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He looked questioningly at Imogen, who felt obliged to smile and nod her head, although she too was planning her imminent escape from Thornfield.
‘There you are then!’ exclaimed Seymour, leaning back in his chair in satisfaction. ‘You see, Miss Beresford! You have an excellent chaperon in your cousin and I, myself, would deem it a great honour if you would allow me to act as your escort to any local rout or assembly.’
Jessica’s face immediately lit up and she began fluttering her lashes at Seymour in what seemed to Beresford to be the most irritatingly obvious manner.
‘I should think that Miss Priestley is rather too young to be placed in a role of such responsibility, David,’ he remarked drily, glancing across the table to Imogen.
A soft blush appeared on her cheeks. ‘I believe I am perfectly capable of ensuring that my cousin conducts herself as she should in any public gathering, Mr Beresford,’ she said, defensively.
‘You have a good deal of experience in these matters then, I take it?’
She was momentarily confused as she registered the unmistakable trace of sarcasm in his voice.
‘I was often wont to attend the local assemblies when my uncle was alive,’ she replied, unable to tear her eyes away from his intent gaze. ‘You may be surprised to learn that I am not quite as green as you apparently take me to be, sir.’
His deep laugh rang out across the room as he rose and pushed back his chair.
‘Clearly not, Miss Priestley! However, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall leave the matter of Jessica’s launch into society until some other time. There are other, more pressing matters to deal with today. Where do you suppose I might find Mr Wentworth?’
At this, Nicholas got to his feet. ‘I can take you to him, if you like,’ he offered shyly. ‘He is normally in the office at this time of day. We can go through from the hall—if the door isn’t locked.’
Beresford was puzzled. ‘Why should the door be locked on the house side?’ he asked the boy.
Nicholas flushed. ‘It always is these days, sir. Wentworth does not care for any of us poking about in there—not that I would ever do so,’ he added quickly. ‘I am pretty useless when it comes to stuff like corn yields and livestock sales—Father always used to get rather angry with me over my lack of understanding of estate matters.’
‘It will all be yours one day, Nicholas,’ Beresford reminded him. ‘I would not like you to think that I have come here to steal your inheritance from you. I merely want to sort out the most urgent problems as quickly as possible and leave you to it.’
A look of alarm appeared in the boy’s eyes. ‘Oh, I wish you would not, sir! I really do not wish to keep the property—and nor does Mama—apart from her jointure, of course. I, myself, will be perfectly content with the allowance he left me.’
Frowning, Beresford regarded his brother intently. ‘You are not interested in taking over Thornfield when you come of age?’
Nicholas shook his head vehemently. ‘Never! I was as glad as I could be when I heard that you were to succeed. I intend to go into the Church—it is what I have always wanted. And, if you do not intend to stay, I shall sell the place as soon as I am able!’
A breathless silence filled the room as Beresford, in perplexed dismay, struggled to come to terms with this new and unexpected development.
Seymour got to his feet. ‘The estate still has to be put back to rights, old chap,’ he pointed out. ‘Whether it is to be kept or sold makes very little difference at this stage. The debts have to be cleared and, judging by what I could see from the lane as we passed, there are at least two fields well past their best for cutting. You simply cannot pull out now, Matt.’
Beresford’s face darkened. ‘I had not intended to,’ he said shortly. ‘But this does pose an entirely different problem.’
‘I am awfully sorry, sir.’ Nicholas’s voice was shaking. ‘I had not meant to cause you any more worry.’
Imogen rose and came to her cousin’s side. ‘It is probably just as well that Mr Beresford knows your intentions, Nicky,’ she said firmly. ‘There are certain aspects of your father’s temperament of which he cannot possibly be aware.’
‘I believe I had the pleasure of discovering several of Sir Matthew’s delightful idiosyncrasies some years ago,’ was Beresford’s terse rejoinder.
She coloured. ‘Yes, of course. I do beg your pardon.’
He suddenly found himself musing over the extraordinary colour of her eyes. One minute they were a bright, clear grey and then, before you knew where you were, they had changed to the colour of a thundercloud! And that, he noted, was when those fascinating little sparks of silver were at their most obvious. A useful warning sign for future reference, he thought, turning away with an appreciative grin.
Somewhat flustered over his intense examination of her features, Imogen’s thoughts became erratic, her pulse began to race and she found herself obliged to sit down quickly. At first, the idea that Beresford might find her amusing filled her with a cold fury and yet—there had been something else in his penetrating gaze, she could swear—something she could not identify. And, whatever that something was, it had caused her to experience a momentary flutter of a feeling somewhat akin to panic!
Chapter Five
B eresford followed Nicholas out of the room and into the hall, from where the boy led him down a side passage and indicated a doorway at the end.
‘This is the office,’ he said, trying the handle. To his surprise, the door appeared not to be locked. ‘I suppose Wentworth must have known you were bound to want to look around,’ he grinned, as he pushed it open.
It seemed that Wentworth had indeed been expecting them, for he was sitting at the big mahogany desk leafing through a pile of papers. He stood up as they entered and held out his hand.
‘Mr Beresford,’ he said, his voice fawningly apologetic. ‘So sorry we got off on the wrong foot this morning, sir—I thought you were an interloper at first—a natural mistake in the circumstances, as I feel sure you’ll agree.’
His lips twisted into an insincere smile. ‘You’ll no doubt be wanting to take a peek at the books—I think you’ll find everything in order, sir.’
As far as Beresford was able to judge, Philip Wentworth appeared to be one or two years older than himself. With piercing black eyes and crisp, dark curls falling about his temples, he was not unhandsome in a raffish sort of way. In addition, he had a brash, self-confident air about him. Beresford quickly decided that he had been quite correct in his first impression of the man and liked him no better on second contact.
‘I will look at them later, perhaps,’ he replied. ‘At the moment I believe we need to deal with the staff shortage. How many outside hands do you have?’
‘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!’
