Читать книгу The Officer and the Lady - Dorothy Elbury - Страница 8

B eresford approached the wooden door in Thornfield’s perimeter wall with slight trepidation. He was by no means a man of nervous disposition, but the idea of coming face to face with an entirely new and unwanted set of relatives—however tenuous their connection—was not one towards which he could bring himself to feel the slightest spark of enthusiasm.

To his surprise, he found the gate unlocked. He frowned as he entered the park, carefully securing the door behind him. This was certainly not good practice and, as he cast his eyes around the copse through which the path towards the house ran, he was quick to register a good many signs of neglect: fallen saplings, uncut brambles and a profusion of weeds, the extent of which threatened to overtake the path itself.

He walked on, dismally reminding himself that he might well have to use his own money to put these matters to rights, if they were to be attended to before winter set in, and his irritation grew as his mind dwelt on the vexing imposition with which he had been saddled.

As he rounded a bend in the path, he became aware of the sound of raised voices in the copse some short distance ahead. His curiosity raised, he began to tread more carefully and sidled quietly towards the clearing from where the altercation seemed to be emanating.

Peering through the bushes, he managed to make out the figures of a man and a young woman, apparently engaged in a heated argument. The man had the dark, almost swarthy look of a gypsy about him and seemed to be threatening the girl in some way. She had her back towards Beresford but, the minute he saw the man appearing to raise his fist at her, he cast aside the bushes and immediately leapt to her defence.

The man staggered back in astonishment at Beresford’s sudden arrival and, as Beresford’s hand reached out to grab his collar, one arm came up in self-defence and the other, holding a shotgun, swung wildly in Beresford’s direction.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he spluttered, ‘And what are you doing on private property?’

By this time he had his gun under control with both hands and aimed squarely at Beresford’s chest. His dark eyes glittered as he took in the interloper’s appearance, which, judging by the immaculate superfine breeches and made-to-measure jacket, was clearly not that of a tramp or vagabond. He hesitated, momentarily unsure of his ground until the sound of barely smothered laughter caused him to swing round angrily to confront the young woman behind him.

‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded. ‘You know this man?’

Unable to stifle her amusement, the girl, who had been watching the by-play between the two men with unconcealed interest, shook her head and delved into her pocket for a handkerchief to mop her streaming eyes.

‘It has to be Matthew Beresford,’ she choked, still trying to control her mirth. ‘Thornfield’s new master, Mr Wentworth—we were told he would be arriving shortly—and now, it seems, here he is!’

Wentworth’s eyes swivelled back to Beresford, who was presently engaged in removing the leaves and twigs that had attached themselves to his clothing during his headstrong dash.

‘You’re Matthew Beresford?’ he asked truculently. ‘How d’ye come to be up here in the copse then?’

‘I take it that you are a member of my staff, my good man,’ replied Beresford coldly, casually inspecting his cuffs. ‘I presume that you wish to keep your position, whatever it is?’

The man blanched as the girl quickly interposed on his behalf. ‘This is Philip Wentworth, sir—he is—has been in charge of the estate since Sir Matthew died.’

Beresford gave her a brief glance; a strikingly pretty girl, with soft brown hair and wide grey eyes, wearing a faded blue cotton print gown, a rather battered chipstraw bonnet and carrying what looked to be a basket of wild strawberries. Probably one of the upper maids or some such. He concluded that he had probably interrupted a lovers’ quarrel.

‘And you are?’ he queried.

Her amusement disappeared in an instant. A slight flush crept into her cheeks and she straightened her shoulders. She recognised a put-down when she heard one. ‘I am Imogen Priestley,’ she replied in an even voice, meeting his gaze squarely.

Beresford merely nodded and proceeded to walk back to the path.

‘Perhaps you would see that the wall gate is kept locked in future,’ he threw at the now sullen Wentworth as he passed him.

A slight exclamation from the girl halted him and he turned to find her at his elbow.

