The Officer and the Lady

With an effort he drew his attention back to the waiting Chadwick.

‘Would I be correct in thinking that you would be willing to be reinstated to your former position?’ he asked him.

‘Without question, Mr Beresford,’ the man was happy to assure him. ‘Although I fear that we shall need to address the matter of staff shortage with some urgency if we are to return the estate to any semblance of its former prosperity.’

Beresford nodded. ‘I agree, and it is my intention to remedy that problem as quickly as possible. I shall be paying a visit to Ashby market first thing tomorrow morning with the express purpose of hiring more men.’

He stood up and was preparing to take his leave when a sudden thought occurred to him. ‘I wonder if your son would be interested in becoming your deputy?’ he asked. ‘Since he tells me that riding is not a problem for him, I should have thought that he could well prove to be a most valuable assistant to you.’

‘How very good of you to consider such an idea, sir!’ cried Chadwick, his lined face wreathed in a delighted smile. ‘The boy has been growing rather dispirited of late. He has a sharp mind and these months of enforced inactivity have not sat at all easily with him. I am sure that he will be thrilled at this opportunity to demonstrate his worth. He will not let you down, I promise you!’

‘Well, do talk it over with him first!’ laughed Beresford and, before making for the door, he handed Chadwick the bunch of keys he had confiscated from Wentworth. ‘Meanwhile, I suppose I had better go and give our contemptible friend his marching orders!’

When he got back to the stable yard, however, there was still no sign of Wentworth and, after consulting his pocket watch and registering the growing lateness of the hour, Beresford decided to postpone the unpleasant interview until the following morning and went, instead, to his chamber to change for dinner.

Chapter Six

‘N o, please, Imogen,’ moaned Lady Beresford, casting up tear-stained eyes to her niece. ‘I simply cannot! Jessica has told me that the man is a bully and a monster! I cannot bring myself to dine with him!’ She fell back against the pillows of her chaise longue and closed her eyes.

‘Jessica is a very silly girl,’ declared Imogen crossly. ‘And she knows full well that it was perfectly correct of Mr Beresford to chastise her for her behaviour—she pays absolutely no heed to either Miss Widdecombe or myself.’

Having thought the matter through, she had reached the conclusion that her own continual conflict with Beresford could be put down to a simple clash of two rather strong personalities and, having marked his perfectly acceptable behaviour towards both Nicholas and Miss Widdecombe, she had no reason to believe that he would be anything less than courteous to her aunt.

‘Nicky rather admires him,’ she ventured. ‘And you know how withdrawn he usually is around strangers.’

Lady Beresford shook her head and pressed her pale fingers against her brow. ‘I believe I feel another of my headaches coming on,’ she whimpered.

Breathing deeply, Imogen cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Cook is preparing a veritable banquet,’ she then offered, recalling her aunt’s constant and peevish complaining about the mundane fare they had all been reduced to eating of late. ‘Mr Beresford’s friend Mr Seymour apparently sent down to the village for a huge hamper of supplies—including a haunch of venison, which I know to be your favourite!’

Her aunt’s pale green eyes lit up at once. ‘Venison, you say?’ She considered for a moment, while her restless hands fidgeted with the fringe on her shawl. ‘I dare say I could manage a few mouthfuls,’ she said eventually. ‘Did Cook happen to mention whether she would be serving any of her special desserts?’

Imogen smiled, knowing her aunt’s fondness for the myriad of exotic sweets Cook used to send to the table. ‘Well, I believe I heard her say something about cherry and almond tartlets,’ she replied. ‘And, possibly, a crème caramel, if she has time.’

‘It would be rather ill mannered of me to fail to attend a second meal when we have guests in the house, would it not, my dear?’ murmured Lady Beresford.

‘Oh, absolutely, Aunt!’ laughed Imogen, as she turned to leave the chamber. ‘Shall I send Francine to you?’

