An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (7 page)

“Does a man love you when he tells you he does not think your baby is his?”  Luisa asked wretchedly.

Verity was shocked.  Underwood had been less than delighted at the way he had found out about her pregnancy, but he had never been cynical or cruel enough to suggest that the coming infant might not be his own issue.

“He really said that to you?”

“He did!  He says he does not trust me – how can that be love?  I will kill myself.  There is no point in living if my husband does not love me and does not want our baby.”

This was seriously disconcerting for the pragmatic Verity, who rarely said anything she did not mean, “Luisa!  Pray do not say anything so wicked.  Peter is merely shocked and surprised.  He will repent his behaviour when he has had time to think about everything, I promise.  You must swear to me, now, that you will not do anything silly or dangerous.”

“Why should I not?  Nobody cares about me.  Pietro’s brother and his wife hate me.  They think I am a common little actress who should not have dared to marry into their family.  Cara is my only ally and she is gone away.  You and Underwood have been kind, and so has the good doctor and his wife, but soon you will go back to your own homes and I shall be left alone with a family who hate me and a poor little baby whom nobody wants either.”

“Oh, do not say so!  It is so sad to think of a baby whom no one loves.  You will love your baby, no matter what anyone else thinks or does, Luisa.  You have wanted a baby so much.  Do not let this sadness spoil it for you.”

Luisa wiped her face on the sheet and sniffed sadly, “You are right.  This is my baby.  I shall go home to Italy.  Giovanni will care for me, and I can still sing.  I do not need Peter or his horrid family.”

                Verity was appalled at being so misunderstood.  She could imagine Lord Peter’s reaction when he discovered that his runaway wife had been encouraged into flight by the meddlesome Mrs. Underwood, “No, no!  You cannot run away from your husband.  You must wait for him to calm down, then you will speak reasonably to him.  Everything will be happily resolved.”

“If my papa knew of this,” said Luisa darkly, “he would slit Pietro’s throat from ear to ear!”

“Then thank God he is not with us,” said Verity fervently, “Now calm yourself.  Do you think you might feel well enough to leave your bed and eat with us downstairs this evening?”

“Yes, I am much better.  Tonight I will sing for you all.  You have never heard me sing, have you?  Pietro said I have the voice of an angel, that was why he fell in love with me.  Tonight I will remind him of that love, and punish him for his insults.”              Since she sounded much more cheerful, Verity took this as a sign that all thoughts of suicide had been banished.  It made her head spin, the speed with which the Italian
prima donna
could change her mood.  From misery, to revenge, to singing, all in the space of a few seconds.  She would never understand this woman, but she also knew she was developing a very real affection for her, and wanted nothing more than to see her settled with the husband she adored and her child in her arms.

Once she was sure Luisa was calm, she trotted off to her room to fetch the long-forgotten parasol.  Underwood was waiting to take Horatia for her airing and would wonder what on earth had kept her.

Downstairs she found Adeline and Jeremy had already left the house, bound for an assignation with the Wablers.

Her husband on his hands and knees, happily playing horses with his little daughter, careless of the dirt he was picking up on his fawn breeches.  She watched them with open affection for a few moments before making her presence known – thank God she had no need to worry about such jealousy and accusations of misbehaviour from her husband.  She did not think she could bear to live on the knife-edge which apparently suited Peter and Luisa.  For all the distress they caused each other, she had the distinct impression that the dramas and quarrels were all part of an elaborate game they played with each other, driving each other into a frenzy as proof of the passion they shared.  Personally she find their behaviour childish and rather frightening, feeling they were tempting providence with their folly, but it was nothing to do with her – and she fully intended that it remain that way.

*

CHAPTER SEVEN

(“Bis Repetita Placent” – The things that please are those that are asked for again and again)

Verity spent an unhappy afternoon, though she made sure it was not obvious to her husband or daughter.  She smiled, she laughed, she walked, she ran.  She helped Horatia to catch crabs in the rock pools at the sea’s edge, she sat and held hands with Underwood as they watched their baby toddle about, but all the time she was agonizing over the secrets Luisa had confided.

Unlike Underwood, who was always happy to give anyone the benefit of his advice, Verity was circumspect.  She had seen, only too clearly, the results of meddling in the affairs of others – it had nearly cost Underwood his life on more than one occasion.  But still Luisa’s melancholy face continued to haunt her.

As the shadows grew long and Horatia pulled imperiously at her father’s trousers to be carried home to bed, Verity became more and more convinced that she was going to have to speak to Lord Peter about his treatment of his lovely young wife.  She did not relish the thought for not only did she not believe in interfering between married people, she was also rather afraid of the Earl’s brother.  It was not simply his size, for he was taller even than Underwood, but something about him that suggested a latent menace.  It was as though he were a seething cauldron of passionate emotions, just barely kept under control – no wonder Luisa had fallen in love with him, for he must remind her of Mount Etna – ready to blow up at any moment.

Underwood was surprised to be despatched to the upper floor with his little girl, to find her nurse and her bath.  Usually Verity would not dream of missing this special time of the day, but he went off quite happily, having been told his wife had something to arrange.  He assumed she required a word with the kitchen staff about a picnic for the morrow.