‘I am afraid that was me,’ she blurted out, her hand to her mouth. ‘I went across the lane to see if there were more berries under the hedge and—I must have forgotten to lock the gate when I came back. Wentworth is not to blame—on this occasion.’

Intrigued, Beresford studied her more carefully. Something about her bearing, or perhaps it was the lilting timbre of her voice, caused him to reappraise his first impression of her. Not a servant, certainly, perhaps a governess?

‘You are returning to the house?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I would be happy to show you the way, although, to be perfectly truthful, you can hardly get lost as the path goes straight down to the front driveway.’

He smiled. ‘I had an idea that it might.’

Imogen, hurrying to keep pace with Beresford’s long strides, found a great deal to admire in his appearance as they wended their way through the copse together. Tall and undeniably handsome, she could see that his complexion, even after the long passage home, still held the healthy glow of the fading remnants of the tropical suntan that he had acquired from his years on the Indian continent, emphasising the startling blueness of his eyes and the guinea-gold brightness of his hair.

Slightly discomfited by the searching glances that were being cast in his direction, Beresford walked on in silence for a few moments then, ‘How did you guess who I am?’ he asked curiously. ‘Wentworth was right in his assumption that I could have been anyone.’

Imogen laughed. ‘Not so, sir. I have seen your mother’s portrait. You are as like as a man can be to a woman—same golden locks, same blue eyes…’ She stopped in confusion as Beresford gripped her arm and swung her towards him.

‘My mother’s portrait?’ he demanded. ‘Where have you seen my mother’s portrait?’

She tried to pull away. ‘You are hurting me, sir,’ she protested.

He loosened his grip immediately, but kept hold of her nevertheless. ‘I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to startle you. You say you have seen a portrait of my mother?’

‘Well, yes,’ she averred, ‘although it was some years ago, when I was younger. It used to be kept in one of the attics where we were wont to play hide-and-seek and I often wondered who the lady could be, but when I asked about it Sir Matthew got very angry and forbade us all to go up there again, so it could well have been removed by now.’

She stared pointedly at his hand. ‘You may let go of my arm now, if you please, sir.’

He dropped his hand as though it had been stung and pondered over her words. Then a thought struck him.

‘You say you have lived at Thornfield since you were a child?’

‘All my life, practically.’

At the questioning look on his face she smiled. ‘Lady Beresford took me in when I was six years old,’ she said patiently. ‘Jessica was barely two at the time…’

‘Jessica?’

‘Your half-sister.’ She looked at him quizzically for a moment. ‘You do not seem to know a great deal about us, if I may say so.’

‘Nothing at all, as it happens,’ he said bluntly. ‘I was totally unaware of your presence until two weeks ago. You have the upper hand here, it seems.’

‘How do you mean?’

He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode purposefully on.

‘Well, you all presumably know everything there is to know about me, I dare say.’

She hurried after him. ‘No such thing!’ she protested. ‘None of us were even aware of your existence until a few months ago. Lady Beresford has barely recovered from the shock. Apparently, Mr Robbins was the only one in whom Sir Matthew confided and even he thought that you might well be—oh, dear, I did not mean to say that!’

Beresford let out a hollow laugh. ‘I have long suspected that my father hoped I was—dead, that is. I am almost certain that was his intention when he sent me out to India. Robbins intimated that it had taken several months to track me down. Personally, I wish he had not gone to so much trouble!’

‘Oh, no! Please do not say such things! I, for one, am very glad that he found you!’ came her incredulous rejoinder.

Intrigued at her somewhat vehement response, he swivelled his eyes in her direction and was startled to register the very animated expression that had suddenly appeared on her face. What was even more curious, however, was that her eyes, which he had previously thought to be an indeterminate shade of grey, now appeared to be a much more vibrant colour and streaked with the most amazing flashes of silver. For a moment he stared down at her lovely features in a fascinated confusion then, hurriedly collecting himself, he blinked and shook his head.

‘Well, now that I am here, I will certainly endeavour to do what I can to sort out the mess Sir Matthew left you in,’ he heard himself saying and then cursed himself for uttering such an insensitive remark.

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.’