‘Oh, would you, my dear?’ Lady Beresford sat up and patted her head. ‘My hair must be in the most frightful mess—do tell her to bring up the curling tongs, Imogen. Oh, goodness me! Which of my gowns do you think I should wear? Black would be most proper, I suppose, although strictly speaking we are no longer in full mourning.’

She rose to her feet and hurried to one of several wardrobes that lined the walls of her chamber and flung open the door.

‘Oh, no!’ she wailed. ‘See how badly creased they all are! I shall look an absolute freak—the man will think me a veritable laughing-stock!’

With a resigned sigh, Imogen came back to her aunt’s side. ‘Tell me which gown you wish to wear and I will iron it for you.’

‘But, Imogen, my dear, I cannot possibly allow you to do such a thing!’ protested Lady Beresford. ‘That is what I pay Francine for!’

‘But Francine will be attending to your toilette,’ her niece reminded her, nobly forbearing from mentioning the many occasions during the past year when, unable to pay the ageing mademoiselle her full stipend, she had had to part with several small pieces of her own jewellery in order to persuade the woman to remain at Thornfield. ‘I shall be ironing my own gown, so it will be no trouble, I promise you!’

Distractedly rummaging through the many frocks that hung in her wardrobe, Lady Beresford was barely listening. ‘Ah, yes—this one!’ she said at last, pulling out a soft lavender-coloured creation. Sir Matthew may have been overly harsh in his treatment of some of the members of his family, but he had certainly not been ungenerous in providing them with all the necessary trappings that befitted his own perceived station.

‘A splendid choice,’ agreed Imogen, hurriedly extracting the gown from her aunt’s grasp before she had time to change her mind and, turning on her heel, she made for the door once more. ‘I shall call Francine this very instant,’ she called over her shoulder as she whisked out of the room.

She ran down the back stairs to the kitchen, from which the most delicious smells were permeating and discovered Mrs Sawbridge, the family’s long-time cook, up to her arms in pastry-making, issuing instructions to the room’s only other occupant, her son Jake.

Jake Sawbridge was the result of an inappropriate liaison between Amy Sawbridge and the promiscuous son of her previous employer, some twenty years earlier. Sadly, the boy had been born with a limited mental faculty but, because he was an extremely easy-going individual and always eager to please, he had been allowed to remain with his mother ever since Sir Matthew’s tender-hearted new bride had been informed of the young woman’s plight and had taken it upon herself to hire her as a kitchen maid. Over the years Amy had diligently worked her way up to her present position, earning the courtesy title ‘Mrs’, as befitted her situation.

Now a stocky, well-developed young man, Jake was as strong as an ox and, as far as Imogen was concerned, he had proved to be more than a godsend, especially since almost all of the original members of the house staff had gradually been forced to up sticks and move on. Added to which, setting aside her unswerving devotion to Lady Beresford, Cook’s insistence that her son should remain in her care meant that there had never been any question of either of them leaving Thornfield, regardless of how much money she was owed.

At Imogen’s entrance, Jake looked up with his usual vague, wide smile and gestured to the table in front of him. ‘Taters, Miss Im,’ he said proudly, indicating the pile of vegetables that he had peeled.

‘Well done, Jake,’ replied Imogen, returning his smile. ‘Almost enough to feed an army, I should think!’

The young man grinned at her and nodded appreciatively, before once again applying his full concentration to the task in hand.

‘If you’re wanting to put the irons on, Miss Imogen, you’ll have to use the stove in here,’ Mrs Sawbridge pointed out, having seen the garment over Imogen’s arm. ‘You know we only light the laundry room fire on Mondays, when Bella comes up from the village.’

‘Yes, I had realised that, Mrs Sawbridge,’ acknowledged Imogen, with a guilty look on her face. ‘I will try not to get in your way—but I promised her ladyship that I would iron her gown. I believe I have finally managed to persuade her to come down to dinner and meet Mr Beresford.’

