Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  “A wedding will be a very pleasant diversion for you, Miss Greenhowe. I know how you ladies love to celebrate another’s nuptials.”

  She shrugged non-committally, “Take ‘em or leave ‘em, to be honest, sir. Never married myself. Never found anyone worthy of me. All the fellows who chased me in my younger days were after one thing only – sadly it was not my person, but my purse!” She laughed at her own wit, the cackle which issued from her lips making her look and sound suddenly witch-like.

  “I’m sure that’s not the case,” he responded politely.

  “Much you know, then,” she said tartly, “You men are all the same. Money, hunting, gambling – those occupy your thoughts, romance comes well down the list!”

  Underwood laughed, “You unman me, madam, if you think that! I neither hunt nor gamble and money holds very little interest for me either, so long as I have enough to feed and clothe my family, I’m content.”

  She looked at him for a long time, as though assessing the truth of this statement. He met her gaze squarely, and there was a moment when he saw, almost like a candle being snuffed, the light go out of her eyes and he knew that he had lost her.

  “Who are you?” she asked querulously, “What are you doing in my room?”

  “I’m Underwood, Miss Greenhowe,” he said gently, “a friend of Rutherford.”

  The confusion cleared, “Dear Rutherford. Has he come to see me? I miss him.”

  “Rutherford will be along shortly. You were telling me about Cressida’s wedding. You were saying she is going to wear the Greenhowe diamonds.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said, “I shall decide on the day. I only wore them a few times myself – they are too showy for anything less than a very special occasion. I wore them when I met the Queen. I could see by the look in her eye that she envied me!” She laughed again and Underwood politely joined her, relieved that he had guided her back from the mists of her own diseased mind.

  “If they are so valuable, you must have them somewhere safe.”

  The old lady looked sideways at him, a sly expression on her face, “Ha! Do you think me fool? I’ll not take the likes of you where they are? For all I know you are a thief and a murderer!”

  “Thieves and murderers are not usually shown in by the butler,” he pointed out reasonably, “But you do right to guard them well.”

  The faraway look came back, “Did I tell you I met the Queen?”

  “You did. She admired your jewels.”

  To his astonishment she began to sing, her voice quavering on the high notes, “Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been up to London to visit the queen.”

  Underwood began to understand why this strange affliction was called a ‘second childhood’ for the old lady grinned at him like a mischievous little girl, “I’ll not tell you where the diamonds are, but you amuse me to I shall set you a riddle.”

  “I do enjoy riddles,” he admitted, hope flaring in his breast.

  “Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, to buy little Johnny a galloping horse!”

  He smiled at her, “That certainly is a riddle, Miss Greenhowe. Is there any other clue you can give me?”

  She sang again, “I had a little hobby horse, it was well shod, It carried me to London, niddety nod.”

  Underwood was about to ask for more when the door opened to admit Brimblecombe, who sent an apologetic glance in Underwood’s direction before addressing himself to his mistress, “Begging you pardon, Miss Greenhowe, but Mr Attridge his here and asks that Mr Underwood come downstairs directly and take tea with him.”

  The old lady’s gleeful expression died and was replaced with one both fearful and disgusted, “That creature! I don’t want to see him, Brimbles!”

  “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s here to see Mr Underwood. I won’t let him come up here to you.”

  “Good. If you value your safety Underwood, don’t trust that man as far as you could throw him, wet through.”

  Underwood was mystified, both by the newcomer and the elderly lady’s animosity.

  “Who, may I ask, is Attridge?”

  “My lawyer, or so I’m told. I never saw what was wrong with Toft, but no one ever listens to my complaints. They all want me dead, that’s the trouble. No one cares about me.” She began to weep, noisily, and Brimblecombe stepped forward, obviously distressed, “Now, Miss, you know that’s not true. Old Brimbles is here to look after you, never you fear.”

  As he approached the bed he took a moment to speak softly to Underwood, “I do apologise, sir. The one staff member I overlooked was the boot boy and as soon as my back was turned he took off across the fields and into town to warn Attridge. No doubt the little wretch will have been well paid for his trouble, but I’ll see to it that he regrets his treachery!”

  Underwood smiled, “Don’t punish him on my account, Mr Brimblecombe, I have spoken to your mistress and that was always my intention. No one can unsay what she has told me.”

  “Has she disclosed the whereabouts of the diamonds to you, then?”

  “Sadly not, but I have a clue – it’s up to my ingenuity to work it out.”

  “Good luck, sir, I pray you will be successful, but I fear Miss Greenhowe is too far gone these days to be of any assistance.”

  “We shall see.”

  Underwood quietly left the room, sad that the old man could do so little to alleviate the horror of his mistress’s condition. There was a tie which had bound them together for over fifty years, but the gap between them was as wide as it had been the first day he had entered the house as a servant. How mournful a situation it was, and it would grow no better as passing time clouded her intellect more and more.

  He walked down the stairs wondering about a household which allowed the family lawyer to direct the servants as though he owned the place. Something was very wrong and he fully intended to find out what was going on.

