A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

He straightened himself and came back to her, “I’m sorry.”  She did not know if he was apologising for scaring her, or for his rejection of her, but it hardly mattered.

“Don’t ask me to alter things, my dear.  My life is settled, my future decided.  There is no place for change now,” he stopped abruptly, aware that he sounded as though he were trying to convince himself and not her at all.  His frown deepened and he closed his eyes as though in pain, “I have work to do.”

“I would not hinder you!” she whispered, “I would be there to help you.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, his eyes raking her face as though for some flaw which might aid his escape, “On the contrary, Miss Wynter, you would take away my work completely.  If I should marry, I would have to resign.  Women are not welcome in the male-orientated world of the University, and I have no other way of earning a living.”

“Is that really the truth?”

“It is.”

“I see,” she rose to her feet, “Then we may as well say goodbye now.”  She moved very close to him, her eyes looking deep into his.  He could feel the warmth of her body, smell the sweet, clean fragrance of her.  It had been many years since he had been in such close proximity to a young woman and he told himself that it was scarcely surprising that he found he was not entirely impervious to her charms.  He was a man, after all, and not exactly in his dotage. 

“Charlotte…” he realized that he wanted very much to kiss her, but he could not.  Something about her stopped him, as surely as if there had been a physical barrier between them.  Her youth and beauty called out to him, but he knew he could not take advantage of that, especially in the face of his determination to carry this no farther.  To succumb to temptation would be the action of a selfish rogue, but for all that, he knew he did not want to entirely lose her now.  Was he being a fool to continue mourning for Elinor, tormenting himself with blame for her death?

“Not goodbye!”  he heard himself saying, almost with despair, “Would you thrust me completely from your society simply because I ask you to take some time to think about things?  You are much too young to make decisions which are going to affect the rest of your life?”

She seemed to read much more into his words than he ever intended for her eyes glowed with happiness and he found he could no longer bear to look at her.  Underwood, he told himself sternly, you are a weak-willed idiot, and you deserve whatever comes of this!  Closing his eyes he bent slightly and raised one of her hands to his lips.  He kissed it with all the fervour he longed to expend on her mouth.  He felt her free hand touch his hair, shyly, hesitantly and he knew he had been right not to overwhelm her with his suddenly discovered feelings.  She had obviously never been so close to a man before.

“Will you ride with me tomorrow?”  she asked, and unknowingly broke the enchantment she had woven about him.  Her words reminded him of the task he had set himself.

“Not tomorrow,” he released her hand and drew himself gently away from her, “I have to go … away,” he had been about to say ‘to London’ but stopped himself in time, “For a few days, but I shall call on you the moment I return.”

“Oh!” the disappointment in her voice was plain and he smiled slightly to himself, thinking how different she was from older women, who played cruel games with a man, teasing and confusing him with swift changes of mood, “Must you really go?”

“Yes,” his reply was firm and she sighed, “Very well, I’ll bid you farewell and hope for your swift return.”  She slipped his coat from her shoulders and handed it back to him, “thank you, Mr. Underwood.”

“The pleasure has been entirely mine, Miss Wynter.”

“You called me Charlotte a moment ago.”

He shrugged himself into his coat, “Did I?  You must forgive the familiarity, Miss Wynter.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said ingenuously, “But I should like to know your name.”

“You know it.  It’s Underwood!”

She smiled, “I mean your first name, of course!”

“That, my dear one, is something I refuse to disclose, even to you.  If you really feel you should like to call me something other than Underwood, I suggest you find a name which you think suits me and use that.”

She gave a rather shocked laugh, “What can you mean?  You must have a Christian name!”

“As a matter of fact, I have two, but I have never used them and I don’t intend to start now!  Farewell, Miss Wynter, until we meet again,” with that he was gone, and a much happier Charlotte hugged herself gleefully, wondering what the next few weeks would bring.

*

In the darkness of the carriage, Gil Underwood tried hard to see his brother’s face, and read the expression upon it, but it proved to be an impossible task and he could only assume that Underwood’s silence betokened a meeting which had been even more traumatic than he had at first supposed,  “Charlotte took it badly then?” he ventured diffidently, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

C.H. appeared to be at his most absent-minded, for he murmured, “Took what badly?”

