
Colour flooded the previously pale cheeks, “I had not thought of that, Ormund, I do apologise.”
Underwood saw it was the moment for him to intervene, “Pray do not blame Miss Petch for my bad manners, sir. I called to pay my respects, but I see that I should have made an appointment and not turned up uninvited. I am, however, about to take my leave which I shall do forthwith, and with deepest apologies.”
Luckhurst turned unfriendly pale blue eyes upon him for the first time since entering the room, “I do not understand why you should have called in the first place, sir. The names of Underwood and Thornycroft mean nothing to me. What is your connexion with my cousin?”
“The major and I were comrades of Rutherford Petch. I called in the hope of seeing an old friend, but have just been informed by Miss Petch of the sad circumstances of his absence. I can only apologise again and take my leave.”
The red in his cheeks spread to the rest of Luckhurst’s face and neck and for a moment Underwood thought he might have a seizure, “That man’s name is not to be mentioned in this house, sir. I’ll thank you to take yourself off at once and since you now know that he no longer resides here, you can quit town forthwith and return to from wherever you came!”
Underwood simply looked at the man, his own grey eyes cold and contemptuous.
Luckhurst’s glare wavered under the unremitting gaze and he realised that he had gone too far. His bluster faded and he muttered, “Good day, to you sir. I’m sorry you have had a wasted journey.”
Underwood turned to the two ladies, bowed low and kissed both their hands as though they had been duchesses, “The pleasure has been entirely mine, ladies. Goodbye.”
With that he walked past Luckhurst without acknowledgement and was gone.
*
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Quidquid Agas Prudenter Agas” – Whatever you do, do with caution
The day before Lydia Woodforde’s planned arrival in Hanbury, the ladies were called to a meeting in the Pump Rooms by Lady Hartley-Wells, with the intention of discussing how they were going to deal with the unprecedented event – a situation which promised to be awkward to say the very least.
Verity, the daughter of a vicar, had been raised to believe herself to be born to be of service to all and was ever aware of the convenience of others and was therefore never late for any appointment, and so found herself to be the first arrival and was able to take a few moments to enjoy the spectacle of Hanbury Spa Pump rooms. And they were well worth a look. The architect and builder had envisioned Hanbury as the Northern rival to Bath and Harrogate and had designed most of the main buildings in the town accordingly. No expense had been spared in making everything as sumptuous as possible. Resplendent in marble and mahogany, the Pump-room itself was a triumph of the town-planners. Several dolphin-fashioned fountains spewed forth the clear, cold hill water into marble basins and those who wished, and were able to afford the charges, could help themselves to the magical cure-all. There were brass cups on chains provided for the purpose, but many of the richer visitors brought their own silver or crystal cups. Mahogany benches lined the walls, or made little round islands in the centre of the marble-tiled floors. Palm trees strained towards the glass roof, as though to feel the real sun on their feathery heads, and lent an atmosphere of sticky heat which could almost be mistaken, by those who knew no better, for the tropical.
It was not just this opulence which fascinated Verity, but also the gentry who were enjoying it. There were a few poor souls scattered about who could be seen to be genuinely ill or infirm, but most of the wheeled chairs were occupied by women whose faces displayed the sourness of boredom, the disappointment of lives which were empty and without purpose, and who had consequently taken refuge in the small excitement of pretended illness, or by men who had spent their youths indulging in every kind of excess and were now paying the price of ill-health.
There was a sprinkling of younger people; unmarried and obedient daughters, who trotted dutifully to the gushing fountains to fill the cups; the idle young bucks, short of money and hoping to charm a little from the pockets of gout-ridden fathers by a show of filial affection. Then there were lady companions, bitter at their poverty and spinsterhood, who could be guaranteed to quell any show of humour or romance from the young.
Some of these Verity already knew, some were newcomers and their visit would be so transient that she would never get to know them, but the group who had gathered themselves about her were either permanent inhabitants, or long term visitors and she valued them dearly as friends rather than mere acquaintances. Cara had once told her that she cultivated a personal relationship with everyone she met and it was true that she probably had the widest circle of acolytes than even the greatest political hostess in the land. The lowliest urchin to the most well-born gentlewoman could be counted amongst those who turned to her but she was far too modest to recognise the fact and so she was rather touched to be included in the “Lydia Meeting”, feeling that Serena Hartley-Wells and Henrietta Woodforde were being very kind in allowing her a voice in what was, after all, essentially none of her affair. She was so unassuming that it never occurred to her that both ladies felt that her presence was absolutely vital as she had become the hub around which Hanbury society revolved. With her calm manner, kind heart, sensible approach and most vital of all, her delightful and dry sense of humour, she had become immensely important to the smooth running of social events in the town. No one would now dream of planning anything without consulting Mrs Underwood.
