The Officer and the Lady

‘No one permanent, really—not unless you count old Chadwick and his son.’

‘And they are?’

‘Chadwick was the estate manager before I came,’ explained Wentworth. ‘Sir Matthew brought me in to replace him—said the old man was getting senile, and that’s a fact! Still potters around doing stuff about the place—can’t keep him away, seeing as he still lives up at the farm—seems Sir Matthew gifted the house to him for life several years ago, which means that I have to make do with a measly gamekeeper’s cottage.’

Choosing to ignore the man’s somewhat petulant grievance, Beresford paused momentarily before asking, ‘And the son?’

‘Ben—got his foot shot off at Waterloo—came back late last year—no use to anyone, if you want my opinion.’

‘Hold hard, Wentworth!’ Nicholas cut in heatedly. ‘That is pretty shabby of you! Ben Chadwick was a fine soldier and a brave man—he was injured fighting for King and Country!’

‘More fool him, then, is what I say. Should have stayed at home like the rest of us did and kept out of trouble,’ sniffed Wentworth.

Seeing that the scarlet-faced Nicholas was about to round on the manager once more, Beresford put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘Leave it, Nicky,’ he said gently. ‘Mr Wentworth is entitled to his opinion, however unenlightened it may be.’ Ignoring the flicker of animosity that appeared on the man’s face, he went on. ‘Our immediate concern is the speedy acquisition of a good many more hands—you have a hiring fair hereabouts, I imagine?’

The man shook his head. ‘The annual fair isn’t until Michael-mas—although these days you can usually be sure to find quite a few chaps looking for work at the weekly market in Ashby—tomorrow, that’ll be.’

‘Tomorrow? Excellent! There should be no shortage of suitable men available, given the current high level of unemployment. About a dozen to start with, I should imagine. We will, presumably, be able to accommodate at least that many in the estate cottages that have been vacated—and we will need house staff, too—although, upon reflection, perhaps it would be preferable to leave that side of things to Miss Priestley?’

‘Might as well. She’ll be sure to want to have her say anyway. Always poking her nose in—’ He stopped, having caught sight of Beresford’s stony expression. ‘Well, women—you know,’ he finished self-consciously, with a half-hearted attempt at a careless laugh.

Beresford studied him in contemptuous silence for a few moments then, as his eyes alighted on the bunch of keys that lay on the desk, he said, ‘I have been given to understand that you have the keys to the cellars in your keeping. Why is that, pray?’

Wentworth warily shifted his stance. ‘Thought I ought to stop anyone making free with the master’s—that is—Sir Matthew’s wines. Quite an expensive collection, I understand. Wouldn’t do to have any of it go missing, now, would it?’

Beresford picked up the keys. ‘These will remain in my possession for the time being,’ he said curtly. ‘And now, since I imagine that you have plenty to attend to, you may continue with your outside activities. I will send for you should I require your services.’

For a moment Wentworth looked as though he were about to protest at Beresford’s summary dismissal of him then, with a nonchalant shrug, he turned and swaggered out of the room into the stable yard, giving Nicholas a mocking grin as he passed him.

‘Hateful man!’ muttered Nicholas, slamming the door shut. ‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised if Imo ain’t in the right about him.’

Beresford looked up from the papers he was reading. ‘In what respect?’

The boy coloured and looked down at his feet. ‘No—it’s nothing, really. I should not have said that.’

‘Come clean, Nicky,’ Beresford advised him. He had suddenly recalled Imogen’s disjointed words. ‘If there is anything in the least bit havey-cavey going on, I really think I ought to be told about it, do you not think so, old chap?’

Nicholas shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Imo said that she tried to tell you in the library, but you refused to listen to her,’ he blurted out. ‘You really should hear her out, sir! She has been running the place almost single-handedly since Father died and it is only because she has been using her own money that we have managed to survive this far!’

‘Miss Priestley has her own finances?’ asked Beresford in surprise.

‘Oodles. Her father was filthy rich and both her parents left everything they had to her. She only gets it as a quarterly allowance until she’s twenty-five, though, but she has managed to eke that out in the most fantastic way over this last year. Chadwick is always saying…’ He hesitated and an expression of shame appeared on his face. ‘It really is pretty bad form to be discussing Imo like this, you know.’

