Dorothy Elbury - The Officer and the Lady

‘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.’

B eresford had been allotted his father’s suite of rooms and he was far from pleased about it. The heavy, dark furniture in the bedchamber was not at all to his liking and the plum-coloured velvet curtains and bed-hangings were highly oppressive. There was, moreover, a sickly cloying scent that pervaded the whole atmosphere.

He glanced at Babcock, his late father’s elderly valet, who was shuffling nervously in the doorway, awaiting instructions.

‘Are these the only rooms you have available?’ he demanded.

The man flinched. ‘This has always been the master’s suite, sir,’ he stammered. ‘Mr Allardyce thought it would be the right thing to do.’

‘Well, you may tell Mr Allardyce that I’m not at all happy with it!’

He strode over to one of the bedroom windows and thrust it wide open, then proceeded to do likewise with its fellow.

‘You can get someone to remove those ludicrous bed-hangings for a start—and what the devil is that infernal smell?’

‘Smell, sir?’ The man’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. ‘Do you mean Sir Matthew’s pomade?’ He walked across to the dressing room and, picking up one of the many jars that stood on the dressing table, held it out for Beresford’s perusal.

Beresford backed away in disgust. ‘Take it away, man—take them all away and burn them!’

‘All pretty depressing, ain’t it, old man?’ came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Beresford spun round, a look of relief on his face.

‘God, David, it is all far worse than I expected! The sooner we can sort out this damned mess the better! I cannot wait to get away from this place.’

‘Learnt nothing helpful from the lovely Imo, then, I take it?’

‘Not a bit of it. She was rambling on about the books being in a mess—although how the devil she knows anything about estate matters escapes me. Women have no business messing about in men’s affairs, in my opinion!’

‘Steady on, old chap!’ laughed his friend. ‘My father used to say that Mother was better than his own right hand when it came to checking the tax revenues in the province.’

Beresford gave a rueful grimace. ‘Perhaps I was a touch short with the girl,’ he admitted. ‘Probably that damned picture of him in there glowering at me for having the effrontery to survive him—that will certainly have to come down before I am prepared to use that room again!’

‘When are you going to cross swords with this Wentworth chap, then?’

‘After we’ve had a bite to eat, I thought—if that unlikely event ever takes place,’ said Beresford. ‘Seems that this Imogen female is in charge of all the domestic matters—as well as poking her fingers into estate management!’ he added, with a grin. ‘Hope she knows a bit more about feeding her guests than she appears to know about accountancy!’

At that moment the strident clanging of the gong was heard and Beresford turned to Babcock, who was busily shovelling his late master’s collection of toiletries into a valise.

‘You may go and have your meal, too, Babcock, but, when you return, I want you to clear all Sir Matthew’s belongings out of these rooms—everything, you understand? Empty all the closets, drawers, whatever! I do not want to see a single possession of his when I return. Understood?’

The man, wide-eyed with trepidation, nodded, picked up the bulging valise and scurried from the room.

Seymour shook his head. ‘Becoming quite the little martinet, aren’t you?’ he said, with a slight frown. ‘It don’t sit well on you, Matt. You ain’t usually this boorish with people.’

Beresford hunched his shoulders. ‘Must be this infernal place, old chum. It is almost as though he is here—watching me—I simply cannot seem to shake it off.’ He smiled apologetically to his friend. ‘Need some sustenance, I suppose—better go and see what delights our young hostess has arranged to tempt our appetites!’

Allardyce conducted the two men into what, to Beresford’s surprise, appeared to be the breakfast room, where he saw that places had been set for six at one end of a large mahogany table and a meal, of sorts, had been laid out. Imogen and Jessica were already in attendance, along with a dumpy grey-haired lady of indeterminate age and a slim, pale-faced bespectacled youth, whom Beresford took to be his half-brother Nicholas.

At the men’s entrance, the boy rose from his seat and came forward to greet them, tentatively holding out his hand.

At once, Beresford reached out and clasped the boy’s hand firmly in his own. He had seen the look of apprehension in the boy’s eyes and was, in turns, angry and full of remorse. Angry that the youth should be so obviously afraid of him before they had even met and full of remorse that his sixteen-year-old sibling should have been allowed to grow up to exhibit so little self-confidence. Yet another indictment to lay at his father’s door, he thought darkly.

‘You must be Nicholas,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘How very pleased I am to meet you at last!’

‘And I you, sir,’ answered the boy warily.

‘Matt, if you please, young man—if we are to be friends—and I hope that we are?’

‘Y-yes, of course, sir—that is—I mean—M-Matt, sir,’ came Nicholas’s shaky reply.

‘This is my friend David Seymour,’ said Beresford, nodding towards his colleague. He could see that it was not going to be at all easy to gain the lad’s confidence. ‘Miss Priestley and your sister we have already met. Do be a good fellow and introduce us to your other lady guest and then we may all sit down and eat. I, for one, am famished!’