“Your rejection of her!” answered the vicar, a trifle testily.  He had endured a long and extremely trying evening, and was in no mood for his sibling’s vagaries.

“Who said I rejected her?” responded Mr. Underwood, and had the supreme satisfaction of finding his clerical companion for once entirely lost for words.

*

CHAPTER ELEVEN

(“Summum ius summa inuria” - The more the law, the less the justice)

So much occurred during Mr. Underwood’s weeklong absence that he was barely missed – except of course by his two most ardent admirers, Charlotte Wynter and Verity Chapell.  They both pined for him; Charlotte with loud sighs and dramatic posturing, Verity quietly, but with much deeper misery, since she now knew his interest was in Charlotte and would never be in herself.

Fortunately for Verity’s pride, the arrival of the Reverend Mr Underwood’s new curate overshadowed everything and the whole village was far too interested in him to notice her melancholy.

A personable young man, with a decidedly frivolous attitude towards the ministry, Mr. Septimus Pollock rather took Bracken Tor by storm.  The villagers’ past experience of clergymen had altogether failed to prepare them for the advent of this whirlwind of a man, who, it seemed, could not enter a room without bursting through the door as though swept along in the wake of some unseen tidal wave, who could not talk quietly, who laughed boisterously and enthused about everything.  Half an hour in his company left one staggering beneath the impact of his personality and usually with a banging headache.

He arrived in a private carriage, monogrammed tastefully on the doors, and it became increasingly obvious that he was a member of an extremely wealthy family – in fact he made no secret of it.  Being the seventh child (hence the name Septimus) of a titled gentleman, he had been persuaded to follow family tradition in joining the church, since his two older brothers were heir to the family estates and in the army respectively.  His sisters were, not surprisingly, well married and, as he ingenuously confided to the two Misses Dadd, continually making him an uncle yet again!

Gil tried to bear the invasion of his home with fortitude, but he could not help wondering how long it would be before his brother, unable to bear the disturbance, packed his bags and took himself off, back to the comparative peace of Cambridge.  Septimus Pollock, by himself, was worse than a parcel of unruly undergraduates.

His other, rather more pressing concern was shared by a few of the more devout members of his congregation – how on earth was the curate going to conduct himself within the portals of the church? Gil Underwood closed his eyes in the most exquisite of agonies at the thought of the ancient rafters of St. Alkelda’s ringing with the booming tones of his curate.

The first of these difficulties was postponed for an unspecified time, for when Mr. Underwood returned from his travels, sooner than expected on the Friday evening, he took himself straight to his room without seeing anyone but his brother, merely informing him that he was feeling unwell and would he please acquaint Miss Wynter of the fact.  Knowing his brother as he did, Gil was aware that far from being unwell, C.H. was in reality in the throes of one of his periodic fits of gloom and it was probably his discoveries which had sent him thus.

There was little anyone could do for him at times like these, so the vicar simply provided his brother with food and drink, which he knew would not be consumed, and went to the study to write a note to Miss Wynter, which he would take the risk of asking Mr. Pollock to deliver.  Being a member of the aristocracy, he would probably get on famously with the Wynter family.

The following morning when a whirlwind swept through the house, it did not, for once, betoken the arrival of the curate.

Upon answering the jangling summons of the door bell, Gil found himself thrust aside by the flushed and much agitated Miss Wynter, “Where is Mr. Underwood?” she demanded, dramatically tossing the long train of her new riding habit over her arm – the one slashed to pieces by Mr. Underwood, so long ago, it now seemed, had been cut down and altered to fit the younger and smaller Isobel, “Is his illness serious?”

Unwisely the Reverend Mr Underwood attempted to answer her, though he could have been forgiven for his lack of caution, for he was as much bemused by her presence, as he was by her rapid delivery of questions, “Naturally he is in his room, but I can assure you…”

“Which is his room?”