Beresford drew in his breath. ‘You are quite right, Nicky. Tell me about her suspicions instead. What has she told you?’

‘Not a lot, really. Fact is, incomes and revenues and so on are a total mystery to me, but Imo seems to think that the books have been tampered with. She is convinced that there should have been more than enough money available to run the estate properly for at least a year, without any cutbacks at all!’

‘Does your cousin have some understanding of accountancy methods, then?’ enquired Beresford, incredulously.

‘Lord, yes!’ nodded the boy. ‘Chadwick says she is an absolute genius with figures! She has been doing the books with him for years—she knows as much about this estate as Wentworth does—probably more, I dare say!’

Beresford sat in dismayed silence. A fine fool he’d turned out to be, he thought with a shudder, remembering his unwarranted rebuff of Imogen’s tentative attempts to caution him. Small wonder that she had been treating him with such disdain. He got to his feet and began to pace up and down, cudgelling his brain for some way to put matters right, having discovered that he really didn’t much care to be in Miss Priestley’s black books.

Nicholas watched him, a perplexed frown on his face.

‘H-have I said something to upset you, sir?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Not at all, Nicky,’ Beresford hastened to reassure him. ‘It is merely that I have just realised what an absolute idiot I have been! I really should have listened to her!’ He gave his brother a rueful grin. ‘Hardly the most auspicious start to a budding friendship, would you say?’

The boy’s face cleared. ‘No need to worry about that, sir. Imo has never been the sort to bear a grudge, I promise you.’

‘Thank God for that,’ exclaimed Beresford. ‘For I intend to try and remedy the matter without further ado.’ He paused, weighing up the possibilities of an idea that had just come to him. ‘Would you mind popping back to the other room and asking your cousin if she would be willing to spare me a few minutes of her time—and Mr Seymour, too, if he is still about?’

Nicholas nodded and at once made for the house door.

‘Oh—and one other thing, Nicky!’ called Beresford, just as the boy was about to leave. ‘Do stop calling me “sir”! Matt is my name—understood?’

‘Understood—er, Matt!’ shot Nicholas over his shoulder, as he sped up the passageway to carry out his errand.

Beresford laughed and returned to the desk where he began to take a more serious interest in the pile of papers that Wentworth had left behind. He had barely begun this task, however, when he was interrupted by the sound of a man’s teasing laughter, interspersed with a breathless giggling, which he had no difficulty in recognising as his sister Jessica’s.

He got up at once and peered curiously out of the window into the stable yard. A sudden fury overcame him as he surveyed the scene.

Philip Wentworth was leaning over the top of the stable’s half-door, casually chatting to Jessica Beresford. His manner, insofar as Beresford could determine from this distance, seemed highly impertinent and over-familiar. His sister, in return, was behaving in what Beresford could only describe as the most ‘hoydenish’ way imaginable, tossing her curls and flirting abominably with the grinning Wentworth.

With an angry, forbidding expression on his face, he flung open the office door and strode over to the couple.

‘Go to your room this instant, Jessica,’ he ground out forcibly.

At his sudden intervention the girl’s giggles subsided into a squeak of dismay.

‘Oh, honestly, Matt, we were only—’ she started to protest but then, having correctly interpreted the warning light in Beresford’s eye, she clamped her lips together and, without a backward glance at her co-conspirator, flounced off in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Don’t be so hard on the lass—she’s entitled to a bit of fun!’

Wentworth, apparently unperturbed at Beresford’s sudden arrival, had turned back to his work and was nonchalantly coiling a leading-rein. Beresford leaned over the stable door and beckoned to him.

‘A word, Wentworth, if you please,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Somewhat warily Wentworth approached the door, his lips parted in a tentative smile. ‘Now then, Mr Beresford, you surely aren’t going to fly off the handle about a bit of harmless teasing,’ he challenged his new master. ‘Jess and I often have a bit of a chat when she’s in the yard.’

