A Strange Likeness (4 page)

Johnstone sank back into his chair, his face grey.

‘I didn't give you leave to sit, you idle devil. You'll remain standing until I leave.'

Mutinously Johnstone rose, silently consigning all sandy-haired young Australians to the deepest pit of Hell.

‘Now mind me,' said Alan pleasantly. ‘You'll jump when I say jump, and you'll say please nicely when I ask you to if you don't want instant dismissal. And if you think that Baby Bear plays a rough hand I can't recommend you to meet Father Bear. He'd not only eat your porridge, he'd eat you, too.'

He strolled into the outer office, leaving behind him a stunned and shaken man. The clerk, quite unaware of what had taken place in Johnstone's room, gave him yet another insolent grin, and said, ‘Got your interview, did you? Not long, was it?'

‘Yes,' said Alan sweetly. He looked judiciously at the clerk, registered his leer, leaned forward, picked up his inkwell and slowly poured its contents over the page of ill-written figures which the clerk had been carelessly copying from various invoices, receipts and notes of hand.

‘What do you think you're doing?' yelped the clerk. ‘That's my morning's work ruined.'

‘Well, you ruined my morning's work,' said Alan reasonably, head on one side, surveying the havoc he had wrought. ‘You can do it again, legibly this time.'

He turned and shouted at the door behind him, ‘Johnstone! Come here at once!'

To the clerk's astonishment the door opened and a respectful Johnstone appeared.

‘Sir?' he said to Alan, and the office fell silent at the sound.

‘What is this man's name?' asked Alan.

He still had the inkwell in his hand and he leisurely began to pour the remains of the ink on to the clerk's head. The clerk let out another strangled yelp and looked reproachfully through the black rain, first at Alan and then at the subservient Johnstone.

‘Phipps,' Johnstone said. ‘Nathaniel Phipps.'

‘Phipps,' said Alan thoughtfully. ‘Dirty, isn't he?' He critically surveyed the ruined ledger and the ink dripping down Phipps's face.

‘Yes, sir,' agreed Johnstone nervously.

‘You did it,' squealed Phipps at Alan. ‘He did it, Mr Johnstone. Not I.'

“‘You did it,
sir
,” is the correct usage,' said Alan, putting down the empty inkwell. ‘Say it after me, please.'

‘Mr Johnstone, sir,' roared Phipps desperately. ‘Please stop this madman.'

‘Madman? Tut-tut,' said Alan. ‘And if I
am
mad you've driven me into that condition, what with making me wait over two hours in a dam'd uncomfortable chair and enduring your insolence while I did so. I've a short fuse, which anyone who works for me soon finds out.'

This was a lie, but Phipps was too agitated to care.

‘Works for you! I don't work for you! I work for Mr Johnstone.'

‘And he works for me,' said Alan gently. He picked up the clerk's quill pen, and with the whole office and Johnstone watching him silently, breath drawn in, he rolled it in the ink and negligently wrote his initials on Phipps's forehead.

‘Yes, he works for me, and so do you now. You're mine, Phipps. Alan Dilhorne's property so long as you're in this room. Unless, of course, you care to resign.'

The silence in the room grew more deathly, broken only by the clerk's whimpering while he scrubbed at his face with his handkerchief. ‘This can't be true, Mr Johnstone.'

‘Oh, but it is,' said Alan. ‘Now clean up your disgusting person and your disgraceful work and do it again: properly this time.'

‘It's not fair,' said Phipps tearfully. ‘You should have told me who you were.'

Alan's face was suddenly like stone. ‘Ah, but you see, I needed to know how you would treat someone whom you didn't know was your employer's son, and I found out, didn't I. Didn't I, Phipps? And if you can't see what was wrong with what you've just said, then we shall never get Dilhorne and Sons' London branch straight again, shall we?'

He swung round and addressed his staring staff. ‘The rest of you can get down to it immediately, and do an honest day's work for once. You're none of you fit to work in my Sydney office. Mr Johnstone will tell you what I expect of you by tomorrow, and God help you all if it's not ready by ten.'

He walked to the door before turning and delivering his parting shot.

