Dorothy Elbury - The Officer and the Lady

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!

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.’