The Beringer Heiress

by Jan Constant

  Instead of stepping back as she expected, her rescuer placed his hands on her waist and drew her against his chest.

  “I claim my reward,” he said, tipping back the flamboyant bonnet, and the next minute Miss Beringer was being thoroughly kissed.

  Emma had been kissed before, hurried affairs delivered by callow youths, but this was far different. This man obviously knew what he was about, and it was quite clear that he had practiced the art to perfection. Clasped against him, bent backward at the waist, Emma hung in his arms, aware of his strength, and for one wild moment savored the sensation before shocked rage came to her rescue.

  THE

  BERINGER

  HEIRESS

  Jan Constant

  Chapter One

  “Oh, it does feel so good to be back in England!” exclaimed Emma, leaning her elbows on the windowsill and propping her chin on her hands as she surveyed the scene beyond the confines of the inn.

  The street below bustled with townsfolk, intermingled with blue-clad sailors and marines in their scarlet tunics and tall, black hats. By craning her neck, Miss Beringer could see clusters of tall masts rising like forests as ships rode at anchor in the harbor. A salt breeze wafted in at the open window, bringing with it the faint tang of tar and newly cut wood from the nearby dockyard and spice and other exotic commodities imported by the many merchant ships busy discharging their cargoes at the quays on ‘‘Spice Island,” just off the High Street.

  Emma found the invitation of sun and new surroundings too much to bear and turned round from the window, saying impulsively: “Let’s go out, Peggy. I’m sure you would like to explore Portsmouth as much as I.”

  “I don’t know as we should, miss,” demurred the older woman, pausing in the task of shaking the creases out of a pale green crepe dinner gown.

  Emma bit back an impatient sigh, telling herself for the hundredth time that she must make allowances for Peggy Jones, who had lost her husband at the storming of Badajoz, where Emma’s own father had died. The sergeant’s widow had agreed to accompany Emma home and act as lady’s maid in return for the passage home from the Peninsula.

  “It would do you good, Peggy,” Emma Beringer insisted. “You know the sergeant wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

  “It’s only been two months,” the other protested, but, sensing a softening in her voice as she glanced out at the busy street, Emma picked up her straw bonnet and tied the strings under her chin.

  “It will do us both good,” she declared firmly.

  “What about Sir Julian?” queried Peggy. “He did say as how he’d meet you here.”

  “Pooh! The Hera was two days late in making port, and we’ve been here all day. If my guardian can’t be bothered to call—then I certainly do not intend to wait for him. ”

  “What’s he like, miss, this guardian of yours?” asked the older woman as they left the old inn behind and began to walk along the crowded thoroughfare.

  “I've no idea—I’ve never met him. It was arranged by my father years ago when my mother died. I daresay Papa forgot all about it, for at my age the idea is quite ridiculous. A gift of twelve may need a guardian, but an intelligent female of nearly twenty is a different matter entirely—as I intend to tell Sir Julian Leyton.”

  “He’ll be an old gentleman, then?”

  “Good Heavens, as old as Methusula at least, rheumatic, bald, and toothless, to be sure!” Miss Beringer answered cheerfully, and in no doubt as to her ability to manage such a decrepit figure, passed on oblivious to the possibility of any thwarting of her plans. “I shall explain how it is,” she went on and, having reached a row of interesting shops, walked on slowly, studying the goods displayed in their bow windows, “and tell him that he has no need to bother himself with me. I have no intention of troubling him and, being quite capable of looking after myself, shall take myself off to Haslemere, where my dearest friend lives—I propose to become a governess, you know. At his age Sir Julian will, no doubt, be grateful to escape the responsibility of a ward.”

  By mutual consent they both paused in front of a milliner’s shop, gazing with undisguised pleasure at the hats and bonnets arranged invitingly in the little bay window. Emma was pleased to see that Mrs. Jones stared as avidly as herself, glad to have found something that aroused the other from her apathy.