‘Her ladyship?’ The cook’s face cleared. ‘You should have said.’ She hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and prodded her son. ‘Jake, luv. Go and fetch two flatirons from the laundry room, there’s a good lad.’

The young man ambled off to do his mother’s bidding while Cook busied herself rearranging the pots on the top of the hob to make room for the irons. ‘I’ll just clear you a space at the other end of the table and fold a clean sheet over it.’

‘That is very good of you, Cook,’ said Imogen, laying her aunt’s gown over the back of a chair. ‘Now I must run upstairs and find Mamselle— I am sorry to say that she will need to heat her ladyship’s curling tongs, too.’

‘’No problem, my pet,’ averred Mrs Sawbridge, valiantly reassessing her cooking times. ‘Just you get along and sort out whatever her ladyship needs.’

By the time Imogen had managed to locate her aunt’s abigail, tear back down to the kitchen to iron the creases out of the chiffon gown and deliver it to its fretting owner, she was left with very little time to attend to her own toilette. After her earlier confrontations with Beresford, she had intended to take especial care over her appearance that evening, for she was quite determined not to be put at any sort of disadvantage should there be any further difference of opinion between them. However, the unlooked-for delays dealing with her aunt’s requests seemed to have caused a slight fraying of her nerves that, added to the considerable effort required to coax her now-dishevelled curls into some semblance of order, resulted in her cheeks being covered in a not-unattractive rosy glow.

With her aunt clinging nervously to her arm, she eventually entered the drawing room where she discovered that Miss Widdecombe and a rather sulky-looking Jessica were ensconced together upon a sofa. Beresford, now immaculately clad in evening dress, the black jacket of which fitted across his broad shoulders without so much as a wrinkle, was positioned in front of the huge bay window in the drawing room, deeply engrossed in conversation with Seymour and her cousin, Nicholas, but, since he had his back to the door, neither he nor either of the other two gentlemen, it seemed, might have registered the ladies’ entrance had it not been for Miss Widdecombe’s glad cry of welcome.

‘Your ladyship! How good of you to join us!’

Beresford spun round to greet his new stepmother but, as soon as his eyes alighted upon Imogen, he found it very difficult to drag his gaze away from the entrancing picture that she presented. With her hair swirled in soft curls about her face and her cheeks, still flushed from her recent exertions, enhancing the lustrous grey of her wide eyes, and the sensuous way that her elegant gown of jonquil satin clung to her shapely curves, she seemed to be having the most disturbing effect upon his senses.

The seconds ticked by while, almost spellbound, he continued to drink in her loveliness until, suddenly, he became aware of the small frown that was beginning to furrow her brow and, perceiving that she was not alone, hurriedly collected his scattered wits and strode forward, holding out his hands to her shrinking companion, whom he assumed to be his recently acquired stepmother.

‘Lady Beresford—forgive my lapse of manners,’ he said ruefully, as he lifted her unresisting fingers to his lips. ‘I fear that all the accounts work I have been doing today must have addled my brain!’

Although an uncertain half-smile crossed Lady Beresford’s lips, there was an unmistakable hint of fear in her eyes and, once again, Beresford silently cursed his deceased father. Striving not to allow himself to be distracted by Imogen’s alluring presence nearby, he tucked his stepmother’s hand under his arm and proceeded to draw her gently towards the window where he managed to perform the necessary introductions with casual poise.

‘But I really cannot keep calling you Lady Beresford,’ he then said, smiling down at her. ‘And “Mama”, of course, is totally out of the question, since you are clearly no more than a year or so older than myself!’

At this somewhat over-gallant remark, Lady Beresford’s expression lightened and she visibly relaxed. ‘Lah, Mr Beresford,’ she admonished him as she playfully tapped his arm with her fan. ‘What a veritable cozener you are!’

‘Nonsense, ma’am!’ he laughed. ‘And pray call me Matt, I beg of you!’

‘Then you must call me Blanche,’ she insisted.