The Officer and the Lady

Imogen, however, seemed to have taken no offence at either his protracted stare or his lack of tact. ‘Yes, I was perfectly certain that you would,’ she acknowledged. ‘As soon as I set eyes on you I could see that you were not a man to be trifled with and I must tell you that I’ve been having such problems! Wentworth has been proving most uncooperative and the books are in such a state. It will be a relief to be able to go through them properly at last!’

Beresford frowned. ‘I think you may leave all that sort of thing safely in my hands from now on,’ he said. ‘Is that what you and Wentworth were arguing about back there?’

She hesitated. ‘Well—no—not exactly. It was quite another matter—it will keep—anyway, here we are at the house at last!’

She sounded relieved and Beresford found himself wondering if his first supposition about her and Wentworth had been correct after all and was startled to find that the thought of such a liaison was quite distasteful to him.

The wooded pathway had taken them down to the gravelled driveway at the front of the house and, as he got his first glimpse of the building, Beresford felt bound to concede that Thornfield was certainly a fine-looking mansion house, its graceful neoclassical architecture highly reminiscent of the Senior Resident’s house back home in Calcutta. Standing three storeys high, with more than twenty elegantly pedimented windows visible on its east-facing cream-stuccoed Palladian façade alone, it boasted a columned porte-cochère, which not only covered the impressive-looking flight of steps that led up to the front door, but a goodly portion of the front drive as well.

Motioning him in the direction of the steps, Imogen made for the archway that led to the north wing of the house. ‘I need to get these strawberries to Cook.’ She smiled. ‘Otherwise we shall have no dessert with our dinner!’ And with that, she whisked away through the archway.

Looking slightly bemused, Beresford watched her until she vanished from his sight then, suddenly conscious of the fact that the two carriages were already standing within the porte-cochère and that his friend Seymour seemed to be having some difficulty directing the disparate group of rather hapless-looking servants in the business of unloading the baggage, he groaned and hurried forward to take control of the situation. Having been used to the well-run, orderly life of a hill-station for so long, it seemed to him that the entire household looked to be in a total shambles.

When all of the trunks and boxes had finally been carried into the rather dust-ridden but magnificently appointed great hall, he looked about him, expecting to see some sort of welcoming (or otherwise) committee, but, apart from one elderly manservant who was shuffling uncomfortably at his elbow, there was no one else in sight.

‘Remarkably shy lot, it seems, your new family,’ grinned Seymour, unbuttoning his topcoat and handing it, along with his hat and gloves, to the servant.

Beresford frowned at him and looked down at the man.

‘Where might I find Lady Beresford?’ he enquired. ‘She will be expecting me, I imagine. Kindly take me to her at once.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Her ladyship will be indisposed, sir—that is to say, she never rises before noon and it is more than my life’s worth to have Mamselle disturb her before then.’

Beresford’s brows knitted together in exasperation and he bit back an angry retort, cautioning himself that it would not do to lose his temper at this stage. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards one of the rooms that led out of the hall, which, judging from the shelves of books that he had glimpsed through its open doorway, appeared to be either the library or an office of some sort.

‘Very well, my man,’ he said curtly. ‘You may bring me a decanter of brandy. Mr Seymour and I will take a little refreshment while we wait upon her ladyship’s convenience.’

‘Yes, sir. I will see what I can do, sir.’ The man bowed and scurried away.

The room was, in fact, a large and very well-stocked library, but, to Beresford’s dismay, it was dominated by a huge portrait of the late Sir Matthew that hung above the fireplace. Wearing the most forbidding expression, his late father seemed to be glowering down at them with arrant disapproval. Taking one horrified look at it, Beresford shuddered and swung one of the leather armchairs round to face away from the fireplace before taking his seat.

‘What an extraordinary welcome!’ commented Seymour, following his friend’s example. ‘It certainly looks as though you are going to have your work cut out here, Matt—not a friendly face in the place, as far as I can see.’

For no apparent reason, the image of a pair of laughing grey eyes shot into Beresford’s mind. He shrugged it off, saying, ‘We could certainly do with old Jimi and his houseboys here, David. A more slapdash set of servants I have yet to come across. It is clear that they need to be taken in hand—and so few of them—did you notice? One would have thought, in such a large establishment—’

His comments were interrupted by the arrival of the elderly manservant, who entered the room bearing a silver tray upon which rested a half-empty decanter and a pair of glasses.