Also summoned to the coterie were Adeline Thornycroft, wife of the gallant Major, Lady Cara Underwood, Gil’s spouse, Mrs Kitty Wolstencroft, Adeline’s mother, Miss Cromer, Lady Hartley-Wells’ companion, who was, or
so Verity gathered, some form of impecunious relation of the elderly lady, and Ellen Herbert, wife of Dr Francis Herbert.
The Herberts had recently moved to Hanbury, after years of resisting Underwood’s pleas to do so. Francis Herbert had known Underwood, Gil and Verity since they had all been living in Bracken Tor, under the aegis of the late Sir Henry Wynter, whose family had been the subject of Underwood’s first case. This was something they all preferred to forget, as it had not ended happily for the Wynter family and most especially Sir Henry, who had blown his brains out when his misdemeanours had come to light.
However, the friendship had endured and Underwood regularly called Dr Herbert to his aid when he needed an impartial opinion on a suspicious death, or indeed, when he or his family stood in need of a physician. Francis Herbert had eventually grown tired of the constant to and fro-ing which was not only costly but tiring, and since he had no respect for the man who had taken over the mantle of squire from the late Sir Henry, he had finally agreed to his friend’s demands. Since his wife was one of Verity’s best friends, it had not been difficult to persuade her of a change of address and they now ran a very successful medical practice in the town. In fact, though he would never have admitted anything of the sort to Underwood, who tended to think he was always right, Francis often wondered why he had refused to move for so long. The Spa town of Hanbury had a constantly shifting population of the elderly and the sick and was extremely lucrative for anyone in the medical profession, be it as a doctor, apothecary or indeed quack!
Several other ladies prominent in the town had also joined the little group when they saw them gather in the Pump Rooms, so it was quite a crowd who were made privy to the tragic story of Mrs Woodforde’s long lost child. The lady had at first been reluctant to share the tale with anyone but her closest associates, but Lady Hartley-Wells had been firm. They must start as they meant to go on and if Lydia was to be introduced to society, it must be on a basis of truth. Nothing could be more damaging to anyone’s reputation than to find that Lady Hartley-Wells, Mrs Underwood and Mrs Woodforde had lied, or at least hidden the truth, should Lydia turn out to be an impostor.
Verity, perhaps naively, had imagined that all the ladies would be as kind-hearted and prepared to take a risk on the girl as she was herself, and that this meeting was merely to decide what entertainments they would all take turns to provide, to make young Lydia feel at home. She could not have been more sadly mistaken. The ladies were divided at the onset. She listened with growing disquiet as the group grew more heated with every passing moment.
“Well, I’m not having the girl in my house until I know who she is,” declared Mrs Lethaby, wife of the owner of the largest drapers’ shop in Hanbury. Since most of the other ladies shopped regularly in Lethaby’s, and had no wish to lose the very generous discount her husband offered to residents, whilst charging visitors only slightly less than London prices, there were murmurs of assent.
“Very true,” said one of the other ladies, “she could, quite literally, be anyone at all! We could be introducing a woman of ill-repute to our husbands and children.” Verity was rather given the impression that the lady was more concerned about her husband meeting the “woman of ill-repute” than her children, then dismissed the thought as unworthy.
“I’d be more worried about my silver going missing than her morals,” said another cynically.
“She’s about to inherit a fortune,” said Ellen Herbert, “I think your silver is quite safe.”
“Your husband isn’t though,” said Mrs Angela Simpson, the milliner, “Everyone knows he would chase anything in a skirt and a fortune would just make him more avid!”
Verity realised that the discussion was getting out of hand, possibly about to descend into vitriol and quarrels which always simmered under the surface in any group of people might just erupt into serious rancour. She judged it the moment to intervene, “Ladies, ladies! Please desist! There is no need for all this unpleasantness. I beg you will apply a little logic to the situation and you will see that this is all irrelevant.”
“I don’t see how it can be irrelevant, Verity,” said Cara. She was very fond of her sister-in-law, but even she recognised that Underwood’s wife lacked discernment in her judgement. Verity would always see the good in people, and though Cara was a vicar’s wife, she was still a daughter of the aristocracy. Marriage had knocked off many of her prickles, as had close association with the very unusual family into which she had married, but there was still a large part of her that was deeply conventional and aware of her innate superiority of rank, “Think how hugely embarrassing it would be if the young woman turns out to be appallingly common? One cannot retract an invitation once given without causing grave offence.”