‘Oh, and by the by, mid-morning porter is out, from today!'

T
hat afternoon Eleanor left the schoolroom, where she had been working with Charles and young Mr Dudley, and decided that, four-thirty being almost upon her, she would not trouble to change her clothes in order to meet Ned's Australian friend. She was still wearing her deep blue walking dress and that would have to do.

She had reached the last step of the graceful staircase which spiralled to the top of the house when she met Staines, the butler. He bowed and said ‘Mr Ned is in the drawing room, Miss Eleanor, awaiting his friend, and asks you to join him there.'

Somehow Eleanor gained the impression that he was enjoying a small private joke. She immediately dismissed this notion as fanciful and walked across the stone-flagged hall to the drawing room door.

She should have trusted to her instincts. Ned had spent the afternoon avoiding her. He had also given orders to Staines for Mr Alan Dilhorne to be taken straight to the small drawing room with the message that Mr Ned Hatton would shortly join him there.

He had taken care to tell Staines of the likeness and to
warn him not to inform anyone else of it before Alan arrived.

‘For,' he had said ingenuously, ‘I wish to tease the family a little and you must not spoil the fun.'

Staines had agreed to be discreet. All the servants liked Ned: he was so easy, jolly and kind, although some worried what would happen to the Hatton fortune when Sir Hart had gone to his last rest.

Eleanor said over her shoulder to Staines, in a sudden access of her old impetuous spirit, ‘Australian, is he? D'you think he'll be wearing his chains?'

Staines, bowing his head again, opened the double doors for her, and she entered the drawing room to find not the Australian guest but Ned, standing in front of the fireplace studying Lawrence's portrait of Great-Aunt Almeria in her youth, which hung above it.

Eleanor resembled her father's aunt a little, but Almeria Stanton was sterner-looking, and even her airy draperies and the posy of flowers which she was holding did not soften her austere expression. Ned had his sandy head tipped back, the better to inspect it, which struck Eleanor as amusing—as did the outlandish clothes he was wearing.

She gaily continued teasing him when he turned towards her, his back to the light so that his features were a little obscured. ‘Wearing fancy dress so as not to discommode your new friend, are you, Ned? Why didn't you put chains on, too? Then he would have felt really at home.'

Ned looked at her. His eyes seemed bluer than ever, and they roved over her in a manner which, had he not been Ned, would have made her blush.

Alan found her enchanting. She did not resemble Ned in the least, either in manner or appearance. She was a
tall girl, beautifully proportioned, elegantly dressed, from the crown of her glossy head to the toes of her well-shod feet. Ned had spoken of a sister and this must be her. Her colouring was deeper and richer than Ned's and her hair was a raven-black in colour.

It was very plain that naughty Ned had told her of a visitor from Australia but had not seen fit to mention the likeness. His mouth twitched in involuntary amusement, but before he could identify himself Eleanor spoke again.

‘I understand that you're taking him to Cremorne Gardens. Tell me, don't you think that your colonial friend will be overset by such worldly sophistication?'

Before she could commit herself further, and add to her ultimate embarrassment, Alan spoke at once, privately deciding to reproach Ned for putting his pretty sister in such a false position. He had already learned enough about him to know that what had been done was deliberate.

‘You mistake, Miss Hatton,' he told her, ‘I am not Ned.' And he deepened the accent which he had not known he possessed until he reached England.

Eleanor's hand flew to her mouth in an embarrassed reversion to childhood.

‘Not Ned? Then you must be the Australian visitor of whom he spoke. Oh, dear, I have been so mannerless, so
gauche
. How can I apologise? On the other hand you are so like Ned I can be forgiven for being tactless. Only your voice is different, and, yes, I do believe that you are even bigger than he is.'

Alan decided not to favour her with his wickedly accurate imitation of Ned's light drawl.

‘Yes,' he said, smiling. ‘It's too deep. The voice, I mean. It's the chains. They weigh it down, you know. They took them off…'

He paused tantalisingly, still smiling. He had two sisters whom he liked to tease gently, and he wanted to see how this poised and pretty girl would react to similar treatment.

