by Anne Barbour
She bent to examine it more closely. “I see no signature, but I think it very well might be by Agostino.”
“Yes, I like that one, too. But come with me. I'll show you my favorite piece of all.” Edward beckoned, and Helen gestured for Barney to precede her. Helen realized guiltily that she had all but forgotten the silent companion who formed part of the little procession. Mr. Beresford led the way back across the main hall to his study, where he lifted a wood carving from the mantelpiece. It was dark with age and polished by the touch of generations of hands. It was a bust of an old man and had obviously been crafted with love and care. Age lines framed a strong nose and a generous mouth. Long hair, growing sparse, drifted across a broad brow and over deep set eyes, whose eternal spirit had been expertly caught by the artist. Helen caught her breath.
“It is exquisite,” she breathed.
“Can you tell who created it?” asked Edward
“No, I have no idea. It has some of the characteristics of carving that comes from the mountains of Italy, but I could not put a name to the creator. In any event he—or she—was a master.”
“She?”
“You are surprised,” came the tart reply. “But, yes, while women are rarely recognized for their artistic talent, there are those among us who outshine any man one can name.”
“Ah, you are an advocate of women's rights, then?” Edward watched with some fascination the play of color over her cheeks and the militant sparkle that sprang to her misty eyes.
“No—not precisely, that is. But I have seen too many women of blazing talent whose work never sees the light of day simply because they had the misfortune to be born female.”
“You, for example?”
“Me?” Helen chuckled. “No, indeed. I cannot draw or paint—or barely even sketch for that matter, but I do like to see those who can be enriched for their pains.”
“And quite rightly. I will admit that I never considered the plight of a talented female artist.”
“Nor, I should imagine, that of any female trying to make her way in almost any path in a world ruled by men.”
Edward's eyes widened. “You sound like the veriest firebrand.” He found himself enchanted by the spark in her eye and the rise and fall of her bosom.
She laughed again. “Perhaps I didn't realize until now how much of the spirit of Mary Wollstonecraft and Hester Blayne lurks within me. But, do not fear, Mr. Beresford, while I am here I shall not write inflammatory tracts on Whitehouse Abbey stationery or launch tirades from the top of the hall stairway.”
“You will have my undying gratitude for your forbearance, my dear.”
This time, the endearment and the warmth of the smile with which he laved her quite took Helen's breath away, Dear Lord, here was another unexpected weapon wielded by the unexpected Edward Beresford.
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Chapter Eight
“I think things are going very well, don't you?”
Barney perched on a small tapestry-covered chair in Helen's sitting room. She was garbed in a demure, high-necked dressing gown and a rather frivolous cap that sat at odds with her prim features.
It had been a very long first day at Whitehouse Abbey, and the two ladies had joined for a bedtime tisane and an analysis of the day's events.
“Yes—that is, I suppose so.”
Barney's brows lifted at Helen's dubious tone. “Well, my goodness, it seems to me Mr. Beresford has been most cooperative, to say nothing of courteous. Just look at our accommodations.” She swept a band. “I am not overly familiar with the great houses of England, but I should imagine these are some of the finer ones available.”
“Yes,” said Helen again, “but do you think perhaps be is being just a bit too kind? To a pair of strange females who have just appeared on his doorstep announcing that he is an interloper who must abandon his home and title to an infant of unproven antecedents?”
“Mm, I see what you mean. But I was pleasantly surprised at Mr. Beresford. I mean to say, I was rather expecting a devil with horns and a long tail. In actuality, he seems a perfectly ordinary gentleman—and a very nice one. He did not throw you out into the snow, so to speak, but instead welcomed you as an honored guest. He did not sneer at your story but promised to look into the matter. I think he means it, don't you? If he did not, he would surely not have invited us to stay here. Or do you think him merely devious?”
“I must say I do wonder about that. Although, I can't see how it would serve any evil purpose he might have in mind to welcome us into his home.”