Beresford gritted his teeth. ‘I do not care for your attitude, Wentworth. In future you will oblige me by referring to all members of the family in the correct manner and, if I have any more of your insolence, I shall have no hesitation in dismissing you. It has become increasingly clear to me that you have taken to acting well above your station since Sir Matthew’s death. Allow me to inform you, my man, I have no intention of putting up with it!’

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode back to the office, where he perceived that Imogen and Seymour, having witnessed the final moments of the conflict, were standing in the doorway, anxiously awaiting his return.

‘God’s teeth, Matt!’ muttered Seymour, as he stepped aside to allow his friend to enter. ‘You have certainly made an enemy there! You should have seen the man’s face! What the devil did he do to get you so riled?’

Still inwardly fuming, Beresford described the events that had led to the confrontation. ‘I shall have to get rid of the fellow as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, we will have to keep him on until we get some more hands, but I doubt if he will cause any more trouble—not if he values his position!’

Privately, Imogen was not at all sure that Wentworth would take his public chastisement quite so meekly, but she was glad that Beresford had warned him off Jessica and was happy to tell him so, adding, ‘I must admit that I was getting quite worried about the way she hung around the stables whenever he was there. Miss Widdecombe and I have both spoken to her about it on several occasions and when I challenged him about the matter in the copse earlier he lost his temper and told me to mind my own business.’

Much as I did myself, Beresford was thinking and, determined to clear up the matter without further ado, he cleared his throat and said, ‘I believe I owe you an apology for my own crass behaviour this morning, Miss Priestley.’

‘I am inclined to think that we should put that regrettable episode behind us, Mr Beresford,’ replied Imogen, endeavouring to keep her tone light, for she had not totally forgiven him for his previously dismissive attitude towards her. ‘I am sure that it was merely an unfortunate misunderstanding on your part. You had no reason to suppose that I would know anything about estate matters. I understand that Nicholas has informed you that I used to help Mr Chadwick with the accounts before Wentworth took them over?’

‘It is somewhat unusual in one of your sex,’ he pointed out, with a smile that suddenly caused Imogen to experience the most extraordinary palpitations.

With an effort, she forced herself to tear her eyes away from his and, somewhat flustered, began to fumble clumsily with the sets of accounts books that were situated in a cabinet behind the desk.

‘Yes, so I believe,’ she managed somewhat breathlessly, at the same time selecting and preparing to take down two of the heavy volumes. She found herself forestalled by Beresford who, realising her intention, had promptly reached out to relieve her of her burden while Seymour, who had been watching the highly charged interchange between the pair with unconcealed interest, swept aside the piles of papers on the desktop to make space for the books.

‘Your cousin tells me that you suspect some irregularities in the figures,’ said Beresford, as he motioned Imogen into the big leather chair behind the desk. ‘Do you think you could show us what you have found?’

‘You will need to look at the two previous years’ accounts first,’ she replied, already thumbing her way through the pages of one of the volumes. Having managed to still the disquieting sensations that had threatened to overcome her resolve, her voice was now perfectly calm. Now that she finally had the opportunity to vindicate her suspicions, she was determined not to allow anything to distract her from that task.

‘This first one is for 1813—it will give you some idea of the rents we normally received from the tenant farmers and the revenue from the corn yield. Corn prices, as you must be aware, have increased quite dramatically throughout the war years but, when you look at last year’s figures,’ she said, indicating the relevant column in the second ledger, ‘you will see that the corn revenue for the year appears to be considerably lower than one would have expected it to be.’

Beresford and Seymour studied the figures she had indicated and both men agreed that there was certainly a surprising difference.

‘Perhaps last year was not as good a harvest,’ suggested Seymour. ‘I understand that the weather here was pretty poor during the summer months.’

‘Yes, that is perfectly true,’ admitted Imogen. ‘But, as a result of the war, corn prices have almost doubled since 1813 and now—if one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to pass me 1814…?’

Beresford again sprang to carry out her request and laid the book at her elbow, watching her with interest as she riffled through the pages.

