Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  “Domus Et Placens Uxor” – A home and a pleasing wife

  Verity sat to her little davenport and began to write the letter which she had been dreading sending for weeks.

  Underwood’s illness was now baffling everyone who had been consulted. It was a continuous flow of peaks and troughs; one moment he seemed to be recovering, the next he was sick again and confined to his bed. It still looked as though he was being poisoned, but how was the toxin being introduced into his body? Everything he ate and drank was scrutinised and no one else in the household had fallen victim to the same sickness. All that anyone could say with certainty was that if this situation continued, Underwood could be dead before the summer was over. That was something Verity could hardly bear to bring herself to contemplate, but for the sake of her children she was forced to go on as though nothing was happening.

  With a heavy heart she took up her pen and dipped it into the inkwell.

  29th May, 1828

  My dear Gil and Cara,

  I wish I was sending better news, but I fear things are very grim. Underwood grows weaker with every passing day. On Sunday, he seemed to rally and rose from his bed. He came downstairs, pale, but seemingly a little stronger, but before the afternoon was over, his sickness began again and Francis was completely mystified. He had eaten nothing but a little toast, and drunk a small cup of tea. It was most odd, for he had arisen saying he felt almost recovered. Horatia was delighted when he made much of using her present to him, telling her that the tooth-powder had done much to refresh his mouth after two days of illness, and how smoothly her shaving soap had rid him of two days’ growth of beard. Though he obviously didn’t feel inclined, he also took a huge pinch of the snuff she had bought him.

  By midnight he was quite as ill again as he had been and Francis was forced to give him an emetic, which he took with very bad grace!

  At three in the morning I was still by his bedside as he sank into delirium and begged me to send for Mrs Woodforde, saying that he needed to speak to her urgently before it was too late.

  He was so emphatic that I sent Toby for her at first light and when she came he insisted that she come to his bedside – I was astounded, for Underwood is, as you well know, the most private of men and would normally be horrified at the thought of a strange woman seeing him undressed and abed.

  My poor darling could barely speak for he could not even keep one sip of water down and I was doing my best to ease his thirst by brushing a wet feather across his lips.

  Mrs Woodforde was most distressed and begged him to put her troubles from his mind, but he was adamant that she must listen to his counsel.

  “Madam, I must say this to you, for if the worst should happen, I have to ensure that I am Brodie’s only victim.”

  She began to weep bitterly, “Sir, pray do not even think it. I could never forgive myself if I thought that your kindness to me should bring about such a tragedy.”

  “I have always known that my meddling could bring disaster, madam, so pray do not think to blame yourself – besides, I’m not dead yet.” He smiled but spoke in such a feeble tone that I could barely prevent myself from sobbing with her! Instead I busied myself with wetting his lips and straightening his pillows.

  “Now, enough of this, you must listen to me and promise that you will do exactly as I ask,” he said, when he had marshalled enough strength to speak again. She nodded her assent, “Very well,” he continued, “Promise me this; do not under any circumstances mention in Court that you know Brodie is not your husband. Pretend that you have never met him.”

  “But why?” she was surprised and so was I. The court case was about to open after much deliberation and heart searching, now surely was the time to expose Brodie and all his perfidy to the world.

  “He is dangerous. If he thinks for one moment that you intend to jeopardise his claim, he will serve you as he has served me.”

  “Let him try,” she said furiously, but Underwood held up a calming hand, “Your life is not worth a penny-piece to him – you die and he gets all! We must play the man at his own game. Let him think that you are softening towards Lydia and bide your time. I am confident that the proof we need will come from the Indies, but it will take time. After all, it is not, and never has been, our intention to cheat Lydia of her birthright. If the girl is indeed your long-lost daughter, then she deserves to gain every benefit that her return affords her.”

  Mrs Woodforde looked into his eyes, “Do you think she is Lydia, Mr Underwood?”

  “The truth is that I really have no idea. For your sake I hope she is, but we all need to be sure.”

  He seemed calmer after she had gone and even slept a little, but the truth is that he is seriously ill.

  Dear God, I cannot believe how I have rambled on! I tell you all this so that you will know that though Underwood is stricken, he has lost none of his nobility nor strength of character. His first thought is now, as ever, of those around him and not himself.

  Gil, I hate to ask this – you can have no notion how much! – but you must come. If he is to have the last rites, he would countenance no-one but you to shrive him.

  You must also bring your mother. I dread to think it, but this may be the last chance she has to see her eldest son.

  Please come as soon as you can.

  Yours in deepest affection,

  Verity.’

  She laid down her pen with a heavy heart and shook a sprinkling of fine sand from the pounce pot over the sheet to dry the ink. Now that it was written, stark black against the white paper, it was as though she now had to admit to herself that it was really true. She was going to be a widow before her thirty-fifth birthday.

  She would have wept, but at that moment Horatia came running in with two letters for her which had just been delivered by hand from Hanbury.

  ‘29th May, 1828

  Dear Verity,

  I shall be back with you this evening, but I felt I must send a short message with Toby, so that you know what I have discovered so far. Following Underwood’s instructions, I sought the son of the previous owner of your home. As he has suspected the family has connections with the Indies – as he so astutely said, why else would they name their home ‘Windward House’?