Verity, meanwhile, went in search of Lord Peter and her feelings were mixed when she found him – thankfully alone – reading a newspaper and looking for all the world as though he hadn’t a care.

“Might I have a word with you, sir?” she asked diffidently. 

He obligingly dipped the corner paper and looked at her over the edge of it, one eyebrow raised in a thoroughly lowering manner, which made her feel that she was both a nuisance and amusing to him, “My dear Mrs. Underwood – Verity, isn’t it?  I think we might be allowed to address each other rather less formally, now that we are nominally at least, related to each other.  Far be it from me to actually trace the complexities of our connection, but since my niece is married to your brother-in-law, I imagine it would be quite correct for you to call me Peter.”

Verity blushed scarlet.  She had not expected him to be so reasonable, or indeed so openly friendly.  She had girded herself for battle and found herself disarmed, “Very well, Peter.”

“Now, what did you wish to say to me – pray seat yourself – standing there by the door, with your hands tucked behind you, you give the distinct impression of a school-girl who has misbehaved.”  He smiled kindly and she felt even more dreadfully impertinent.  She sidled to a chair and took a deep breath, “Peter, I cannot tell you how awkward I feel at this moment, but I simply must speak.”

“Then pray do so, for I swear I have rarely been more intrigued.”

He was laughing at her, and she knew it, but regardless she plunged on, “I spoke to Luisa this morning and she was terribly distressed.  I know this really has nothing to do with me, but I could not witness her misery and not attempt to right a terrible wrong.”  Impulsively she reached out her hand and laid it on his, “Peter, Luisa loves you a very great deal, please be kind to her.”

Had she but known it, it was that gesture which saved her from an explosion of his wrath.  He looked down at the small white hand, dwarfed by his own strong, brown fingers and felt the warmth flowing from her.  This was no interfering harridan, no meddlesome crone.  Here was a woman who loved deeply and wanted all those around her to feel that love.  She spoke, rather bravely, because she cared, not just for Luisa, but for him too.  Peter had not often experienced such care in his life.  His upbringing had been chilly, to say the least.  Parents whom he rarely saw, a procession of nannies and nurses, then school – public school with all its attendant brutalities.  For the majority of boys, it was an unpleasant interlude in their lives, for the sensitive and passionate Peter, it had been a refined torture.  All his life he had searched for love, uncomplicated, unadorned love – and all he had found were women who wanted him for his money, for his social standing.  It was why he could not bring himself to believe the lovely Luisa when she told him she loved him, why he was tormented by doubts and insecurities.  Verity, in breaking with convention and touching a man who was not her husband in an unrestrainedly affectionate way, had hit a nerve.

She found her hand being clasped in his, “Verity, I try – I swear to God, I try to be kind to her, but when I recall her past life, the men who pursued her, I find myself overwhelmed by jealousy.  It is like an evil, malicious sickness in my blood and I cannot control it, any more than a man with consumption can make his lungs whole again.”

                Her heart went out to him.  He sounded genuinely upset and she believed him when he said he could not control his feelings, “Peter, my dear, you have to stop this.  Luisa says she loves you and she means it.  You have to forget the past and look to the future.  It is no easy thing for a woman to carry a child and to give birth – I know!  A woman only does so willingly for the man she loves.  Please love Luisa in return, it is all you can do for her now.”

“I will try, I promise.”

“Have you spoken to her since this morning?”

“No.”

“Then do so now.  Tell her what you have told me, and ask her pardon for your behaviour.  She will forgive you and you can both start again, fresh and clean, and with your own baby to look forward to.”

He didn’t wait to hear anything else, but cast the paper aside and went out of the room at a run.  Verity went to join her husband and daughter for bath time, hoping against hope she had found a solution for both Luisa and Peter.  After so much heartache, they deserved a little happiness.

*

True to her word, Luisa came down to join them all for dinner.  She looked a little pale, but had evidently built bridges with her husband, who looked as content as any man there.  He bestowed a half-smile upon Verity, who returned it, with a heartfelt, though silent, sigh of relief.

The whole party, after a day of disparate occupations, were gathered together for dinner, all except Trentham, who rarely showed his face amongst them.  He had his own set of young friends who were in Brighton for the season, as well as the Wablers, who, due to his generosity in buying drinks and losing at cards, were well on the way to treating him as one of their own.

When the meal was over, Luisa expressed a desire to sing for them and Verity immediately offered to play the piano.  She knew music had been the first attraction between Peter and his wife, so a renewal of their memories would be no bad thing.

Luisa, with typical warm-heartedness, insisted that the servants also be gathered to hear her little impromptu concert.  The Earl, feeling expansive after a good dinner and even better port, told the butler to summon the staff and sit them in the dining room, with the double doors open.  Slowly they filed in, nervous and embarrassed, especially the younger and lowlier maids, and perched on the edge of straight-backed chairs, their hands folded demurely in their laps.  The butler, Pryce, stood to one side of the room, looking supercilious, not at all sure he approved of this mixing of the classes.  Toby stood behind him and Giovanni took one of the chairs at the front of the room, his legs dangling, and his face impassive.  He had heard his mistress sing on many occasions, but, like his master, he would never miss a chance to hear her again.