“Yes, indeed. My goodness, Helen, he has virtually turned you loose among the family treasures. Surely—”
“I wonder about that, too. Owners of priceless objets d'art simply do not hand over the job of cataloging and evaluating them to total strangers. Mr. Beresford does not strike me as the sort of lackwit who would entrust a task of this magnitude on a whim.”
“N-no.” Barney cast a sidelong glance at Helen. “However, it did occur to me that the gentleman might have an ulterior motive in mind—one that has nothing to do with William and his claim.”
Helen gasped a little. “Oh, Barney—surely you don't think—”
“My dear,” retorted her companion dryly, “the man gaped like a trout in a canoe at first sight of you, and when the two of you are in the same room, he scarcely takes his gaze from you.”
Helen stiffened. “Barney, you're being ridiculous. Naturally, Mr. Beresford would give his full attention to a woman threatening his position. I'm sure it is the habit of men of his social position to render every courtesy to a guest. In our case, he no doubt wishes to allay any suspicions we might entertain as to his true intentions.”
“And those might be?”
Helen sighed in exasperation. “That's just my point. I must admit the man baffles me. He's entirely too cordial and—and charming for my peace of mind, and I certainly don't know what to make of his invitation to catalog his artworks.”
Barney rose, smoothing her skirts briskly. “My advice to you, my dear, is to take each day as it comes. Be grateful for Mr. Beresford's forbearance. Take him up on the catalog proposition. Be sweet as sugar to him, but be wary.” She made her way to the chamber door, tossing a last word over her shoulder. “And I'd keep a weather eye on the rest of the family as well. I don't think you can count them among your supporters, especially that pudding-faced old reprobate with the peculiar name.”
Helen laughed and nodded in acknowledgement of Barney's advice.
Still, it was not with the rest of the family that her consideration lay as she climbed into bed and composed herself for sleep. Her last thoughts before drifting into a dreamless slumber circled around the enigmatic Mr. Beresford, he of the laughing brown eyes and alarmingly intimate smile. Why did she find this man—her enemy, no less—so attractive, she wondered drowsily, and why had she felt such a shocking connection with him on their first meeting?
On opening her eyes the next morning, Helen became aware almost immediately that she was not alone and turned her head to observe the little maid, Bingham, flinging open the curtains.
“Oh, good morning, miss. It's a lovely day.” She gestured to the sunbeams streaming into the room. “I hope I did not wake you betimes, but you did not tell me when you wanted your chocolate.” She motioned again, this time to a silver tray placed on Helen's bedside table.
“Goodness, what time is it?” Helen noted with some dismay the angle of the beams now splayed across her coverlet.
“Why, nearly eleven, miss.”
“Eleven!” Helen fairly leaped from the bed. “Good Heavens—I didn't think to tell you ... I had no idea I would sleep this late. I never sleep this late.” She hurried to the wardrobe. “William! He must have been screaming for his breakfast for hours. Oh, dear. I must—”
“It's all right, miss.” Bingham spoke soothingly, as to a fractious infant. “Did you forget? Finch is taking care of the wee baby. He was up an
d fed hours ago. I believe Finch is just now dressing him for a little outing. Now, just settle yourself back in bed. Snuggle into your pillows and have some nice chocolate and biscuits. Then, when you've had a chance to ready yourself for the day, ring for me and I'll be up to help you dress.”
By now, Helen was feeling extremely foolish, but she stood her ground—in her bare feet.
“No. Thank you, Bingham, but I believe as long as I'm up, I'm ready enough to face the day. I shall dress now. I wish to see William as soon as possible.” She smiled at the maid's dubious expression. She wondered at what the servants’ reaction must be to William's presence in the house. Surely they must by now be aware of why he had been brought here. She could see no diminution in Bing-ham's courtesy or willingness to serve. Helen smiled. “Just tell me, is breakfast served in the Dining Room or the salon in which luncheon was served yesterday.”
“No—that is, yes—breakfast is in the Blue Salon, where you ate luncheon yesterday.”
