Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (16 page)

She determinedly blew her nose, resolving not to distress him any further,

“Yes, of course, you must go.  How is Mrs. Rogers?”

“Bearing her lot with fortitude.  She is a remarkable woman.”

“You will give her my regards and condolences?”

“Naturally.”

“When is Catherine to be buried?”

“Nothing has yet been arranged.  Put it from your mind for the present,” he said hastily, afraid of provoking another bout of weeping.  He did not think he could stand much more – it had been a very long and draining day, “Try to rest.  I have to speak to Toby.  I have been using him ill these past few weeks.  He has not had a free day since we came here.  I must make it up to him once tomorrow is over.”

She obediently sank down in the bed, and rather to her own surprise found she was suddenly overtaken by exhaustion.  She did not know how she could be so very tired after spending the whole day in bed – and all the days which had gone before.  Had she ever been out of this room?  She could scarcely remember her other life, alive with health and unencumbered, it seemed like a distant, rapidly fading dream.

She felt the pressure of his lips against her brow, but did not even have the energy to acknowledge the embrace, let alone return it.

As he reached the door her turned back and smiled at the suddenness of her slumber.  Sometimes she was like a child in her demeanour, so openly affectionate, so easily brought to laughter and to tears – and to sleep.  Underwood struggled every day of his life to keep his emotions under strict control, Verity had no such inhibitions.

He wondered vaguely which way was best.  She certainly seemed less troubled than he, but then she also seemed satisfied with far less.  It appeared to him that as long as she had her love for him, she could happily dispense with everything else.  He could imagine she would be perfectly content to sleep under a hedgerow as long as he was by her side.

What strange creatures women were, to be sure!

*

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

(“Pessimum Genus Inimicorum Laudantes” – Flatterers are the worst type of enemies)

Gil looked down upon the gathering from his pulpit, but it seemed to Underwood that barely saw the faces raised to him.  It was fortunate that Rogers had never inspired any particular affection amongst his fellow man, for if ever a vicar delivered a funeral oration which owed nothing to fact and everything to polite fiction, this was it.  Gil himself was hardly there.  He spoke the words required of him, but it was evident that all he said was dredged from memory, and had he been interrupted, he would not have known how to continue, for he would not have recognized the place where he broke off.  Not that anyone was in the least concerned.  The news of the death of his young wife had spread through the town as though carried on the wind, and even those who disapproved of the union could not but help pity the man.

There were those in the congregation, of course, who knew nothing of any of this.  They had arrived that day merely to attend the funeral and Underwood, from his pew at the back of the church, observed them all closely.  The identity of Rogers’ murderer was once again open to question.  Any one of those listening to the empty words of the cleric could be the guilty party.  Underwood knew that mere observation could not really hope to offer any clue, but still he scanned the ranks – and ranks there were.  At first he was rather stunned that someone with the glaring flaws of character displayed by Rogers could have brought so many together at his demise, but when he discounted his own feelings of dislike, it became abundantly clear that a man of Rogers’ class would always have acquaintances who would feel honour bound to support his mother and show their faces at his burial.  They would ignore their own disillusionment with the boy for the sake of their place in society.  The gentry always defended their own.  Hundreds of years of history had taught them the wisdom of the adage, ‘divide and conquer’, and conversely ‘stand united and overcome’.  They would always stand together, no matter how much they secretly despised one of their number, and since it was nearly always the lower classes who suffered in any given situation, it was that much easier to do so.  After all, they would reason, who had Rogers really damaged?  True, he had taken money from his gambling cronies, but most of them could well afford to lose, and sometimes he lost to them – nature’s balance always came into play.  No, the real victims of Rogers and his ilk were the tradesmen who had trusted the vows to repay debts, and the legions of foolish young maid servants who had believed those expressions of affection and had given their all for pie-crust promises – those which were easily made and more easily broken.

Undoubtedly, Rogers would have had to behave a great deal more badly than he had to lose the support of his peers.

Thoughts of serving wenches seemed prophetic, for at that very moment Underwood caught sight of a young girl, seated well back behind all the others, and very obviously trying to hide her bulk beneath her cape.  Her clothing and general demeanour gave her away as belonging to the lower classes, for she barely dared raise her eyes to look at the coffin on its flower-strewn bier.  Her presence was not only unusual for the reason of her evident poverty, but for the very fact that she was a woman.  It was not expected for women to be present at funerals, especially not at the service for a young, unmarried male.  A youthful virgin might hope to have a group of young women accompanying her last journey, as they might have hoped to follow her down the aisle on her wedding day – but never a young man!  Of course elderly women attended, particularly if the deceased was lacking in male relatives.  Underwood noted the bowed head of Mrs. Rogers, ably supported by Lady Hartley-Wells, and one or two of the fearsome Pump-room harridans, but this girl was the only other female present.  Underwood was intrigued.