“The one directly above us, but…”

Before he could say anything more she had swept past him and was running up the stairs, two at a time, and presently he heard the clatter of her boots across the landing above his head.  Without so much as a knock Underwood’s door crashed open, bouncing violently against the chest of drawers which happened to stand to the left of it.

Gil was well aware that he ought not to leave his brother to the mercy of an apparently hysterical female, nor should that young lady be in a gentleman’s room without a chaperone, but he nevertheless raised his eyes heavenward in a mute appeal for understanding and forgiveness, then quietly went to his study and closed the door behind him.

Underwood, meanwhile, rudely awoken from his slumbers by the clash of wood against wood, sat bolt upright and roared, in uncharacteristically strident tones,

“Good God, woman!  What the devil is amiss?  Is the house afire?”  Blearily realizing that his visitor was not, as he had supposed, the housekeeper with his morning tea, but an extremely breathless Charlotte, he hastily dragged the covers up to his chin and demanded, only slightly less aggressively, “Great Heavens, Charlotte, what do you think you are doing in here?”

“The reverend sent me word that you were ill, and I knew you would not break your promise to me unless it was serious, so I have sent for Dr. Herbert!”

His shocked expression swiftly changed to one of extreme irritation, “Dr. Herbert!”  The quite justified castigation which sprang to his lips was quelled by the tragic look in her eyes.  It was rather pleasant, he discovered, to have concern for his health engender such panic.  He found himself smiling, “Well, as it happens, I did have something to discuss with the good doctor.  Now, perhaps you would like to go downstairs.  I’m sure my brother will be delighted to make you some tea, and I shall join you presently.”

“Are … are you not really ill then?” she asked, with a decided tremble to her lower lip.

“Not precisely ill – merely very tired and brought rather low by my sojourn in the Capital, that is all.  There was really no need for you to fret yourself.  I only asked Gil to tell you of my return so that you should not think I had broken my word to you.”

She drew herself up to her full height, “Oh!” she exclaimed crossly, “How provoking it is that I constantly make a fool of myself where you are concerned!”

He kindly tried to hide his amusement, unsuccessfully, and he had to avoid her eye by running his fingers through his already disordered hair, “Do not be so harsh on yourself.  You don’t seem so very great a fool to me!” he intended to be facetious, but she took his words too literally and rounded upon him like a termagant,  “No, I should be harsh on you!  All this is your fault!  If you would stop treating me like an annoying child, and take me into your confidence, perhaps I should not be thrown into a turmoil every time something happens to you!”

He looked across the room at her, standing framed in the doorway.  She was wearing a wine-coloured velvet habit, beautifully fitted to her figure – newly made for her, had he but known it – and her breast still rose and fell deeply with indignation and breathlessness.  She made quite a charming picture, with her pink-cheeks, and her hair escaping from beneath her hat in tiny tendrils, and he suddenly wondered how so lovely a creature could show so deep an interest in himself.  He imagined he was far from being any woman’s ideal, having been raised in the belief that the fair sex liked nothing more than a handsome rogue, who excelled at sports and treated them with latent savagery.  His youth had long gone, if indeed he had ever known one, for he had always been of a serious demeanour, and with it any pretensions of furthering his career, or expanding his bank balance.  He felt he had nothing to offer a young woman of such warmth, vivacity and charm.  It was because these thoughts came into his mind that, instead of doing as she asked and confiding in her, he found himself coldly withdrawing from her.  She wanted too much from him, and far, far too soon.

“Please go downstairs.”

The expression on her face left him in no doubt that he had hurt her deeply.  She turned on her heel without another word, slamming the door behind her and he was left staring at the much abused panels, listening as the sound of her boot heels across the oak boards grew gradually fainter, then ceased altogether.  Only then did he throw back the covers and get to his feet.

When he entered the drawing room some time later, he found Dr. Herbert waiting for him, as well as Charlotte and his brother.  To his surprise there was another person in the room also, but before any introductions could be attempted Mr. Pollock was crossing the room, his hand outstretched, his great voice booming like the deep bark of a very large and extremely friendly dog, “By Jupiter!  Snuff Underwood as I live and breathe!”