‘Yes, here it is,’ she eventually announced, her face alight with satisfaction. ‘If you look carefully, you will see that some of the figures have been altered—someone has scratched parts of the eights out to make them look like threes, sevens have been turned into fours—and here…’ She jabbed her finger on place after place in the neat columns of figures. ‘Sixes to noughts—all giving the impression that the revenue was much lower than it actually was—and that, gentlemen, is by no means all.’ She flicked over the pages, searching for more anomalies to show them. ‘See here, on the debit side, threes and fives have been altered to the figure eight and the number one has become either a four or a seven and, sometimes, even a nine!’

‘They certainly look like alterations,’ agreed Beresford, with a puzzled frown. ‘But there is no way of knowing whether they have been tampered with recently or were merely corrections made at the time of entry—even the best accountants have been known to commit errors!’

Dismayed at his negative reaction to the quite considerable research that she had managed to carry out under very difficult circumstances, Imogen heaved a sigh. ‘There is a perfectly simple way to prove my point, Mr Beresford,’ she said wearily. ‘In the first place, if you tot up the columns you will see that the altered totals do not agree. Secondly, I know that the figures have been altered, because they are in my own handwriting!’

She looked up at him with a triumphant smile, having assumed that he would now be highly impressed with her discoveries, only to find herself confronted with the beginnings of a cynical smile hovering on his lips.

He raised one eyebrow, and the mocking note in his voice was unmistakable. ‘And you, Miss Priestley, never make mistakes, of course,’ he drawled.

Imogen’s self-confidence collapsed in an instant and all of the original hostility she had felt towards him came rushing back. Resolutely squaring her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath. ‘It was always Mr Chadwick’s practice to set out his figures in pencil,’ she informed him, her voice even. ‘My contribution was to double-check the entries and agree his arithmetic—he believed that it was the best way of learning the system and—since his own hand was getting a little shaky in later years—only then would he allow me to ink in the final figures. So you see, Mr Beresford, there is simply no way that any of these rather numerous alterations could have occurred.’

In the silence that followed her words, Beresford almost groaned out loud at the ill-thought-out foolhardiness of his remark. He had not missed the sudden darkening of her eyes, nor those entrancing little silver flashes that had emanated from them. You utter fool, he apostrophised. Hoist by your own petard yet again!

Throughout Imogen’s halting evidence of her findings, Seymour had been continuing to peruse the three ledgers, comparing the figures one with another and closely inspecting the suspect alterations. He straightened up and shook his head at Beresford.

‘Well, old man, it seems perfectly obvious to me that Miss Priestley was quite right to voice her suspicions. There is absolutely no doubt that somebody has been messing about with the figures in these books.’

At the look of concern in his friend’s eyes, Beresford’s face grew grim.

‘And I think we all know who that person is likely to be,’ he said shortly. ‘Yet another reason to dispense with his services, it appears!’

Then, still conscious of the undercurrent of tension that had, once again, developed between Imogen and himself, he turned to her and executed a little bow.

‘I appear to have excelled myself today, Miss Priestley,’ he confessed. ‘I fear I owe you yet another apology. My remark was totally unwarranted—please tell me that I am forgiven for exhibiting such appalling bad manners.’

This time Imogen, who could not rid herself of the feeling that he was merely trying to humour her, was careful to keep her eyes averted from his face.

‘It is of no moment, I assure you, Mr Beresford,’ she replied, rising from her seat. ‘And, now that I have delivered the problem into your hands, you will please excuse me, for I must go and try to persuade my aunt to join us for dinner.’

Seymour grinned appreciatively as he watched her departing figure.

‘Two enemies in one day, Matt!’ he chortled. ‘Must be something of a record!’

‘Stow it, David!’ grunted Beresford sourly, as he picked up the three ledgers and thrust them back on to their shelf. ‘I am not in the mood!’

With a speculative gleam in his eye, Seymour regarded his friend silently for a few moments before making his way to the house door, saying, ‘So it appears! Well then, old boy, if you have no objection, I think I will just cut along after the lovely Imogen and see if we can’t arrange for some decent fodder to be sent up from the village—what do you say?’

‘Good idea,’ returned Beresford, mentally kicking himself for not having given any thought to that equally pressing matter. ‘I suppose I had better go and find this Chadwick fellow and get his version of events.’