‘Best I could do, sir,’ panted the man, laying down his burden on the drum table at Beresford’s elbow. ‘Mr Wentworth keeps the keys to the cellar, sir, and I cannot seem to locate him just at the moment.’

‘Who do you suppose this Mr Wentworth is?’ Seymour asked curiously, after the man had departed and closed the door behind him.

‘Oh, I have already had the dubious pleasure of making that fellow’s acquaintance,’ returned Beresford. ‘Met him up in the copse—apparently my father’s estate manager—a pretty shady sort of cove, if you want my opinion. Doubt if I will keep him on, but I suppose I shall have to make use of him to begin with. Or, at least until I get the feel of the place. Difficult to see why he should have the keys to the cellar, though. More the butler’s province, I should have thought.’

The two men drank their brandy in companionable silence, each mulling over the strange events of the morning.

All at once, the door to the library burst open and a very young woman rushed headlong into the room, her eyes alight with excitement.

‘It is really true!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘You have arrived, at last!’

Beresford and Seymour scrambled hastily to their feet in some confusion, their discomposure due partly to her sudden arrival but, more probably, because she was without doubt the loveliest creature that either of them had ever set eyes on. Ash-blonde hair, falling in entrancing ringlets to her shoulders, huge emerald green eyes, framed by long, sooty lashes and soft, rose-petal lips that were smiling the most captivating smile a man could ever wish to see. And, if that were not enough, beneath her simple white muslin gown, the girl clearly had the figure of an angel.

Both men held their breath as the vision looked from one to the other with a perplexed frown.

‘But one of you has to be my new brother!’ she said, with a small pout. ‘I was sure of it—but neither of you resembles Papa in the slightest!’

Beresford let out a sigh and strode forward with his hand extended. ‘I am Matthew Beresford,’ he conceded. ‘You must be—Jessica?’

She nodded swiftly and, reaching forward, took his hand in both of hers and proceeded to drag him towards the nearby sofa.

Highly amused, he offered no resistance and, at her command, sat down on the sofa beside her. She gave him a little flutter of her lashes before bestowing him with the full benefit of her extraordinarily bewitching eyes.

‘You have been so long in coming,’ she said plaintively, holding his hand in hers and stroking it gently.

The little minx, thought Beresford, grinning inwardly. Barely eighteen years of age and already well on the way to becoming a highly accomplished flirt! He would be prepared to wager that she had broken quite a few hearts amongst the local swains. He turned his head, in order to catch Seymour’s eye in a conspiratorial wink, but blinked in despair as he registered the look on his friend’s face. Oh, Lord, he sighed, here we go again! It was clear that there would be no support from that quarter!

‘England is rather a long way from India,’ was his apologetic reply to his new sister.

She nibbled at her lower lip in the most provocative way. ‘I have been wanting you to come so dreadfully. Everything has been so horrid since Papa died. I have not had a single new gown for over a year—and we missed all of the Victory celebrations in London! I did so want to see the Prince Regent in all his finery!’

Beresford hid the smile that was forming. ‘Well, as you can see, I am here now,’ he said soothingly as he patted her hand. ‘And I am sure we can sort out all your troubles very soon.’

‘And I may have my allowance again?’ Her wide eyes were fixed upon his once more and she clasped her hands together in pleading entreaty.

‘I dare say that can be arranged without a great deal of difficulty,’ he assured her laughingly, as he rose to his feet. ‘But I really do need to speak to your mama without delay—your butler tells me that she is indisposed?’

‘Oh, Mama is always indisposed,’ she retorted, with a careless toss of her silver curls. ‘She will come down soon, I should think, but only to take her nuncheon in the little salon and then she will spend the afternoon resting on the chaise-longue in there.’

‘But she knows I have arrived, surely?’ he asked, perplexed.

Jessica pondered over this, then nodded. ‘I should imagine so,’ she said. ‘Imo will have told her.’

‘Imo?’

Jessica jumped up. ‘Cousin Imo—you know. She is probably the one you will need to talk to, anyway. Mama never concerns herself with household affairs. Imo deals with all that sort of thing.’ She flashed him another of her dazzling smiles. ‘I will go and fetch her for you, if you like,’ she offered, as she darted like quicksilver out of the room.