  ‘‘You’ve been very kind to me, ” she said. ‘‘I’d like to give you some token—will you let me buy you a bonnet?”

  Peggy Jones looked startled. “Oh, miss, that’s ever so kind of you,” she said, while her face colored uncomfortably, “but I’ve already had my fare home paid, and I’m grateful for that—”

  Emma smiled gently. “That blond straw with the pink rose would suit you,” she suggested and, seeing from her companion’s expression that she had acquiesced, led the way into the shop.

  A thin, modishly dressed woman came forward as the bell above the door jangled and smiled invitingly. “Can I help you, miss?” she inquired pleasantly.

  “We’d like to see the straw with the rose from the window,” Emma said, seating herself beside a table laden with headgear of various shapes and styles.

  The woman produced the bonnet and, removing her old brown velvet affair, Peggy allowed the new hat to be placed on her head. The broad pink ribbons were tied beneath her chin and, to her surprise, Emma saw her companion transformed into an attractive woman. Peggy turned this way and that, admiring herself blissfully in the mirror, and Emma realized that for the first time in their acquaintance the older woman looked happy.

  “You must have it,” she urged involuntarily. “It suits you so well—you’ll be the village belle when you get to your destination.”

  Peggy’s face crumpled. “Do you think I should—me being a widow and all?”

  “The sergeant would have loved you in it,” Emma assured her positively, and Peggy turned back to the mirror, nodding at her reflection.

  “Thank you, miss,” she said. “Charlie always did like me in pink.” Her eyes grew red and, dragging a handkerchief from her reticule, she blew her nose vigorously. “No, ” she said as the milliner reached up to remove the new purchase. “I’ll wear it.”

  The thin woman smiled understanding and turned her attention to Emma. ”And, miss—can I show you anything?“

  It was so long since she had seen anything to compare with the elegant frivolity of the array in the shop that Emma had been quite dazzled at first. Since then, she had been fighting temptation, having fallen in love with a delightful creation as soon as she had sat down. Following her longing gaze, the milliner tweaked it off the stand, swiftly removed Emma’s old chip straw, and placed the new bonnet on the blond curls with practiced ease, knowing that most ladies, of whatever age, could not resist a new hat once it was on their head.

  An extravagantly curved brim of pleated red silk framed Emma’s face, two white ostrich feathers curled and waved over the high crown, while opulent white roses attached the wide red ribbon bows on either side in a final touch.

  “Oh—it’s beautiful!” Emma breathed, bewitched, as she gazed wide-eyed at her reflection. “I’ll have it,” she heard herself declaring, refusing to think of her light purse.

  “Do you think it’s . . . quite—?” Peggy began doubtfully, eyeing the elaborate edifice with misgiving. More worldly than her mistress, she was aware that the hat was not entirely suitable for a lady and certainly not for a girl of Emma’s years.

  “It becomes you, if I may say so,” put in the milliner quickly.

  Emma knew that she was speaking the truth. The bonnet did become her; the bright color brought out the delicate tints of her skin and hair, while her dark blue eyes sparkled with pleasure at the prospect of owning such a work of art.


  “How much is it? ’ ’ she asked, her face falling as she heard a sum above anything she could afford.

  “Of course, there will be a discount, as you are purchasing two items,” the milliner continued smoothly, recognizing the possibility of losing the sale. The bonnet had been in stock all season, and soon she knew the Portsmouth ladies and demimonde would be looking for winter fashions. A cheap sale was better than being left with last year’s model. She named a price that was judged to be within her customer’s range, and Emma, who had seen her desire snatched out of her hands, sighed in relief.

  “I’ll take it,” she cried, ignoring her conscience which told her not to fritter away her small store of cash.

  Peggy touched her arm. “You could leave mine,” she suggested quietly. “My brown velvet will do for a while yet.”

  Emma was touched and gave the other a quick hug. “No,” she whispered. “I won’t hear of it.”