Eleanor took the bait.

‘The chains? Took them off?'

‘Yes, when we boarded the ship for England. They said that if we wore them during the journey they'd slow us down too much. The weight again.'

‘They did?' said Eleanor, fascinated by this young man who looked so like Ned but who was yet utterly unlike him when he teased her. On closer inspection he looked very much more severe than Ned, but there was a gentleness in his manner to her which her wild brother had never possessed.

‘Yes. Sorry to disappoint you by not having 'em on.'

‘I'm not disappointed,' said Eleanor truthfully.

‘I can see that. The Patriarch says—'

‘The Patriarch?' Eleanor was fascinated all over again.

‘M'father. We call him the Patriarch occasionally—he does come on rather patriarchal at times. He also says that they slow you down when you're working. So they took them off him soon after he arrived in New South Wales. More trouble than they were worth, he said.'

‘Do stop,' said Eleanor faintly, trying not to laugh. Great-Aunt Almeria insisted that young ladies never laughed. Lord Chesterfield wouldn't have liked it, she said. ‘You're not a bit like Ned now that I've got to know you.'

‘No, I'm not,' agreed Alan cheerfully.

‘But you do look very like him.'

‘Yes—but it was a naughty trick to play on you—and so I shall tell Ned.'

‘Well, I wouldn't have said all that to you about chains if I hadn't thought you
were
Ned.'

He agreed with her, head on one side judiciously, adding, ‘Not to my face, perhaps, but afterwards.'

‘Yes, no. Oh, dear.' She laughed out loud this time, but was saved further embarrassment by the arrival of a grinning Ned.

‘I see you've found one another,' he offered carelessly.

‘Too bad of you, Ned,' Eleanor began.

‘Miss Hatton found me,' said Alan. ‘I didn't do any finding. Our resemblance confused her somewhat.'

Ned's grin was wider than ever. ‘Thought it might. Bit of a shock was it, Nell?'

‘My name is Eleanor,' she said repressively. ‘You are quite disgraceful, Ned. I behaved very badly as a consequence of your silly trick and Mr—?' She looked at Alan.

‘Dilhorne, Alan Dilhorne,' he told her. ‘But then I behaved badly, too. I was a dreadful tease, I fear.'

‘Indeed you were,' she agreed, captivated by his charm. No, he was not really very like Ned, despite the resemblance.

‘So, we are quits,' he said to Eleanor, ignoring the grinning Ned, who was beginning to annoy him.

‘Quits,' she agreed, and put out her hand to take his and shake it, which pleased Alan mightily.

There was no false affectation about her, despite her overwhelming air of fashion and consequence. He looked at Ned and said, only half-jokingly, ‘Beg both our pardons, Ned, and introduce me properly to your sister, there's a good fellow.'

The note of command in his voice was such that Ned had begun to obey him when the doors opened again, and Almeria Stanton entered. Her eyebrows rose alarmingly when she saw Ned and Alan standing side by side, their
two faces and figures so alike. Yet she thought that there was no doubt which was Ned. The face on the right possessed a power and a strength missing in her great-nephew's.

Almeria sighed. Inconvenient likeness were the bane of the aristocracy's life, but if this were the Australian visitor of whom Ned had spoken then the likeness had to be put down to chance.

But she would still like to know more of the origins of Ned's new friend…

‘I understand that you are taking Mr Dilhorne to Cremorne Gardens tonight, Ned. I must remind you that you were out late this morning. I'm not sure that your grandfather would approve of your way of life.'

‘I'm well of age,' said Ned sulkily.

Watching him, Alan thought that Ned Hatton was strangely juvenile, for all that he had reached his mid-twenties.

So, apparently, did his formidable great-aunt.

‘You must remember, Ned, that you are dependent upon Sir Hartley for your income—and that you do little in return for it. You make no attempt to begin to learn the management of the estate which you will one day inherit. Besides, if you are living in my home you must respect my wishes. No, I propose that you ask Mr Dilhorne to dine with us instead. Should you like that, Mr Dilhorne?'

Alan looked from Ned's scarlet and embarrassed face to Almeria Stanton, so serene and sure of herself.