His interest was even more piqued when the cortege moved out into the churchyard.  As the coffin was manoeuvred into position ready for lowering into the gaping grave, the girl broke into audible sobs, crying out, “Oh Godfrey, what have you done to me?  How will I ever manage now?”  The typical British reserve ensured that though everyone stole a covert glance at her, no one moved towards her, either to remove her, or offer her comfort.

Unfortunately for Underwood, he happened to be standing nearest to her when she seemed to stagger forward, almost falling headlong into the grave after the studded, velvet-covered casket, and his hand shot out instinctively to catch her.  The action was automatic, and deeply regretted.  It was not that he meant to be unkind, or unfeeling, but he intuitively knew this girl was going to mean trouble – and frankly he had enough to occupy him.  Once involved with her, he knew he was going to have a devil of a task disentangling himself.  Only let Verity hear about this new lame dog, and he could see himself Master of a house which contained not one, but two babies, and a serving maid who was worse than useless, and who would probably come home at regular intervals with yet another misdemeanour kicking under her apron.

“Why did you not let me fall?” she asked, leaning wearily against him, her voice quiet and broken with despair, “What good is life to me now?”

Underwood attempted to force her upright, gently enough, but with a determination born of increasing embarrassment.  Not a single head turned towards them, but he knew every ear was attuned to eavesdrop upon every word which passed between them, “I realize you are distressed, madam, but life is always worth living – and we must not add to Mrs. Rogers’ burden, must we?”

She threw a poisonous glance directly at the older woman, “Why not?  She made my poor Godfrey suffer enough.  It’s her fault he is dead.  If she had given him some money, we should be married and far away in France by now, and my baby would not be condemned to life without a father or a name.”

“Are you telling me that you believe the child you carry is the offspring of Godfrey Rogers?”  he whispered incredulously.  A belligerent look came onto her face, “What do you mean ‘believe’?  I know it to be so!  What kind of a girl do you think I am?”

Underwood had been trying to avoid thinking about her at all, but he did not offer that as a response, instead he quietly pointed out that the moment had come for those closest to the dead man to cast a handful of soil upon the lowered coffin.  Mrs. Rogers threw the first handful, but the girl swiftly left Underwood’s side and forced herself through the crowd so that she might be the second.

Underwood seized the opportunity to hastily depart, though he knew he was not by any means free.  Now that she had confided her story to him, they young woman was almost certainly going to seek him out again. 

Mrs. Rogers had hired the Assembly rooms for the consumption of the funerary feast, for she had been unable to bear the thought of  entertaining in her own home – a home she supposed she no longer possessed, though her cousin-by-marriage had been too polite to say so.  The notion of yet another wake, so soon after the laying to rest of her beloved husband was painful to say the least.  And Godfrey in no way deserved to follow in his father footsteps – not even to the grave.

His burial had been in the churchyard, not the family vault, and to anyone who knew the family well, this could be seen as nothing other than what it was – an insult.  The official excuse was that the Rogers’ tomb could not be re-opened so soon, as the existing contents might cause offence to the eyes and noses of the pall-bearers, but this fooled no one.  The boy had been a disappointment to his parents in every way and the mother who had sought to hide the worst of his excesses from a morally upright father, now tried to keep them apart even in death.

For his own purposes, Underwood was delighted with the choice of venue, for it gave him a freedom of movement and speech which would not have been possible in the home of the hostess.

Lady Cara, trying not to look happy at his presence, joined him first, softly expressing her condolences for the loss of his sister-in-law.  He accepted her comment rather brusquely, hoping she would now leave the subject alone, but she did not understand his reluctance and felt the need to pursue it, “Your brother was extremely courageous to take the service today.  I don’t think I could have done so.”

“He is a man of high principles.  He would never be absent when he felt himself needed.”

“He must indeed be so.  I wanted to weep for him with tears which Godfrey Rogers never inspired.”

Underwood could not prevent his lip curling with an expression of excessive distaste, “To mention the two in the same breath is to insult the finest man who ever lived, Miss!”