“If she’s that appallingly common I shouldn’t worry too much about causing offence!” said Verity tartly, “But I do not see why you have suddenly all decided that she is going to be anything other than a nicely brought up girl. Pray think sensibly, I beg you. There can only be two reasons why this girl is not who she says she is.”
“And what are they, pray?” asked Cara, with a slight edge of annoyance. She was not used to being gainsaid – except by Gil, but his manner was so diffident that she barely noticed his opposition and she was still so enchanted by him, even after three years of marriage and twin boys, that she mostly did as he gently suggested with good grace. The only dangerous moment in their relationship had occurred when her father had insisted that Gil take a promotion, preferably to the position of Bishop, in order to keep his wife in the manner to which she was accustomed. Gil had been uncharacteristically harsh in his refusal and the only way the disaster had been averted was when Underwood suggested his brother take the slightly less lofty position of Rural Dean, so that he could continue with the “hands-on” work with his parishioners which meant so much to him. Not that this had prevented Underwood from ceaselessly teasing his younger brother about his new job!
“The first would be that if the real Lydia had disapproved of the scheming and had refused to help her father claim the inheritance – if indeed he is still alive, which we don’t know either! Lydia could, indeed, be telling the whole, unvarnished truth.”
Cara lifted a quizzical brow, “I can’t imagine why she should do so with a fortune at stake, but go on, what other reason might there be?”
“Sadly if the real Lydia had died – but if that were the case, why should Mr Woodforde not find some poor, but perfectly respectable woman to take the part of Lydia?”
Lady Hartley-Wells intervened gruffly, “I knew Silas Woodforde and I have to tell you Verity, that the man was thoroughly unpleasant. He would probably think it a grand joke to inflict some horrid woman upon us and watch from a distance as we all struggle to cope with her vulgarity.”
“Oh,” said Verity, deflated, “But I still think we should wait until we have met her before we make our judgements.”
“Very sensible advice. I suggest we hold off making any plans or arrangements of any sort until we’ve seen the girl for ourselves. I will hold the first party at my house when I will introduce her to anyone who cares to come – I can assure you I shall have no compunction about giving her the cut direct if I need to. Embarrassment doesn’t bother a woman of my age, I’ve seen and lived through it all and survived!”
Verity noticed that poor Mrs Woodforde had remained staunchly silent, but on the brink of tears, throughout this exchange and her heart went out to the woman. She was obviously very distressed by the whole affair and Verity was determined to do her best to be especially nice to Lydia in the hope that she was Mrs Woodforde’s prodigal daughter and that the two ladies would repair and renew their relationship and live happily together in spite of all the bitter years that had gone before.
Cara and Ellen caught the heartfelt and compassionate glance Verity threw in the direction of the older lady and with a slight lift of the brow from Ellen and a moue of the mouth from Cara, they silently resolved to make sure their friend and
sister did not make a fool of herself or get terribly hurt by the complicated and possibly dangerous affair.
*
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Arte Perire Sua” – To perish by one’s own mistakes
After a late lunch Underwood found himself with nothing to fill the hours until Miss Fettiplace should escape from her employer at four, as she had promised, so he decided to take a walk around the town.
This decision was not made entirely from boredom, but to check whether the man who had seated himself in the coffee room shortly after Underwood’s return from Pershore House was in fact following him, as Underwood strongly suspected.
There was nothing overtly disreputable or sinister about the fellow, but the fact that he pretended to read a very old copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine which was upside down for several minutes before he realised it by coming across an illustration, was a good indication that he was not in the Black Bear for purposes of relaxation.
If the man was a spy, he was a singularly poor one, but Underwood had to be sure if he was to have a private conversation with Miss Fettiplace – and it would also confirm his suspicion that there was something very dark happening around Miss Petch.
When he paused to look into an apothecary shop window, supposedly admiring the various bottles and jars which adorned the shelves, the reflection of his follower hovered over his shoulder, and Underwood took the time to commit his face to memory, as he had not had the opportunity to do so in the inn without making it obvious he had noticed his unwanted companion.
In Underwood’s judgement, it was a face that had seen many reverses of fortune. The man was probably only in his mid-thirties but the skin was sallow and unhealthy and deeply grooved with lines of discontent. A scar split one eyebrow and the eyes themselves were muddy green and wary, with puffy bags which spoke of a fondness for strong drink. If indeed he was in pursuit of him, Underwood strongly suspected it was not on his own account, for he was very sure that he had never seen the man before in his life, but he had been set the task by another. There was no expression on his face but one of determination not to lose his quarry – evidently his payment would depend upon his fulfilling his mission of keeping Underwood in view and reporting back, hence him standing so close, whereas any other self-respecting shadow would have kept his distance and never let himself be spotted.
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 5