The Officer and the Lady. Dorothy Elbury
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.
Imogen’s eyes flickered in astonishment at her aunt’s sudden volte-face, but, catching sight of Miss Widdecombe’s little nod of satisfaction, she realised, almost at once, that their own vexing problem was about to be solved. Should Lady Beresford prove to be sufficiently impressed with Beresford’s conduct and happy to allow herself to be