  Well pleased with each other and their purchases, they sallied forth. Determined upon stringent economies, Emma was thoughtful as they continued along the High Street, but once having viewed the Sally Port and having remarked upon the circumstance of Admiral Nelson having passed that way on his last journey to the Victory, she put aside her worries and walked along the esplanade with enjoyment.

  Leaning her arms on the high seawall, she shaded her eyes and studied the vast array of ships, rising and falling on the swell, which was being driven up the Solent by the rising wind. “Do you think we can see the Hera?” she wondered. “I should like to see the outside of her, having come to know the inside so intimately during our crossing.”

  “All boats look alike to me,” answered Mrs. Jones indifferently, hugging the ends of her shawl closer about her plump person. “I miss the heat—strange, isn’t it? All those years in Spain hating it and wanting to be home again, and, now that I am, all I can think of is the cold.”

  Emma looked at her sympathetically. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Do you have something planned?”

  “Oh, yes. Charlie had saved a bit and sent it home. His brother has an inn Fareham way. I’m to go there—it’s all been arranged for years. Charlie was a good man, thoughtful-like. He had it all worked out. He made me promise not to go from man to man if he was taken. Not like some women do. Not decent, he said.” .

  Emma nodded, knowing that some of the army wives had been obliged to take as many as three or four husbands in the course of the Peninsular War, as each spouse was killed in turn.

  For a while she fell silent, her thoughts returning to the country and life they had left behind. Despite the discomforts and dangers, she had enjoyed “following the drum” and knew that she would find the return to conventional society irksome, to say the least. Never one for formality or accepting the subservient role of compliant female, she had grown used to a free reign. Her father had curbed her headstrong tendency with the lightest of leads, and Emma had come to believe in her own strength of mind, disliking strongly anything that threatened her wishes.

  She viewed the idea of a guardian with misgiving, wondering how her father could have left such an arrangement, which he could not but know must fill her with antipathy. He had praised her for a sensible female on the very day on which he had died, and here Emma blinked sharply and whisked a tear away from her eye. A chill caught during the cold nights had been the death of Major Beringer, and she had nursed him devotedly. In those last few days she felt that they had come to know each other better than in the two years since finishing school, in which she had traveled the Peninsula with his regiment. . . . Already those hot days and freezing nights seemed an age away.

  “Look, miss—that child . . . !” Peggy touched her arm, indicating where the shingle beach shelved steeply to the sea, which was breaking on the shore with a force that sent the spray flying. Almost at once the water was sucked out again, leaving a trough in the stones, which was quickly filled by the crashing arrival of the next wave. Following her finger, Emma saw a small boy in nankeen pantaloons and smock jumping in the curling edges of the waves, oblivious of his danger, as he wandered nearer the breakers.

  Both women had the same intention, but, being younger and lighter, Emma was first away and well ahead of her maid as they raced over the uneven, soft shingle. Praying that she would not fall, Emma knew that she would have only one chance to save the child; once the waves had seized him, he would be sucked beyond the help of all but the strongest of swimmers.

  Even as she stretched out her hand to grasp him, the undertow sucked away his footing, and only by flinging herself full length could Emma catch the hem of his full smock. Scrambling to her knees she held onto the material, hoping that it would not tear, and at last she felt the sea release its hold on him as it rolled out and paused at the zenith of its retreat before returning in greater force.

  Scooping him under one arm, she turned and ran, the waves seeming to tower over her as she fought her way up the wet, shifting beach. Time slowed, and, as in a dream, each footstep took an age to accomplish. Knowing that almost certain death was behind her spurred her on, and at last she reached the top of the shelf. At that moment, as if in a final effort to claim a victim, the sea pounded down, falling behind her in a rage of spray, which smothered her in salt water and small particles of stone.

  “Oh, miss—oh, miss!” gasped Peggy, arriving at that moment and reaching out her plump arms to drag her further up the beach. “Oh, miss, I thought you were gone! You saved this young scamp’s life—I’ll swear to it!”

