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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.
‘How the devil did this Wentworth manage to get such an upper hand here?’ demanded Beresford, as soon as Chadwick had sat down. ‘And, more to the point, what on earth possessed my father to appoint him over you?’
‘As a matter of fact, he did no such thing!’ replied Chadwick, with a sigh. ‘Wentworth was originally taken on as head gamekeeper, shortly before my dear wife was struck down with an inflammation of the lung and, since Sir Matthew was adamant that I should spend the greater part of my working day with her, he was obliged to hand over a good many of my outside duties to Wentworth. Sadly, my wife did not recover from her illness and…’ He paused momentarily and passed his hand across his eyes. ‘For several weeks I was somewhat—how shall I put it—distracted.’
Although Beresford gave a sympathetic nod at Chadwick’s attempt to conceal his natural distress, his mind was reeling in disbelief at hearing of this new and totally unexpected facet of his father’s complex personality.
‘I had hardly begun to take up the reins again,’ the man went on, ‘when I was notified of my son’s battle injury and impending arrival. This, of course, necessitated me travelling down to Harwich to collect him. By the time we returned, Sir Matthew had suffered his heart attack and Wentworth was already beginning to make his presence felt and, although I expressed my concern to Miss Priestley, I confess that I was too preoccupied with my son’s welfare to do anything about it.’
‘Which was perfectly understandable, in the circumstances,’ Beresford assured him. ‘What can you tell me about my father’s death? He had a heart attack, you say?’
Chadwick nodded. ‘For some time his doctor had suspected that Sir Matthew suffered from an abnormal pressure of the blood and had been bleeding him regularly during the weeks preceding his death. I understand that he had just returned from his usual morning ride when it occurred. Apparently, Wentworth found him lying in the yard next to his mount but, by the time he had raised the alarm, your poor father had expired!’
The discovery that Chadwick actually seemed to mourn his father’s death stirred Beresford’s curiosity. ‘Do I take it that you were quite happy to be in my father’s employ?’ he asked.
‘After almost twenty years it would be surprising if Sir Matthew and I had not managed to reach some sort of an understanding,’ replied Chadwick cautiously. ‘And, if I may say so, I am surprised that you should consider it necessary to ask such a question! Those of us who chose to remain in his service for so many years would soon have sought alternative employment had he not been a just employer, I can assure you!’
‘I rather seemed to get the impression that certain members of his family were somewhat less than enamoured of him,’ returned Beresford drily.
Chadwick eyed him thoughtfully. ‘There is some truth in what you say, Mr Beresford,’ he admitted. ‘Sir Matthew had a very short temper and he was not one to suffer fools gladly. Some might say that he was a hard taskmaster but, over the years, I discovered that it was simply a downright refusal to accept slipshod work or any form of incompetence or ineptitude. However, so long as one performed one’s job well, one would eventually earn his respect—Miss Priestley will vouch for that!’
Beresford was silent. Having, for so many years, harboured such strong feelings of anger and resentment towards his father, he now found himself in something of a quandary as to understanding the real nature of the man and, as he was forced to remind himself, with very little likelihood of discovering the truth behind the enigma.
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.
