An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) Read Free

cools.”
    Verity hid a smile; “I’ll risk that.  Do we have any of Lady Hartley-Wells honey left?”
    “We do, but it would be more properly described as Miss Cromer’s – it is she who really keeps the bees and gathers the honey herself.”
    “She is well able to do so, for it would be a courageous bee indeed which dared to sting Miss Cromer.”
    Mrs. Threadgold grinned in spite of herself, “Madam, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
    A very short time later Verity was wandering in her over-grown garden, a slice of bread and honey in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.
    It was a lovely warm day, but not the lazy, energy-sapping heat of August when the effort to do anything at all was too great.  No, this was June, the month when the garden sprang into sudden, resplendent, glorious life, the insects and flowers in joyful harmony.  Even Verity’s unkempt, untamed wilderness looked attractive, the all-too present weeds hidden, for the moment by a mask of prettiness.  She knew the loveliness would be fleeting, but it would do for the time being.  Neither she nor
    Underwood had ever possessed a garden of their own before this, their first home together and the past year had been far too busy for them to begin work outside, but the task could not be much longer delayed.  Poor Toby did his best, but he could not be left to tackle this mammoth task alone.  He was taken far too much for granted as it was.  There could not be many freed black slaves who worked as hard as he did – and his undefined role in the household meant that he was quite as likely to be asked to mind the baby as he was to cut firewood, muck out the newly acquired horse or even cook, when Mrs. Threadgold was absent.  Not that he minded.  His devotion to the family was complete, but whereas Underwood had swiftly and easily fallen into the habit of using the man, Verity still had a sneaking and unresolved guilt about their employment of him.  He had been so badly treated by his former masters that it seemed horrible to her that he was still in service, albeit at a remarkably good rate of pay.  Underwood might unconsciously take advantage of another’s loyalty, but he was neither unreasonable nor miserly.  Toby was well-paid, well-cared for and had as much free time as he required, but the truth was he had no life away from the
    Underwood family.  The colour of his skin meant that he was almost always viewed with suspicion by the working classes, and with shame and pity mixed by the upper classes who did not know him.  He was accepted without question by the Underwoods and their circle, but outside that, he was little more than an outcast.
    Underwood, who could be, at times, remarkably obtuse, never even seemed to notice any of this and thought his black friend and servant perfectly content with his lot, but Verity sensed his hidden frustration, though she was far too shy ever to broach the subject.
    She turned her thoughts away from the seemingly impossible task of making
    Toby happy, to the subject of Gil’s marriage.  This, too, was a source of vague disquiet.  Gil had spent many years quite happily alone, yet here he was, not eighteen months after his wife’s tragically early death, contemplating matrimony again.  Verity found it hard to understand his reasons.  It was not that she did not like Cara – on the contrary, she thought her a lovely, lively young woman, but that was part of the problem.  Gil was so very serious and his late wife Catherine had been made a little staid before her time by widowhood and the raising of her boy alone.  How on earth
    Gil would adjust to a life lived in the wild social whirl of London’s aristocracy after so many years of dealing with the grinding poverty of most of his previous parishes, she simply did not know.
    Mrs. Threadgold appeared at the scullery door, “Madam, Lady Hartley-Wells is here to see you.”
    Verity started violently, slopping her tea carelessly onto the