‘If Ned does not mind forgoing our entertainment this evening—and I'm sure that Cremorne Gardens will be there for another time—I should be honoured to dine with you. Although, as you see, I am not properly dressed for it.'

‘No matter. I will ring for Staines and tell him to see that another place is laid at table.'

Having done so, she sat down and began to draw out this young man who so improbably possessed her nephew's face.

‘Since Ned has been as mannerless as usual and has failed to introduce us, I must introduce myself. I am Almeria, Lady Stanton, Ned and Eleanor's great-aunt, and you, I believe, are Mr Alan Dilhorne. I seem to remember, from my childhood in Yorkshire, that it is a surname commonly found there, but I have not come across it in the south.'

‘It is not common where I come from, either,' Alan told her. ‘I have no knowledge of any relatives of that name in England.'

‘I presume that you are in England on pleasure, then?'

‘Not at all,' said Alan. He was beginning to admire this forthright old lady. He thought that Eleanor Hatton might grow to be like her in time. ‘I am here on two pieces of business. My first relates to the London branch of the family firm.'

Ned was struck by this. ‘Of course, Dilhorne and Sons! What a forgetful ass I am. My friend, George Johnstone, is manager there.'

‘Yes,' said Alan with a small smile. ‘I know.' He thought that the friendship revealed a great deal about Johnstone.

Almeria Stanton knew that one should not ask someone from New South Wales about his family's origins, but she cared little for society's rules and regulations. Besides, the resemblance was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable, and the more she could discover about this self-controlled young man—so unlike Ned in that—the better.

‘You must be a member of the Dilhorne family which, I understand from my brother-in-law, who is at the Board of Trade, runs something of an empire in Sydney and district. Pray where did your father originate from, Mr Dilhorne?'

Alan was amused, although he could see that Miss Eleanor was shocked by her great-aunt's bluntness. The people whom he had met so far had danced around the tricky subject of his origins. He decided to give the straightforward old woman a straightforward answer, however much it might shock her or his hearers.

After all, the Patriarch had never repudiated his origins, nor sought to hide the fact that he
had
arrived in chains. He was always frank about his past, being neither proud nor ashamed of it.

‘I believe my father lived in London before he was transported to New South Wales.'

It was as much of the truth as he was prepared to give. Later, he was to be grateful for this early reticence.

Eleanor's face was shocked when her unfortunate gaffe about chains came back to haunt her. Ned would have guffawed had Alan made his answer in male company, but being in his great-aunt's presence always made his behaviour a trifle more reticent than was habitual with him.

For her part, Almeria Stanton was cool. ‘I collect that he was the architect of your family's fortunes, Mr Dilhorne. I find that most praiseworthy, given his unfortunate start in life. But you spoke of two reasons for your visit?'

Alan was pleased to hear her ask this question. Now for the second and somewhat different bombshell.

‘My second reason is perhaps why I am here at all. I have come to clear up the business of my mother's inheritance.'

He paused, watching for—and finding—the twitch of surprise on their faces.

Eleanor, throwing on one side all good manners which prescribed that you did not bombard new acquaintances with personal questions, but fascinated by Ned's new friend who looked so like him but was really not like him at all, took up the inquisition.

‘Your mother's inheritance? May we know of it, Mr Dilhorne? It must be substantial to bring you all the way from the Southern hemisphere.'

‘Indeed. My mother happens to be one of the Warings of Essendene Place in Surrey. By chance she has fallen heiress to the entire estate since Sir John Waring, who never married, left it to her. She is the daughter of Sir John's younger brother, my grandfather, Frederick Waring, who died in Sydney before I was born. I understand that there are some distant cousins of mine in the female line who were unaware of my mother's existence until her name appeared in Sir John's will and who had consequently hoped to inherit Essendene. They are rightly demanding proof of her existence and I have come to furnish it.

‘I also understand that Sir John had only lately decided to leave everything to my mother, and that this, too, is causing friction. My mother hopes that if her claim is substantiated I can bring about a reconciliation of sorts, once I have settled the legal situation to the satisfaction of us all.'