“Very good. Would you tell Finch to wait for me before taking William on his outing? I'll join her as soon as I've eaten.”
In a few moments, garbed in a morning dress of lavender cambric, one which she knew became her with its clinging bodice and sweeping skirt, Helen made her way—with only a few wrong turnings—to the Blue Salon. After a hasty breakfast of tea and toast, eaten in solitude, she hurried up to the nursery to find William engaged in a game of pat-a-cake with Finch. William raised chubby arms to greet her and gurgled with pleasure. Helen scooped him into a hug, burying her nose in the fragrant curve of his neck. He was clean and rosy and obviously ready to begin his day. Pleased, yet illogically discomfited that William had survived the night very well without her, she sat on the floor to join the game.
“He ate a good breakfast?” she inquired of Finch.
“Oh, yes, mum.” The little nursemaid's red curls bobbed vigorously. “He had porridge and some applesauce. He's such a love,” she added, smiling fondly. It was apparent that William had converted this small person, if not to his cause, to a warmhearted affection. “And already so knowing, too. He tries to eat by himself, with very little mess. Don't you, young master?” This to William, who grinned broadly in response.
These amenities out of the way, the young master was taken up and the little group made its way outdoors, via a door exiting from the service wing. In the garden. Finch and Helen supervised William's valiant if ineffective efforts to crawl on the grass. A light breeze tossed his golden curls and his blue eyes sparkled, seemingly with the sheer joy of life.
“He looks so like his lordship,” sighed Finch. “His late lordship, that is,” she added mournfully.
Helen glanced up, instantly “You knew Chr—that is, the late earl?”
“Oh, yes. That is, me mum worked here then, and I'd come with her to help in the scullery—scrubbing the vegetables and washing the cutlery and all. Such a handsome man, he was.”
“Yes. It must have been hard on everyone when the news came.” Helen hated herself for taking advantage of the nursemaid's willingness to gossip, but she viewed every scrap of information as a weapon in her campaign to snatch William's birthright away from the usurper. Although, it was getting more and more difficult to view Edward Beresford in that light. “Was—was the earl liked by those belowstairs?”
Finch paused before answering. “Oh, yes, he were, miss.” She giggled. “Especially with the young ones—the girls, that is. He was always ready with a kiss on the cheek or—” she lowered her voice. “—a pinch on the bottom. And that's not all, if you take my meaning.” With another giggle, Finch straightened and put her hand to her mouth as though fearful of having said too much.
“Yes, I see,” said Helen repressively. She would like to have heard more but could not in good conscience encourage the nursemaid in further gossip. She turned her attention again to William's efforts on the greensward.
This activity had been underway for only a few minutes when another interruption occurred. A masculine shout emerged from the corner of the garden and Helen was annoyed to feel her pulse stir at the sound of Mr. Beresford's voice.
Edward paused at the end of the shrubbery, his hand raised in greeting.
“I shall return momentarily,” he called. “I must stable Lion. Will you wait?”
Helen nodded in agreement as Edward cantered off. She rose to brush the lawn clippings that had sprung up to adhere to her skirt. For the next few minutes she conversed in meaningless periods with Finch and called absentminded encouragement to William as he carefully fingered the burgeoning blooms.
In a very short time Mr. Beresford emerged from around a corner of the manor house, looking, to Helen's mind, every inch the vigorous country gentleman in his buckskins and tweed coat.
After courteous greetings to the others, Mr. Beresford turned his attention to Helen.
“Are you ready to embark on the Great Cataloging Endeavor?” he asked. “I have arranged for our estate agent, Mr. Turner, to work with you at your convenience and to provide you with all the data available on the history of our artworks. This will include the purchase papers, previous listings and so forth.” He smiled. “When would you like to begin?”
Helen could not help smiling in return. “I am ready and anxious, sir. I can begin work at once, although I shall need some supplies if any repair is needed.”