Underwood was fond of some Opera – though not, by any means, all.  So he settled himself with everyone else into a comfortable chair in the music room and prepared himself to listen to a pleasant amateur.  When Luisa began to sing, he had to swiftly reassess his opinion.  He was not merely pleased, he was enchanted.  She sang, as Peter had said, with the voice of an angel.  Every note was pure, perfect and spine tingling.  Underwood could scarcely believe that mere music could lift and thrill him as this did.  One glance about him told him that everyone else must feel the same – especially Peter, whose eyes were closed and on whose face was an expression of sublime joy.

Luisa entertained them for over an hour and when the last note faded away, they all felt it had ended too soon.

A slow clapping by the door broke the spell and all eyes turned to see Trentham standing there, bringing his hands together slowly and deliberately, as though to insult not only the singer, but those who had been entranced by a magic of her weaving.

With all the sure instincts of his breed, the butler saw trouble brewing from afar and hastily began to usher his staff out of the dining room, whilst quietly closing the doors upon the ‘upper class’.

“No one sings of love as you do, Luisa – what a pity you know nothing about it.”

Verity’s heart sank.  Why, oh why could not Trentham leave his Uncle and Luisa alone?

The Earl leapt to his feet, “Trent, be quiet now, sir!  You are offensive.  How dare you appear before your mother in a drunken state?”

“Oh come now, Papa.  She’s seen you in a worse state.”

“Trentham,” breathed his mother, horrified, “This is not the time.”

“Why not?  Have I missed something?”

Dr. Herbert rose to his feet and said with great dignity, “Trentham, I think you should calm yourself and stop causing a scene.  Your Aunt and Uncle have had pleasant news today, and they do not want your antics to spoil their joy.”

“News?  What news?”  His voice was sharp with suspicion, as though he half-guessed the blow that was about to befall him.

“Your uncle is to be congratulated upon becoming a father,” said the Earl quietly.  The young man looked utterly thunderstruck, then as the meaning of his father’s words sank into his drink-befuddled brain; he paled visibly, “A child?  God Almighty!  Wasn’t it bad enough that he was old enough to be her father, without that?”

“Trentham!  Must I tell you again that you are deeply offensive?”

“Offensive?  I’m offensive?  That’s rich!  What could be more offensive than an old man like my uncle forcing his seed onto a sweet, fresh rosebud?”

His father was across the room and trying to force the boy out into the hallway before anyone could intervene, but Trentham was not about to be easily silenced, “I will be heard.  Peter, meet me outside.  It is time this thing was settled once and for all.  I challenge you to a duel.  Pistols at dawn!  That should bring an end to the charade.  One of us dead and to the victor the spoils.  What say you, Uncle?  Are you a coward as well as a roué?”

              Luisa let loose a groan of pure despair, sinking to her knees, “Dear God!  Why must this always happen?  Why cannot I be happy even for a moment?”

Peter went to her and lifted her into his arms, “Come, sweetheart, you are tired.  I will take you to your room.”

They could hear Trentham still shouting in the hall, with both his mother and father trying to reason with him in quiet, but forceful voices.

Francis glanced towards the door, then back at the grim-visaged Peter and his swooning wife, “I should take the back stairs, if I were you, Peter.  No need to inflame the boy even more whilst he is in that state.  He’ll be sober and sorry in the morning.”

“If he is not, I’ll make him so,” said Peter, but he took the doctor’s advice and bore his wife out through the tall double doors, back into the now vacated dining room and thence onto the servants’ access to the kitchen and up the back stairs.

Underwood, Verity, Ellen, Francis, Adeline and Jeremy all exchanged glances of relief, “Poor, poor Luisa,” said Verity; “I could happily hit Trentham!  What on earth was he thinking of, saying those things?  It would not be so bad if Luisa demonstrated the slightest partiality for him, but it must be obvious even to him that she can barely stand his presence.”

“Perhaps that is the problem,” said Jeremy thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“What better way to hide her feelings for him than to hide behind a façade of hatred?”

“No,” protested Verity, shocked, “It cannot be.  Luisa loves Peter, I am sure of it.”

“I’m also sure of it – but does not Trentham resemble his uncle in every way but that of age?  Luisa may not even be aware of being attracted to a younger version of her husband, but Peter knows it.  That is why he cannot control his jealousy.”

“Unfortunately, you speak great sense,” said Ellen sadly, “And heaven knows how all this is going to end.”

The voices in the hall died away and the Countess came back into the room.  She was visibly distressed, her handkerchief clutched in her hand, “Francis, I don’t suppose you have any smelling salts about your person?” she asked, sinking wearily into a nearby chair, “On my oath, that boy will be the death of me!”

Francis passed her a vinaigrette, placed hastily into his hand by his wife, whilst Adeline went silently into the dining room, returning swiftly with a glass of some reviving liquid.  The Countess took it and swallowed it gratefully,