After a cursory perusal of the papers on the desk, the majority of which proved to be demands for immediate settlements of outstanding accounts, he left the office and walked out into the stable yard, carefully locking both doors behind him. Wentworth was nowhere to be seen but, recalling what the man had told him about Chadwick’s place of residence, he made his way around the stable-block into a little back lane where he found a neat little row of cottages, all twenty of which were clearly uninhabited.

At the far end of the lane, situated next to a cluster of farm buildings, was a slightly larger, more dignified-looking property that must, he assumed, be the ex-manager’s residence. Seated on a bench in the front garden of this house was a well-built young man, who Beresford took to be the injured ex-soldier, Ben Chadwick.

At first glance there appeared to be nothing amiss with either of his legs, since they were both encased in the strapped knee-high leather boots that were common wear among countrymen. In fact, it was not until the sound of Beresford’s approaching footsteps caused the young man to hurriedly lay aside the coach lamp he had been polishing and scramble awkwardly to his feet that Beresford realised that he was having to support his weight with a stick.

He motioned the young Chadwick to return to his seat, ignoring the discomfited flush that covered his face. Both men were well aware that it was normal practice for an employee to remain standing in his master’s presence but, in this instance, Beresford was disposed to do away with protocol and, catching sight of the wooden bench beside Chadwick’s chair, sat himself next to the young man.

‘My name is Beresford,’ he announced, somewhat unnecessarily, since his identity was hardly in question. ‘May I take it that you are Ben Chadwick?’

‘At your service, Mr Beresford,’ the young man faltered. ‘Was it my father you were seeking?’

‘In a moment, Ben,’ said Beresford pleasantly. ‘I thought I would have a few words with you first, if I may?’

Ben nodded in surprise. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘I could not help but notice that, although you are fully booted, you are not able to bear your weight on your right leg. I imagine your injury still causes you a great deal of discomfort?’

‘It is improving daily, sir,’ came Ben’s flustered reply. ‘I pack the boot with clean rags but, after a while, there is a certain amount of friction which makes long-distance walking impossible at the moment—I try to make myself useful in other ways though,’ he added, defensively. ‘I do the milking and keep all the tools and tackle in order.’

‘Pray do no think that I am criticising you, Ben—far from it,’ Beresford assured him. ‘I merely wanted to assure myself that you had received the full benefit of all available medical treatment—I understand that it is possible to have special surgical footwear fitted, for instance.’

‘Somewhat costly for a man in my position, sir,’ said the young man with a grim smile. ‘I dare say that that sort of treatment is probably considered to be standard procedure for the likes of Lord Uxbridge and his ilk, but, seeing as it takes Father all his time to cater for our basic necessities, I think the last thing he needs is me badgering him for fripperies of that sort!’

Beresford regarded him seriously for a moment or two. ‘I understand that you were a lieutenant with the 7th Light? Can you still mount a horse?’

‘Aye, that I can do, sir,’ affirmed Ben, adding bitterly. ‘Not that I get much chance to ride these days, if Wentworth has anything to do with it.’

‘Well, I am happy to inform you that you need no longer concern yourself with that particular problem,’ Beresford replied, rising to his feet. ‘In fact, that is mainly what I wanted to speak to your father about—is he within?’

Ben directed him to the rear of the farmhouse where he found Chadwick senior tending vegetables in the kitchen garden. Eyeing the displaced manager’s activities with considerable interest, Beresford was surprised to see that Ben’s father was far more agile than Wentworth had given him to suppose.

At Beresford’s approach, the elderly man straightened up, took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.

‘Welcome to Thornfield, Mr Beresford. Miss Priestley informed me of your arrival.’

The man’s well-modulated manner of speech made it quite clear to Beresford that both Chadwick and his son had been the recipients of a good education and, on an impulse, he reached out and grasped Chadwick firmly by the hand.

‘Miss Priestley has been informing me of quite a few things too, Chadwick,’ he told him. ‘It seems that we have something of a problem on our hands.’

‘Perhaps we had better go inside, sir,’ the man replied carefully and, ushering his visitor into his neat little parlour, he motioned him to take a seat.