She was taken aback for a moment, unaccustomed to being chastised in so forthright a manner, and rather unhappy to have been so misunderstood by a man whose good opinion she craved, but she soon recovered.  Such affection and admiration between brothers could only betoken a superiority of mind which she had so far failed to find in any other man.  Underwood was blissfully unaware that the apology she uttered was among a very few ever expressed by the lady.  In her life so far, she had rarely, if ever, found anyone who dared or indeed wanted, to find fault with her.

The brother of that ‘finest man’ was, as usual, single-mindedly eager to push all other matters aside in pursuit of his latest interest, so he vaguely murmured, “Pray think no more about it,”  in response to her heartfelt assurance that on offence had been intended.

“Now I come to think of it,” he intercepted hastily, lest she continue with her present train of thought, “You are probably the very person I need.”  He eyed her speculatively.  She smiled, the beginnings of a flirtatious light entering her deep blue orbs, “How very daring of you to admit such a thing!”

His glance had begun to sweep across the occupants of the room, but at this comment he transferred his gaze to her face, a slight frown between his brows, “I beg your pardon?”

“There is no need, I do assure you.  I find your lack of finesse rather charming.”

“Be that as it may,” he replied testily, “I have no time for your nonsense now, so pray do not begin to talk in riddles!  Do you know any of the people gathered here?”

“Quite a lot of them, yes.  Why do you ask?”

“I require as much information as you can give.”

“Why?”

“Was there ever a woman with so much damnable curiosity?  Are you quite incapable of answering a question without asking one of your own?”

She smiled, mischief dancing in her eyes, “Do you think I am?”

He heaved an irritated sigh, “No, I do not!  I shall ask for help elsewhere.  Good day to you, Miss.”  Her hand flew out to detain him as he made to walk away.              “Pray, do not be so cross, Mr. Underwood.  I promise I shall behave with perfect propriety from this moment hence.”  She was still smiling, entirely entranced by his cavalier attitude.  She had grown so tired of compliments from toadying individuals, to whom her every word was law.  Underwood made a refreshing alternative.  It did not occur to her for a second that his disinterest was rooted in true apathy.  She thought he was being so contrary merely to tantalise her.

She told him the names of most of the minor aristocracy who were present, never imagining that their interest in her and her male companion was quite as avid as her own.  Before the day was out, letters would be flying to London, telling her parents that Cara at last had found a gentleman who took her fancy – true he was older than her by several years, and not a member of the
ton
, but he was personable enough, and had already succeeded in curbing her excesses, for she had chatted with him for hours, both their faces serious and engrossed.  Within days the Earl was setting out for Derbyshire, ready to either welcome a new son into his family, or to shoot the rogue who was trifling with his daughter.

How very fortunate that Underwood was destined to remain unaware of his Lordship’s intentions for some considerable time to come.

Meanwhile he was taking mental note of Cara’s character references.  One man in particular took his interest and he drew Cara’s attention to him, “Do you know that fellow, Cara?  He looks an uncommonly fine specimen!”

Cara looked in the direction indicated, and saw that Underwood was being sardonic.  The man concerned must indeed have believed himself to be an ‘uncommonly fine specimen’, but everything about him screamed of much money, but very little taste.  His clothes were far too loud, especially for a funeral, but even at a society ball, he would have looked vastly overdressed.  His coat was well-fitted and had probably been made by one of the top London tailors, but it bore a broad stripe which gave Underwood the suspicion of a headache when he looked for too long at it, and which frankly did nothing to give his plump figure the illusion of slenderness.  His waistcoat was red – bright, vivid, blood-red, and his breeches were white satin.  The buckles on his shoes shone with what looked like real gemstones, and his watch chain and fob could have happily held a fair sized ship at anchor in a choppy sea.

“Good God!  What is Conrad doing here?  If Godfrey was involved with him, then he was an even bigger fool that I took him for.”  Cara’s surprised comment was wrung from her before she had time to think of the impropriety of such an unladylike speech.  She stole a glance at Underwood from beneath lowered lids and was immensely relieved to see he appeared to be quite unmoved by her fall from grace.

“Tell me more, my dear girl,” he said eagerly.  At last it seemed he might finally begin to piece together some of Godfrey’s past life which might possibly give a clue to the reason for his untimely end.  The depth of feeling in Cara’s voice had told him more than her unguarded words had done.  She was both horrified by and rather afraid of Conrad.  It seemed he was a man it was not wise to know – and Godfrey had known him well enough to have him attend his funeral.  Mr. Underwood was suddenly very interested in the bright-buckled Mr. Conrad.