  Mrs Grahame sadly passed away last year, but her son Hartley (I understand his Godmother is Lady Hartley-Wells, hence his Christian name) was welcoming. He is a man of much good humour, now grey-haired, but still interested in country pursuits, particularly angling. He has invited both Underwood and myself to try the river that flows through his estate, when Underwood is back to full fitness – I neglected to inform him that Underwood would be horrified at the very thought of spending half the day on a riverbank with the set purpose of hooking a fish!

  He was sorry to hear of Underwood’s indisposition and only too delighted to open his father’s library to me, where I found exactly what I was seeking. A tome on the plants and animals of the New World disclosed to me that there is a poison ‘Eupatorium rugosum’ or white snakeroot which causes a disease known as ‘milk sickness’. The milk of cows fed on this herb becomes toxic and anyone who drinks the milk can suffer similar symptoms to those experienced by Underwood.

  I am hopeful that we have solved the mystery of the source of his illness, but I am still unable to imagine how Brodie, or indeed his agents, could possibly feed this substance to Underwood when we are all keeping such a close eye upon him.

  I have a few more errands to undertake and then I shall be back with you.

  Don’t despair yet, Verity, Underwood may seem fragile, but we both know he is made of stern stuff.

  There has been no word, by the way, of the whereabouts of Brodie, but Toby continues to search – and to beg Sabrina to tell him the truth about the whole sorry tangle.

  Yours,

  Francis.’

  The second missive was from Sir George Gratten and did not comfort her any more than the first one had.

  ‘10th June, 1828

  My de
ar Verity,

  I hope the patient is faring a little better this morning. I need to speak to him on a matter of some urgency, so I would be grateful if you could send word with Toby if a visit would be convenient.

  The post this morning brought a reply to our enquiries in Bridgetown, Barbados. It seems that, as requested, the Woodforde vault was opened with a view to exhuming the body of the mysterious ‘L Woodforde’.

  Imagine the horror of those officials who found a scene of devastation and vandalism contained therein. In a similar manner to the way in which the famous Chase family tomb was disturbed, here too the coffins were in disarray, some broken open and the bones scattered on the floor of the crypt.

  I’m afraid it means that there was no way the authorities were able to ascertain which bones belonged to whom. The child’s remains, which Lydia claimed was her father’s by-blow, was amongst those disturbed so there can be no definitive answer as to whether she was half-negro or indeed how old she was when she died.

  All this is very useful to Brodie and Lydia Woodforde, but affords us little help in our quest. Underwood may have some idea where we go next – I certainly do not!

  I look forward to a swift reply,

  George Gratten.’

  Verity vaguely recalled the story which had chilled the blood of herself and her school companions when they had heard how every time the Chase family vault had been opened to accept a newly deceased member there had been chaos contained within the sealed tomb. All manner of tricks had been employed to catch any mischief makers, such as sprinkling the floor with sand so that footprints would be evident, but nothing stopped the coffins being moved and no prints were seen. Eventually the family had chosen to take their dead elsewhere and leave the vault deserted. No one ever discovered the reason for the disturbing events and it would seem that Brodie had used that same method to make sure no one ever investigated the burial of ‘L Woodforde’.

  Verity sighed crossly, Gratten could ask, but she had no intention of laying this story before Underwood as the Constable had requested. She was now completely convinced that the girl calling herself Lydia Woodforde was a fraud – and he lies were about to cost Verity her husband, so as far as she was concerned, they could go to court and take their chances of persuading a judge and jury of their fairytale. Verity wanted nothing more to do with it – and she fully intended to ensure that her husband did not spend his last weeks on earth trying to prove anything of the sort.

  *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Crimen Falsi” – The crime of perjury

  George Gratten looked at the official notification in his hand. ‘Woodforde Versus Woodforde 1827-28 – Preliminary Hearing.’

  So, now it began – the real battle would be played out in the court room, but no matter what the outcome, he could not help but feel that there were no real winners. Lydia might well end up with her fortune, but she would be forever saddled with a parasite in the form of her ‘father’. Underwood looked to be losing his fight for life – and all for one man’s greed. Thomas Brodie had killed to gain his tainted money and judging from the way he had behaved in the past, he would probably throw the whole lot away on gambling, drinking and wenching – what was it all for?

  Well, Gratten intended to be there for the whole sorry saga even though his own part in the matter was small, but, as it turned out, more than likely crucial. His correspondence with his friend in Barbados had certainly put Brodie’s claims in doubt. He fervently wished he could go further and prove the man to be a liar and a fraudster. The crime of perjury would certainly see Brodie jailed, but there was no one to identify him as either Brodie or Silas Woodforde.

  As a witness, George should not really have been in court, but his position as Constable of Hanbury had made it very difficult for the court usher to deny him access. And, as he pointed out, there was nothing in his testimony which could be altered by listening to any other evidence. It consisted of nothing more than letters which had already been read by so many other people that he could not now alter the contents even had he wanted to – and they were in the possession of the court officials anyway.