Beresford gazed after her in despair. What sort of a household had he inherited? A reluctant staff, an inefficient manager, a sister who was, clearly, far more proficient in the art of flirtation than she should be, a sickly stepmother and now, it appeared, some sort of dependant spinster cousin. He grimaced, wondering what on earth the boy, Nicholas, might prove to have amiss with him.

A heavy sigh from Seymour caught his attention and he turned to see his friend gazing soulfully into the far distance.

‘What an absolute beauty!’ his colleague gasped, as he caught Beresford’s enquiring glance. ‘Did you see those eyes?’

‘Stow it, David,’ replied Beresford, somewhat tetchily. ‘I trust that I do not have to remind you that the child is my sister.’

‘Hardly a child, old man,’ Seymour was quick to point out. ‘But I take your meaning—she will come to no harm at my hands, I promise you.’

‘I never thought otherwise,’ said Beresford absently, his mind on more important matters. ‘And now, it would seem that we have no option but to wait here for this Imo woman, whoever she is.’

Chapter Three

I mogen had barely had time to change out of her working garb into a more respectable morning gown when she was summoned by her aunt. Quickly pinning her soft brown curls into a careless twist at the back of her head, she hurried to her aunt’s bedchamber.

‘Oh, Imogen,’ wailed Lady Beresford, wringing her hands. ‘He has come! I feel sure that he will turn us all out! What is to become of us?’

Blanche Beresford was a plumper and more faded replica of her daughter, reluctantly owning to some thirty-eight summers. Sir Matthew had married her at the height of her first Season when she, too, had been an acclaimed beauty. But, unlike Jessica, she had always been of a rather retiring, delicate nature, which, living with the stern and autocratic Sir Matthew, along with the several miscarriages that she had suffered during her marriage, had gradually turned her into a nervous shadow of her former self. Privately she had regarded her husband’s sudden death as something of a welcome reprieve from her marital duties, but the complications of the subsequent legal revelations, followed by the increasing privation, had had the effect of reducing her to a clinging neurotic.

‘Hush, Aunt,’ Imogen soothed her. ‘I am certain that he will do no such thing. He seemed quite a reasonable sort of gentleman.’

‘You promise me that you will not leave Thornfield until we know what the man’s intentions are?’

‘I have no intention of going anywhere until I see that you are perfectly comfortable, Aunt Blanche. Widdy is quite prepared to travel to Kendal without me and I shall join her as soon as it is convenient. Please do not distress yourself any further.’

‘But how I shall ever manage without you I cannot begin to contemplate,’ moaned Lady Beresford, clutching at her niece’s hand.

Imogen gently extracted herself from her aunt’s grip.

‘Now, dearest, you promised me that you would not continue to repine about my leaving. We have discussed the matter many times and you must see that I cannot remain here. Mr Beresford is not my relative and, if he is to be the new master of Thornfield, I have no claim upon his generosity.’ She gave a little grimace. ‘Apart from which, I do not care for the idea that he might easily believe me to be dependent upon him.’

Aghast, her aunt stared at up her. ‘Then you have already judged him to be the tyrant I supposed him?’

Imogen laughed and bent to kiss the other woman’s pale cheek. ‘I hardly had time to form any real opinion of him,’ she said. ‘But I did get the impression that he was not—how shall I put it—unapproachable.’

‘Unlike your uncle,’ exclaimed Lady Beresford bitterly then, closing her eyes, she lay back against her pillows. ‘I have another of my headaches coming on, dearest. I believe I shall remain in my room today. If you could send Francine to me…?’

Sighing with exasperation, Imogen quietly closed the door of Lady Beresford’s bedchamber behind her and walked to the head of the long, curving staircase and stood for some moments with her hand on the balustrade, wondering how she was ever going to persuade her aunt to venture out of her bedchamber long enough to be introduced to her new stepson.

Suddenly, her brow furrowed in a despairing frown as, from her vantage point above the hallway, she was dismayed to observe Jessica dashing headlong out of the library. Her cousin then proceeded to hurl herself up the stairs two at a time, in a most unladylike manner.