It took Mr. Underwood several seconds to recognize his erstwhile student, but when he did so, his dismay was comic to behold.  Politeness dictated that he try to disguise it, but his acting was not of the highest standard, “Mr. Pollock!  What, pray tell, brings you here?”  The inference of hopefulness in his tone did not escape anyone as he added, “A short visit, I presume?” 

His hand was grasped in a bone-grinding act of fervour and he could not restrain the wince which momentarily marred his features.

“Good grief, no!  Has Mr Underwood not told you the happy news?  I am his new curate and my stay is to be indefinite.  And having met the lovely Miss Wynter, I can’t say I’m at all sorry!”

“Curate?”  Underwood managed a smile, albeit a rather bleak one, “How… er… charming for us all!”  He threw a glance at his brother which clearly said, “How could you do this to me?” but all Gil could do was shrug his shoulders in denial and mute apology.

Dr. Herbert had watched this scene unfold with some amusement, but now decided the time had come to rescue his prospective patient from the clutches of the overbearing Pollock, “I believe you are not feeling quite … the thing, Underwood,” he had almost said ‘up to snuff’, but hastily stopped himself, “By the look of you, you would have been more sensible to have stayed in bed.  Shall we retire to the study and see what cures can be wrought for you?”

“Yes, thank you.  I must own I was feeling a little better, until I came downstairs.  I think I might be suffering a relapse!  You will all forgive me, I trust?” he spoke to the room in general, then caught Charlotte’s eye, and detected a certain coldness therein,

“I did not think you would wait, Miss Wynter.  I do apologize.  Perhaps I might be permitted to call upon you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” the vicar gently reminded him.  It occurred to Mr. Underwood to point out to his brother that he was on holiday and that the constraints the Church of England placed upon him in University life should not necessarily be repeated here, but he was a kind-hearted man and could not bring himself to thus embarrass the man who, after all, was the priest of the parish.

“I do beg your pardon, Gil.  My jaunting had quite put that out of my head.  Monday, then, Miss Wynter?”

“As you wish, Mr. Underwood.  Good day!”  She swept past him, studiously avoiding his eyes, but ensuring that her train brushed against his legs and that the faintest whiff of her perfume assailed his nostrils.  A close observer might have noticed that a muscle in his cheek twitched as his teeth were clenched, but he gave no other indication of his intense desire to follow her.

In the study Dr. Herbert was the first to break the silence, “You seem preoccupied, Underwood – or should I say
‘Snuff’
?”  He grinned playfully, but his companion was not amused, “Damn the boy!  How dare he use that ludicrous sobriquet?  And what the devil is Gil about, bringing him here to haunt me?  Does he not think I have seen enough of my boys in their college days without inviting them to live in the same house with me?”

“Calm down, my friend!  You know Gilbert did not invite him!  If the Bishop sends him a curate, he is hardly in a position to refuse him – and such a curate!  I imagine finding a place where one can safely send Mr. Pollock is a daunting task!”

“Not half as daunting as living with him!” muttered Underwood, hardly mollified.

“Well, put Pollock from your mind and tell me what has really sent you into such a pucker!  I think I have seen enough of you to know that it takes more than a highly unsuitable clergyman to disturb you equanimity!”

Mr. Underwood could have listed several things, besides being confronted with ‘Bouncer’ Pollock (a name which he thought he had earned on the cricket field, but may not necessarily have done so!) which had occurred to make his legendary calm boil into raging turmoil, beginning with being rudely awoken by a screaming virago, but he merely confined himself to a description of his trip to London.

“Straight to the point as always, my dear fellow!”  The tension suddenly left his slim frame and he sank wearily into the nearest chair, “Well, as I had suspected, the girl did arrive by stage in Beconfield, but how she came to Bracken Tor, I could not discover.  She did not take the Carrier’s cart, as I did.  I suppose she either walked or was taken in a private carriage or cart.”

“How did you manage to find out all that, without a name of description?”

“It wasn’t easy.  I knew she must have travelled quite some distance, because there was no recognition of her clothing and no distress at her disappearance, but that meant she could have come from as far afield as London, but as near as Derby, Sheffield, Manchester, Chesterfield – the list is endless!”