“I can assure you that a great deal of repair is needed. Not all our works are hung, and you will find many paintings stacked in various storerooms, as well as sculptures, figurines, porcelain, and I don't know what all.”
“Stacked?” echoed Helen.
“Well, yes—and I should imagine that might cause damage in and of itself, no?”
“Indeed, yes, if it was not done properly. However, we shall see what we shall see.”
“Very well. If you will allow me to change from my riding togs, I'll meet you in my study in—shall we say half an hour?”
Helen nodded wordlessly, suddenly apprehensive at the responsibility that she was undertaking. What if she were unable to make a proper listing of the works? What if she evaluated one or more incorrectly? Good Lord, what if she passed by a masterpiece, mistaking it for a copy? What if . . . ? She drew a deep breath. She was not here, for heaven's sake. to further her own career. She had come to place William in his proper role as the twelfth Earl of Camberwell. She would do best to concentrate on this fact and remember that the art cataloging and the oddly exciting prospect of frequent consultations with Edward Beresford were secondary concerns at present.
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Chapter Nine
Edward sat with Mr. Turner, affecting a wholly spurious air of interest in the papers spread out upon his desk. He was garbed now in his most recent sartorial purchase, a coat of navy Bath superfine, worn with buff pantaloons. His boots were, as usual, polished to a respectable but not blinding gloss, but he had told his man to take extra care and had inspected them carefully before putting them on.
“Yes,” he replied in answer to his agent's query. “I do think it is time we razed the north section of tenants’ cottages and put up something better. I noticed signs of dry rot in my last visit, and the roofing is becoming more than somewhat tattered. In addition, we seem to be experiencing a sudden population increase. I do believe we've had more babies born in the last two years than in the ten before that. We need a few more and larger homes for the overflow, don't you agree?”
“Mm, yes, my lord,” replied the Mr. Turner dubiously. “But have you considered the cost of such improvements? You have already spent a great deal on your tenants’ welfare, and—”
He was interrupted by the sound of a discreet knock on the study door followed by the entrance of Miss Prestwick. As Edward had observed earlier, she was garbed in a most becoming lavender gown. Which brought him to the notion that he would very much like to see her in something a little more colorful. With her glossy chestnut hair and glowing cheeks, she would look sup
erb in, say, gold—or even russet. She would look like a goddess of the harvest. She would look like...
His thoughts shattered in confused shards as he became aware that she had spoken and was awaiting a response.
“Oh—yes, do come in, Miss Prestwick. May I introduce my estate agent, Joshua Turner? He has agreed to provide you with all the available records on our art collection, including the works brought home by my grandfather.”
As he pulled a chair into position for her, Mr. Turner rose to bow.
“Yes, Miss. I'm not sure how helpful I can be, but I'll surely do my best.”
Miss Prestwick smiled warmly. “Angels can do no more, Mr. Turner, and I shall be most grateful for your aid.”
“Mr. Turner will be traveling to London on some errands in a day or two. If you can provide him with a list of supplies, he will be glad to purchase them.”
“Urn, yes, I can give you a partial list of some basic things—wine, crystalline damar, and so on, but I must leave some items until I know precisely what problems I may encounter.”
“Wine?” Edward's brows lifted.
“Yes. It needn't be a very good wine. I need it for alcoholic vapors. I don't plan to drink it,” she added with some asperity, apparently drawing the wrong conclusion from his puzzlement. Her gray eyes seemed to ripple with storm clouds. Lord, she was touchy.
“No, no, of course not,” he said hastily. “It just seems an odd connection with a work of art.”
“I assure you, the use of alcoholic vapors in cleaning paintings is a standard procedure.” Miss Prestwick's voice had warmed marginally, but clearly she was still a bit on the defensive. He searched for a more neutral subject.
“Mr. Turner and I are about through here.” Edward ignored Turner's puzzled intake of breath. “You have seen most of our more notable works of art. Perhaps you would allow me to show you those scattered in the nether regions—as well as those stored in various nooks and crannies.”
