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

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?’

In a mounting fury, Imogen stared after his departing back. She could hardly believe what had happened. He had treated her like a child—or worse—more like some sort of feather-brained nincompoop! She who, for years, had sat at Chadwick’s right hand, mastering the fascinating intricacies of estate management, even riding with the elderly manager on rent collection days and doling out the servants’ wages while he marked them off in his book. In fact, so adept was her understanding of how the estate functioned that she had gained even the uncompromising Sir Matthew’s grudging respect.

Her whole body seemed to be trembling uncontrollably and she was forced to sit down rather abruptly. As she subsided on to the sofa, her mind was filled with a whirling mass of conflicting emotions.

Very gradually, as her anger dissipated, she began to review Beresford’s manner. She could leave the arrogant beast to his own devices and hope that he would discover Wentworth’s scheming for himself—if, indeed, it did transpire that it was Wentworth who was at the bottom of all the inconsistencies, she hastily reminded herself!

She had wanted desperately to share her suspicions about the man with Matthew Beresford, but had clearly made the mistake of expecting him to listen seriously to what she had to tell him. She had also assumed that the two of them would sit down together and discuss the problem rationally and, hopefully, reach some sort of agreement as to how best to deal with it. She had never at any time considered the man’s contemptuous dismissal, not only of her, admittedly, rather clumsy attempts to furnish him with the truth behind the estate’s unanticipated impoverishment but, seemingly, of herself as well!

At this point, it seemed to her that she might as well leave Thornfield without further ado, just as she and Widdy had planned to do last year, had not the complications of her uncle’s will prevented their departure.

As if prompted by Imogen’s thoughts, Jane Widdecombe appeared in the doorway.

‘Oh, there you are, my dear,’ she smiled, advancing into the room. ‘Jessica said that I would find you here. But—Mr Beresford? I thought he would still be here with you.’

A plump, neat dab of a woman, Miss Widdecombe had been the mainstay of the Beresford family since shortly after Imogen’s own arrival at Thornfield. In addition to having guided all three children through their academic studies, she had been, without doubt, the principal shaper of their manners and moral codes, Lady Beresford having involved herself very little in their upbringing.

Still undecided as to what would be the best course of action for the two of them, Imogen shook her head.

‘I believe he went to look for his friend,’ she replied with a dismissive shrug.

Peering over the top of her glasses at her one-time charge, Miss Widdecombe frowned.

‘Is there something wrong, my dear?’ she asked in concern. ‘You seem a little put out.’

Imogen gritted her teeth. ‘Honestly, Widdy! The man is so dreadfully arrogant! He refused to listen to a single word I said! He dismissed me as though I were not so much as a boot-boy!’

Miss Widdecombe considered this statement. ‘Perhaps he was tired after his long journey,’ she suggested.

‘Long journey!’ scoffed Imogen. ‘They stayed the night down in Kirton Priors—Cook recognised the driver of the chaise they hired from The Wheatsheaf.’

‘Well then, my dear, you must try again. He certainly needs to know what has been going on in his absence.’

Imogen jumped up. ‘Then he must discover it for himself! I have decided that we shall leave for Kendal as soon as possible, Widdy!’ she pronounced.

‘But, my dear!’ Miss Widdecombe stared at her in distress. ‘We do not have the wherewithal to travel until the will is settled. I cannot imagine that it will take very long now that Mr Beresford has finally arrived. Surely we should wait until he has had time to familiarise himself with the situation?’

Apart from the pension Sir Matthew had arranged for the governess to receive at her retirement, there was also the matter of the small personal sum that he had bequeathed to her, which she intended to use to buy her own share in the little school in Westmorland.

‘It is but four weeks until the twenty fifth of September,’ declared Imogen stoutly. ‘Then I shall have the whole of my next quarter’s allowance. That will be more than enough for both of us to hire a chaise to Kendal and to purchase our shares. You can reimburse me when you are in funds—it is really of no importance, I promise you.’

‘The idea is very tempting,’ admitted Miss Widdecombe. ‘Margery has been waiting for us to join her for almost a year now and, in the normal way, I would be more than happy to acquiesce.’ Pausing, she slowly shook her head. ‘However, Imogen, I am afraid that it will not serve. We cannot leave Lady Beresford to deal with this monster, if he is as overbearing as you say he is. She simply has not the resources to cope, as you are perfectly well aware.’

Imogen gave a little grimace. ‘I know, Widdy,’ she said. ‘And I did promise her that I would stay until she was settled. But, when I first met Beresford, he did not seem at all like Sir Matthew—although,’ she recollected, ‘it is true that he did fly up in the boughs when I mentioned his mother’s portrait.’

Miss Widdecombe regarded her with interest. ‘Sir Matthew’s first wife,’ she acknowledged with a sigh. ‘I fear that she has, unwittingly, been the cause of so much grief in this family—your uncle was forever holding her up to Lady Beresford as the paragon of all that was good and clever but, no matter how hard she tried, our poor lady was never going to be able to live up to her dead predecessor’s alleged faultlessness.’

‘Presumably because my uncle was still obsessed with her memory,’ suggested Imogen thoughtfully. ‘As a matter of fact, I have often wondered why it is that anyone who has had the misfortune to die before their due time seems to be forever imbued with some sort of unlikely perfection.’

‘That does often seem to be the case,’ agreed the governess, ‘although I am inclined to believe that it is often merely because one prefers to dismiss the bad memories and remember only the good. No human being could possibly have been as unflawed as the first Lady Beresford was depicted as having been. I am told that, at one time, your uncle was used to creep into the attics at night and sit staring at her portrait until the early hours!’

‘That presumably explains why he was in such a dark mood on so many occasions!’ Imogen remarked drily.

‘I dare say,’ nodded the governess. ‘Although, sadly, it seemed that many things in life were wont to irritate him. Jessica was the only one of us who had no difficulty in reviving his spirits.’

Imogen laughed. ‘I’d like to meet the man who holds himself impervious to that little baggage’s wiles! I really do not know what will become of her!’

‘She is a worry,’ Miss Widdecombe acknowledged with a smile. ‘Had her father not died, she might have had her London Season and could well have been safely married off by now.’ Her faded blue eyes suddenly lit up. ‘Do you know, my dear, I believe that I have had the most wonderful idea!’ She tugged at Imogen’s hand and pulled her down on the sofa beside her. ‘Do you suppose that we could persuade Mr Beresford to sponsor his sister’s come-out?’

‘I cannot imagine anyone persuading Mr Beresford to do anything he did not want to,’ declared Imogen, with a disdainful sniff.

‘Nonsense! We simply need to do some little thing to make him grateful to us!’

‘Oh, Widdy, really! What in the world would make him grateful to us? I doubt if we shall even be able to provide the pair of them with a decent nuncheon—oh, bother, I clean forgot!’ She scrambled to her feet and smoothed down her gown. ‘I shall have to go, Widdy! I was supposed to be organising refreshments for them and it’s almost two o’clock!’ She gave the governess a swift hug. ‘We will work something out, dear. There is no need for you to worry unduly, I promise you.’