  Added to which he had to work out what the devil the riddles meant. He wondered if the stables had been searched.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Coelum Non Animum Mutant Qui Trans Mare Currunt” – Those who cross the sea change the sky, not their characters

  In Hanbury, Verity was busier than ever and when she took the time to think about Underwood, it was with an undercurrent of resentment. Sir George Gratten was impatient for his portrait to be finished and added to that his colleague; the Magistrate Sir Alfred Dorrington had also commissioned a portrait. This, on the surface, seemed an innocuous request, but Verity knew, from long sittings with Sir George, when he confided much more than he realized, that Sir Alfred was rather less a friend to Hanbury’s Constable, than a rival for his position of importance in the town. The recent elevation of the Constable to a knighthood had seriously impaired their relationship and when ‘Sir’ George asked to have his portrait painted, Sir Alfred immediately did likewise.

  With these two overweening egos to contend with, Verity’s nerves were tauter than the strings on a violin, so the very last thing she had needed was two extra women living under her roof coupled with an absent husband.

  Toby recognized that she was growing more and more stressed and did his best to alleviate some of her duties by taking over the care of the two little girls and Sabrina, who was inclined to drift about the house, annoying the new cook, Mrs Dipple, who was deeply disgruntled to find herself catering for a vastly enlarged household with little or no help.

  Underwood, of course, would have noticed none of these undercurrents – he was extremely adept at ignoring things he had no wish to see, but it all added to Verity’s burdens, since she would normally be only too willing to help in the house if only she had not been so very busy.

  Lydia was as little help as her slave, for she had been indulged from birth and had no idea how to do the simplest of tasks. She sank lower into gloom as it became clear that Mrs Woodforde was determined to go to court, now that she had found that Silas Woodforde was dead these many long years and
she had no proof that the child Lydia had not died with him.

  She could not live with her supposed mother; even though they had seemingly grown fond of each other in the weeks before the revelations, and she had to be careful to whom she spoke as she could now be accused of interfering with evidence and harassing witnesses. In essence, Woodforde being alive or dead had little bearing on the validity of Lydia’s claim. Brodie would simply swear that the girl was indeed his dead friend’s daughter – and of all people, he ought to know.

  Sir George Gratten was inclined to try and discover some way of indicting Brodie for a crime, but there was nothing. Only Mrs Woodforde had been damaged by the deception and since she had never investigated whether Woodforde was dead or alive, Brodie was free to give himself any name he liked whilst he lived in Barbados. It did not prove that Lydia was an impostor. Gratten wondered if he could be accused of trying to gain money under false pretences, but of course it was Lydia who stood to inherit and not Woodforde, so his deceit in fact availed him nothing. Only if Lydia were to be proved false would they have a case against him.

  All that was left now was to await the arrival of letters from Barbados which might tell if the girl now claiming to be Lydia Woodforde had indeed been living with her ‘father’ there for the past ten years or more.

  Lydia was a friend of the soft-hearted and sympathetic Verity for her own sake, for once the older woman had broken through the facade of brittle suspicion, Lydia was a pleasant girl, who was secretly distressed and confused by the events of the past weeks. Verity understood that she must be extremely unhappy to find that the man who had raised her was not her real father and the woman she had been led to believe was her mother now rejected her. Sabrina, however, was a different matter. No amount of kindness seemed to console her, for nothing much had changed for her. She was still a slave, with no rights, no hopes for the future except more of the same misery. She had been dragged against her will from her homeland, a warm and familiar place, to a country of cold winds and driving rain. This hatred of the Peaks grew as the summer passed into autumn and the promise of much colder and greyer weather threatened.

  Toby later came to realize that Mrs Underwood made special efforts with the girl for his benefit. He never mentioned how he felt about her, but Verity had seen his interest and immediately resolved to nurture the romance. It was no easy task. Sabrina was wary of all the Underwoods, no doubt fearing the wrath of her master should she give any further information away, for of course it was due to her that Toby and Underwood had tracked Brodie down.

  She was obedient, as helpful as she was able, and polite, but as cold as ice towards them all. Toby despaired of ever breaking through her shell until one unusually fine day he found her in the garden, tending to the two little girls whilst Mrs Underwood entertained Sir Alfred in the studio.

  “Sabrina,” Toby hailed her, “I hope I may again call you by that name?” He referred to the fact that he had been avoiding her company since the day in Hanbury, when he realized that she was distracting him from following her mistress and had consequently treated her rather distantly, if not actively coldly.

  “What else would you call me?” she asked, “Miss Woodforde?”

  He was puzzled for a moment, then thought he understood, “Oh, I see, your master gave you the name he was using because of your slavery.”

  “No, my father gave me his own name, despite not marrying my mother,” she corrected bitterly, “Though, of course I know now that it was not his own name anyway! I’m as confused as poor Lydia. Who exactly are either of us now?”

  Toby was aghast, but thinking logically, he should not have been. Concubinage was not exactly unusual in slavery. He began to understand – and feel pity for - this lovely young woman. How must it feel to be forced to serve her half-sister, unacknowledged and unloved by a parent and a sibling? Her story made him at once grateful and guilty that he had escaped relatively unscathed from his own bondage. Yes, the years of pugilism had been painful and humiliating – but he had always had his freedom.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have offended you and that was never my intention.”