  But far from grateful, the boy turned a look of fury on his rescuer and struggled to be set down.

  “Nasty lady,” he yelled, kicking enthusiastically with his chubby legs. “You did push me in the wet!”

  Emma burst out laughing and put him on the ground, keeping a careful hold of his collar. “What an ingrate!” she exclaimed, as he wriggled to be free.

  “What do we do with him?” Peggy asked doubtfully, watching his squirms and spirited jiggling. “Folk’ll think we’re ill-treating him,” she warned, as his face turned bright red with rage and he opened his mouth, preparatory to bawling with all the power of his lungs.

  “Quick—quick, look at that funny bird!” cried Emma with great presence of mind and, pointing to a solitary seagull flying overhead, successfully distracted the child.

  Holding onto him with one hand and delving into her reticule with the other, Emma produced a penny, which she held up invitingly.

  “If you’re a good boy and tell me where you live, I’ll give you this penny,” she promised.

  Closing his mouth, he eyed the coin with a covetous gaze. “Dere,” he announced, waving an arm in the direction of the esplanade.

  “Yes, sweetheart, but where over there?”

  “Dere,” he cried impatiently and, heedless of the arm that still held him, set off up the beach.

  Arriving back on the stone walk, the child pointed at a row of terraced houses, neat and clean in the sunlight. “Dere.” he repeated triumphantly, holding out his hand.

  Dropping the money into his palm, Emma was made suddenly aware of her disheveled dress as the wind moulded her damp clothes to her body.

  “I can’t possibly take him home like this,” she said, trying to pull the clinging folds away from her legs. “You’ll have to take him, Peggy, while I go back to the inn.”

  Peggy looked prim. “Let’s hope no one sees you, miss,” she remarked. “It’s not for me to say, but you don’t look at all ladylike. You’ll catch your death, miss.”

  Suddenly aware that the only part of her attire that had escaped a soaking was her new hat, Emma laughed at the picture she must present. ‘ ‘Thank Heavens it’s my old muslin and the year before last’s spencer,” she said and, leaving Mrs. Jones to her task, set off in the direction of the High Street.

  Once away from the sea, the wind lost its gale force and became merely playful, tugging at her skirt and endeavoring to whisk her new bonnet from her head. Clasping the brim with bo
th hands, Emma tucked her head down and fought her way along the street, keeping close to the walls for the protection they afforded. This was her undoing; crossing a garden bound by an ornate iron railing, she suddenly found herself held fast. Taken by surprise, she at first tried to pull herself free, before craning her neck and seeing that the strings which tied the bodice of her high-waisted dress were caught round one of the iron spikes. Try how she would, she could not reach them and knew that she was in the ridiculous position of being a prisoner until someone chanced along and released her.

  Unfortunately the street was deserted, and she had to stand in growing impatience until a tall gentleman rounded the comer and advanced toward her. Far from the kind, elderly person Emma had hoped would arrive to rescue her from her predicament, this gentleman was fashionable and broad shouldered and, while not in the first flush of youth, was of an age to be interesting to any unmarried female. He strolled toward her, his tall hat at a dashing angle on his black curls, a gold pin gleaming in the snowy folds of his cravat, his buckskins and blue jacket fitting without a hint of a wrinkle, and his black boots gleaming with all the loving care that a valet could bestow.

  So grand was his appearance and so self-confident his manner, that Emma’s nerve nearly failed, and she would have let him pass without asking his aid, but her manner had obviously caught his attention, and he turned his gaze upon her as he drew level.

  One black eyebrow rose in a quizzical manner and, pausing in his long stride, he made her a half bow.

  “Madam?” he inquired, taking in the enchanting picture she presented, cheeks flushed with effort, blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm for the adventure she had just enjoyed. Golden curls were escaping from the outrageous hat, and the length of her slim figure was clearly outlined by the clinging folds of her damp gown.