‘Oh, there you are, Imo,’ she panted, as Imogen put out her hands to prevent the girl falling at her feet. ‘Why ever did you fail to mention that the man was an absolute Corinthian! Just like one of those Greek gods you see in the paintings and both he and his gentleman friend are so adorably bronzed!’

Imogen shook her head. ‘I do wish you would try for a little more decorum, Jess. All this rushing about is not at all seemly at your age, you know. If Widdy were to have seen you…’

Jessica made a little moue and tried to flatten her disarranged curls. ‘Sorry, Imo. I was so excited. I am to have my allowance as soon as Matthew—’ She stopped and a questioning frown appeared on her face. ‘I suppose I may call him Matthew?’ she asked.

‘I should imagine so,’ laughed Imogen. ‘He is your brother, after all—although you had, perhaps, better check with him first. It is possible that he may prefer some other form of address.’

Jessica considered this. ‘Well, he is not Sir Matthew,’ she reasoned. ‘Papa was awarded his knighthood for his commercial success in India and it was not hereditary, was it?’

‘Very true,’ nodded Imogen, as she turned to leave. ‘Your brother is plain Mr Beresford.’

‘Hardly plain!’ chuckled her cousin saucily, then gave a little gasp. ‘Oh, but I almost forgot! I am come to fetch you to him—he is waiting for you in the library with the other gentleman.’

‘Waiting for me?’ Imogen was puzzled. ‘Why should he be waiting for me?’

Jessica wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Well, I sort of told him that you ran the household!’ she said, with an apologetic blush.

‘Oh, Jess, you really are the limit!’ began Imogen crossly, then paused as she realised the intrinsic truth of her young cousin’s remark. It was true; for the past twelve months or so, at any rate, the entire day-to-day running of the household had devolved upon her and it was she, along with the Beresfords’ stalwart governess, Miss Jane Widdecombe, who had striven to keep all their heads above water. Using her own quite generous allowance, which had been left to her by her parents, she had succeeded in eking out a fairly basic living for the family when the estate funds had eventually dried up. By careful budgeting she had even managed to pay some of the servants parts of their wages, although the majority of the staff, having seen how matters were turning out, had gradually drifted away to seek other employment. Matthew Beresford had arrived not a moment too soon, as far as she was concerned, and as soon as she had acquainted him with the bones of the various problems that were besetting her, she and Widdy would be on their way to the Lake District to join Miss Widdecombe’s friend Margery Knox in running the little school that she had recently set up.

She smoothed the folds of her blue-sprigged muslin gown into place, tucked back a wayward tendril that was threatening to escape its confinement and, tentatively tapping on the library door, entered the room.

Beresford, who was sitting in the window embrasure on the far side of the room dismally contemplating the park’s neglected state, failed to register her knock and it was Seymour who was first made aware of her presence.

Leaping to his feet, he walked forward to meet her. ‘How do you do?’ he said eagerly, his hand outstretched in welcome. ‘David Seymour, at your service, ma’am—friend of Matt’s.’ He gave her a wide smile, his candid hazel-coloured eyes lighting up at this fresh onslaught on his rather susceptible senses.

The slight tension Imogen had been feeling evaporated as she returned his smile. She perceived that he was not as tall as Beresford, his tan was slightly deeper and he was of a stockier build, with short, dark brown hair. He, too, was dressed immaculately although, as Beresford approached, she found herself observing that Seymour’s kidskin breeches and superfine jacket did not seem to sit nearly so well on him as did his colleague’s. She turned to greet the newcomer.

‘You asked to see me, I believe?’

Momentarily taken aback at Imogen’s altered appearance, Beresford looked perplexed. Good heavens! Surely this attractive young woman could not be Cousin Imo? Now that he was able to study her more closely he saw that she was really quite lovely, her oval face blessed not only with a smooth, creamy complexion, but also a neat, straight little nose and wide, well-shaped lips. Barely a head shorter than his own more than six foot height, she had a very fine figure, ‘nicely rounded in all the right places’, as Seymour would say. He cleared his throat.

‘Ah! Cousin Imo!’ he exclaimed, taking her hand in his.

Their eyes met and, once again, he noticed those tiny flashes of silver.