  The first day was dull in the extreme, it was simply the opening remarks of both counsels and an introduction by the judge telling the jury what the basic premise of the trial was all about. He pointed out that something had obviously occurred to put a doubt into Mrs Woodforde’s mind because here she was facing the woman she had at first, warmly welcomed as her estranged daughter in court.

  Mrs Woodforde was called first to give her evidence. She was asked about her relationship with her absconding husband, which seemed to centre on whether or not he had ever beaten her – it seemed he had struck her upon one or two occasions, but mainly confined himself to mental cruelty. He thought nothing of gambling and drinking the family income away, forcing his poor wife to approach her parents for loans to keep the bailiffs from the door and food on the table. The child he mainly ignored, until the day he decided to steal her away from her mother and her anguished screams had haunted the lady for years. He had paid his daughter so little attention and had been in the family home so infrequently that Mrs Woodforde equated the removing of the child as to being kidnapped by a virtual stranger.

  Almost worse than the loss of her daughter was the worrying about how she would be cared for by such a man. She had horrific visions of the child hungry and abandoned in filthy rooms, whilst her father pursued his life of selfishness and debauchery.

  When asked if she had any proof of this alleged neglect, she had to admit that she had not, it was merely a safe assumption, based on his previous conduct. She was told severely that hearsay and assumption were not evidence and she had no right to judge. Mr Woodforde might have had a ‘road to Damascus’ transformation once he had sole charge of his daughter – he had, after all, successfully reared her to womanhood.

  Mrs Woodforde glared at the lawyer and informed him in frosty tones that that was precisely what the Court was there to decide. Henrietta Woodforde was apparently a stronger woman than she had at first appeared.

  After much more of this line of questioning which related to her being a bad wife and mother and driving her poor benighted husband to extreme measures – the lawyers turned to more recent events. Why, when she had first greeted her daughter with open arms, had she suddenly decided to turn on her and bring this malicious case? Could it have anything to do with the fact that should the father and daughter both die, then the Brownhill fortune reverted to the only surviving member of the family – i.e. Mrs Woodforde herself?

  The lady answered angrily that her father had left her perfectly well-provided for and she had no interest in money. Her only concern was that her father’s estate and fortune should go only to those who were entitled to it. No one would be more pleased than she to see her real daughter restored to the family seat, but she could never rest as long as the slightest doubt remained that Lydia was truly home.

  She was asked what had occurred to give her that doubt. She replied that those with her welfare at heart had suggested that she make enquiries about Lydia and her past. Those lines of enquiry had thrown up serious doubts regarding both Lydia and her supposedly late father.

  Was Mrs Woodforde then suggesting that Mr Woodforde was not deceased, as had been reported?

  She replied that she feared not – a remark which sent a quiver of shock through the courtroom, for no lady should ever wish her husband dead, no matter how appallingly he had treated her.

  Did she have any proof of this outrageous allegation? Sadly not, only the evidence of her own eyes and that could easily be doubted by those who wished to disbelieve her, though she hoped to produce at least one witness who met with a man who claimed to be her husband.

  So once again she was making unfounded and malicious statements to the court in the hope of swaying the honest jury of twelve stout citizens from the true and irrefutable truth that this entire case was a tissue of lies and innuendo. Lydia Woodforde had return
ed home an orphan to claim her rightful inheritance and in some bizarre attempt at revenge for the sins of her father, her mother denied her – perhaps the worst example of treachery known to mankind.

  Mrs Woodforde was dignity personified as she replied, “No, the worst treachery was when my husband took my five-year-old daughter from my arms and left me a broken woman. He had no affection for that child and took her merely to punish me. He now punishes me further by sending an impostor to my door, leaving me to wonder if my own sweet child is still somewhere out in the world, lost and alone – or does she lie in an unmarked grave, un-mourned and uncared for. That, sir, is treachery!”

  The lawyer hastily abandoned his questioning and assured her that he would call for Mrs Woodforde again, should he need to clarify any other points.

  Next to be called to the witness stand was Tobias Hambleton, who was cited as being a servant to Mr and Mrs Underwood. There ensued much debate between the lawyers and the judge as to whether he could be allowed to take the oath, until it was established that he was, indeed, a Christian, having been baptised in his infancy. The judge, unable to quite believe that his intellect allowed him to fully understand the gravity of an oath sworn upon the Holy Book, asked him in carefully simple terms, “You do know about the bible, fellow?”

  Mr Hambleton kept his eyes on his Honour and replied evenly, “Yes sir. I am in the habit of reading widely, including the good book. If you have any doubt about my honesty, I’m sure the Reverend Mr Gilbert Underwood, Rural Dean, would vouch for me.” With that the judge had to be satisfied and the lawyer, Mr Chambers, rose to his feet asking ponderously for a brief resume of the events that led up to the meeting between Mr Underwood and the alleged Silas Woodforde. Hambleton told how he had followed Lydia Woodforde and her maid servant Sabrina and seen them enter an Inn, The Walnut Tree, in Beconfield. He was asked if he had himself entered the inn and spoken to anyone there. His reply was negative. Mr Underwood had met with the gentleman concerned and had told his servant about the meeting after the event.