  She gave him a long, cool look, “Mr Hambleton, forgive me for speaking plainly, but I must tell you that I know exactly what your intentions are, and I feel compelled to tell you that you are wasting your time. I am a slave. I belong body and soul to Silas Woodforde or Brodie, or whoever he is and he will never, never countenance my freedom. I have the double misfortune of also being his favourite child, though no doubt you feel he has a strange way of showing his affection. He has a future mapped out for me that includes my caring for him in his dotage. No man will ever be allowed to woo me, much less carry me away from his side.”

  Toby felt himself grow fiery and hot, mortified that she should have so plainly seen his interest in her. Here was he fooling himself that he had hidden his growing passion for her well, yet both she and Mrs Underwood had seen through the subterfuge with no difficulty whatsoever.

  She took pity on his tongue-tied awkwardness and briefly gripped his hand, “I apologise. I speak too plainly. It is my abiding fault. Shall we forget we ever mentioned the subject and try to be friends?”

  Toby recovered his equanimity with difficulty, “Certainly – if you will answer one question before we leave the matter behind us forever.” He knew he was asking something which would give him pain no matter what the response, but he had to know.

  “Very well.”

  “If all that were not true, would my suit have been welcome to you?”

  She looked into his eyes for a long time, and he thought he saw compassion there, and maybe something more akin to interest, but she was so hard to fathom that perhaps he was simply convincing himself.

  “To answer that would be to either inflict hurt or give you hope, neither of which I wish to do.”

  “Of the two, I would prefer hope,” he answered, smiling in a way which he trusted was winning.

  “Then,” she whispered, glancing about her to make sure they were not overheard, “you shall have hope, my friend.”

  Then she called the Underwood children to her and went indoors, leaving him stunned and breathless.

  Life returned to a semblance of normality over the next few days. Sabrina was particularly helpful to Mrs Underwood, taking care of Horatia and Clarissa whilst their mother went about her duties.

  Added to all the other happenings in the house, it also transpired that it was the anniversary of the Underwood’s marriage and the family were to gather for a party to celebrate. This was the idea of the senior Mrs Underwood – now Mrs Milner – as she had pointed out she had despaired of Cadmus ever getting married so she intended to mark the occasion. Horatia in particular was excited about her parent’s anniversary, for it was the first time she had saved up her few pennies to buy them a present. Mrs Underwood was trying desperately to find the time to take the little girls shopping, but was simply too busy. Sabrina saved the situation by offering to escort the two young ladies into town, with Toby driving the carriage. He was only too delighted to take the opportunity to spend some time alone with his heart’s desire and so the outing was duly arranged.

  When they reached Beconfield Sabrina insisted that Toby must spend an hour or two at the inn where they stabled the horses whilst she trailed around the shops with the girls. Toby’s insistence that he would enjoy accompanying them was swept aside with a knowing smile, “Toby, you know you could find nothing more tedious! I promise we will be two hours at the very most, then we will join you in a private room for tea before driving home.”

  The thought of a glass of ale was enough to make up his mind for him and they parted company.

  True to her promise, Sabrina and the little ladies found Toby not two hours later and Horatia could barely contain her elation at the gift she had found for her father. She showed Toby proudly the small ceramic pots containing ‘Gentlemen’s own Tooth Powder’, a solid block of shaving soap and brush, along with a small paper
packet which he was assured contained a small amount of his favourite snuff. “They are for Papa alone and no one else must use them,” she told him proudly.

  “He will be delighted with them,” Toby assured her and exchanged a smile with Sabrina.

  “And what have you bought for your mother?”

  “Some new paint brushes,” she said, “she always says she can never have too many brushes.”

  “Quite right too,” said Toby with a flash of his white teeth.

  Whilst the girls played happily with a pack of old cards the landlord had lent, Sabrina and Toby dared to discuss their possible future in lowered voices.

  Toby always remembered that afternoon as one of his happiest times, when he was able to sit close enough to Sabrina to smell the sweet fragrance of her perfume – something discarded by Miss Lydia because it was not to her taste – and touch her hand beneath the table. She was still adamant that she would never win her freedom from Mr Woodforde, but Toby had been looking into the possibilities and was not so pessimistic. The man seemed to Toby to be easily bought and he felt sure that if he could meet his price they might just be able to gain her liberty.

  From there it seemed natural for them to discuss their pasts. Toby had been intrigued by her history ever since she had told him that Silas Woodforde – or Brodie as we knew now, was her father. It seemed odd that she should be the product of his alliance with a slave when as far as Toby knew he had lived in Barbados for only the last ten years. When he mentioned this she laughed bitterly, “Ten years! Ha, another one of his lies. Poor Mrs Woodforde has spent twenty years chasing a shadow. He had her believing he was in Ireland with her child, then Italy and Greece. The truth was that he went straight to Barbados, where he had friends whom he knew would protect him. It was no wonder her agents in Europe never managed to catch up with him – he was never there! I was born within a year of his arrival in Bridgetown.”