‘I believe I have already informed you that my name is Imogen Priestley,’ she said, in a level voice. ‘And you are mistaken about our kinship, Mr Beresford. Lady Beresford is my aunt—my father was her brother. Her ladyship was good enough to take me in when both of my parents perished in a carriage accident.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he replied, bending over her hand. ‘It seems that I still have a great deal to learn. Please forgive my ignorance.’

She looked at him suspiciously. She could have sworn that his lips were twitching. Surely the man was not laughing at her? She swiftly withdrew her hand and moved towards the sofa. Taking her seat gracefully, she adjusted her skirts with studied nonchalance before saying, ‘Jessica said that you wished to speak to me. If there is anything I can help you with, I am at your service. As I mentioned earlier, I, too, have one or two matters that I should like to bring to your attention.’

She looked pointedly at Seymour, then turned once more to Beresford. ‘Perhaps your colleague would care to be shown his room?’ she suggested. ‘Shall I ring for Allardyce? I am sure that your luggage will have been taken upstairs by now.’

‘No need, ma’am,’ cut in Seymour, as he made for the door. ‘I’m perfectly happy to seek out the old fellow myself—give me a chance to get my bearings.’

‘There does seem to be the most incredible shortage of staff,’ remarked Beresford, taking his seat again as soon as his friend had departed. ‘I should have thought a place this size would have warranted a good deal more help.’

Imogen pursed her lips. ‘Most of our workforce left within three months of Sir Matthew’s death,’ she replied. ‘There were insufficient funds to pay them all on the first quarter day and those of them who had families to support were bound to seek other employment. We have managed to persuade the remainder to stay on by giving them parts of their wages whenever we could afford to do so—and by promising to make the rest up to them as soon as the will is ratified. The few who have stayed are the older members of staff who have been here for a good many years, of course,’ she added, her bright eyes clouding over. ‘Most of whom were due to be pensioned off and have nowhere else to go until they receive their promised annuities.’

Beresford was silent for a moment, then, ‘I shall speak to Wentworth as soon as possible,’ he said, his voice quite firm, although his heart was beginning to sink once more at the thought of all the problems that were mounting up. ‘No doubt he will have a list of all outstanding items. You must not concern yourself. I shall deal with the matter immediately.’

‘There is a slight difficulty,’ stammered Imogen, her cheeks colouring. ‘That is—I am not perfectly certain—it is merely a suspicion on my part…’ Her voice trailed away.

At her continued hesitation, Beresford frowned. ‘If you have something to tell me, Miss Priestley,’ he said briskly, ‘and, especially if it has anything to do with my putting the estate to rights, I suggest that you stop all this shilly-shallying and come straight out with whatever it is!’

Imogen was mortified. She had been perfectly prepared to confront Beresford with all her growing worries and suppositions, but somehow, now that she was actually sitting here in front of him and the man’s infuriatingly discerning eyes were fixed upon her, waiting impatiently for her to explain herself, she began to wonder if her suspicions about Wentworth were flawed. Could she have overreacted? Her cheeks took on a deeper hue and she struggled to control her breathing.

‘It is simply that I cannot understand what has happened to all the revenue,’ she began, then, to her horror, the words seemed to trip over themselves in their efforts to be heard. ‘There should have been more than enough to get us through the year—and there are the rents—I have barely managed to get a peep at the books, but what I did see simply made no sense to me—and I could swear that some of the stock has disappeared…’

‘Now, now, my dear Miss Priestley—’ Beresford raised his hand and, in a calm, soothing voice, interrupted her incoherent monologue ‘—estate management is a very complicated business and hardly one for a young lady to be bothering her head about. You really had best leave it all to me. I shall sort it all out in no time at all, I assure you.’

Imogen sprang to her feet in consternation. ‘No, no—you do not understand—there is so much that you do not know…’

His face darkened as he, too, rose to his feet. ‘I do not need your constant reminders of my unfamiliarity with the situation here, Miss Priestley,’ he said coldly. ‘I intend to remedy that deficiency as soon as I may. In the meantime, I would really appreciate it if you would do me the honour of allowing me to go about it in my own way. Let me assure you that I have a great deal of experience in these matters. And now, with your permission?’ He turned from her and started towards the doorway, adding curtly, ‘If you could, perhaps, arrange some refreshment? I was given to understand that that is your province?’