Captain Ingram's Inheritance (5 page)

 Constantia was fond of her ex-preceptress and still asked her advice on occasion. She assured Miss Ingram that Anita would be safe in her care.

 At last Miss Ingram was satisfied that the child was happy. She went to see the captain, while Felix and Constantia went downstairs together.

 “Wish me luck,” said Felix. “I am commanded to an interview with Father.”

 “He cannot turn a wounded hero out of doors,” she assured him, and hurried to the housekeeper’s room to order the room off the gallery made up as a bedchamber for the hero.

 The rarely used sitting room was furnished as a writing and sewing room for visiting ladies. Constantia had a small bureau and a work-table carried out. She was arranging a bowl of roses on a chest of drawers, while footmen set up a truckle bed and maids dusted and polished, when Felix came in, looking grim. He drew her out into the gallery.

 “It went just as I expected. The Ingrams are obscure nobodies, who do not belong at Westwood. Such people are unfit to make my sisters’ acquaintance. I pointed out that such people as Frank Ingram saved us all from Napoleon.”

 “Oh, well said, Felix!”

 “And I told them that I mean to marry Fanny, if she will have me, with or without their approval. They are furious, of course, and almost equally angry that I changed my mind about Lady Sophia.”

 “So you did not propose to Lady Sophia? I am glad. I thought perhaps she had refused you.”

 “No.” He smiled ruefully. “I came to my senses just in time to fail to come up to scratch. You do like Fanny, don’t you, Con?”

 “Very much. I shall be happy to have her for a sister. When you first described her and Lady Sophia to me, I thought at once that Miss Ingram sounded much more amiable.”

 “Amiable, adorable, but not eligible. I don’t give a tinker’s curse for eligibility! It’s not as if she were a butcher’s daughter, let alone an opera dancer.”

 “If they cannot change your mind, Mama and Papa will try to convince Miss Ingram that an artillery officer’s daughter is as unfit as a butcher’s daughter to join the family,” she said, worried.

 “They may well succeed. What am I to do next, Con?”

 “I don’t know. You will think of something, but keep her away from Mama and Papa until you do. Why not take her riding, for a start? Though I fear she will despise poor Skylark after mules and warhorses!”

 “She’ll be glad of a normal, if slothful, mount.”

 “If Captain Ingram is recovered from the journey enough to leave his bed, I shall keep him company while you are out,” Constantia offered hopefully.

 “He seemed to be in good spirits when I dropped in to see him before breakfast. I’ll go and find out if he is ready to come down.”

 At last she was going to meet the brave captain. Everything must be arranged for his comfort. She looked around.

 The gallery was a long room, draughty in the winter but pleasant in summer, with curtains of cream-and-gold brocade and a polished floor scattered with Turkey carpets. All along the west side, windows and french doors opened onto a flagged terrace and a formal Italian garden beyond, now suffering somewhat from a lack of outdoor servants. On the opposite wall hung the family portraits of three centuries, from Holbein to Reynolds and Gainsborough.

 Constantia called a pair of footmen to move a sofa nearer to the french doors. Surely Captain Ingram would prefer a view of lobelia and scarlet geraniums straggling from stone urns, and slightly shaggy cypresses, to the massed haughty stares of her ancestors.

 She collected several cushions and piled them on the sofa, then removed some and placed them on a chair near at hand. Would he be warm enough? Though the night’s rain had passed, a brisk breeze chased clouds across the blue sky. She sent one footman running for a rug, and directed the other to set a small table beside the sofa. Hands clasped, she surveyed her preparations. A revivifying cup of tea? Or did soldiers despise anything weaker than ale? Wine? Brandy?

 Would he want her company? Perhaps he’d prefer to be left in peace.

 Why was she so unsure of herself, almost agitated? The captain was Fanny Ingram’s brother, Felix’s friend. She did not have to impress him. He was more likely to be grateful than critical.

 She sat down on a chair facing the sofa, and willed herself to her usual serenity.

 The servants finished their tasks. Constantia checked the small room and thanked them, and they departed. She was standing by a window, gazing out at the fast-drying flagstones, when she heard slow, halting steps approaching. She turned as Felix supported Captain Ingram into the gallery.

 “Oh!” Her breath caught in her throat. How stupid she was! She knew he had been desperately ill, at death’s door, yet her image of him had remained that of a strong, vigorous man.

 He was pale, his thin face scored with lines of suffering. His threadbare uniform jacket, dark blue with scarlet facings, hung on his wasted body as on a scarecrow. Leaning on Felix’s arm, his shoulders hunched against the pain, he was half a head shorter than Felix and looked ten years older.

 No handsome, stalwart champion, yet his chin was resolute, his brown hair sprang in crisp curls from a broad brow. He smiled at her, a crooked, rueful grin that brought a warm light to his brown eyes and took a dozen years from his age.

 “Forgive me for not making my bow, Lady Constantia, but I fear your brother would have to pick me up off the floor. I’m still a trifle unsteady on my pins.”

 And suddenly it did not matter that he was not the romantic, story-book hero of her imaginings. He was Fanny’s brother and Felix’s friend. What, after all, could she have found to say to a hero?

 She stepped forward with an answering smile. “A bow is a paltry gesture, sir, since gentlemen ceased to wear plumed hats to be flourished. Welcome to Westwood, Captain Ingram. Do come and sit down. Will you take tea, or do you consider it a wishy-washy beverage fit only for females?”

 He laughed as he lowered himself with care onto the sofa, wincing. “By no means, ma’am. The first thing the British soldier does on stopping to bivouac is light a fire to boil water for tea.”

 “Truly?” She looked at him, doubtful. Her heart ached at the sight of that white, drawn face. “But tea is not very nourishing. Felix, what was it Nurse used to drink when she felt poorly?”

 “Malt-and-milk, that is, half milk and half stout or porter, I believe. And she’s still lively as a cricket at eighty-three.”

 “It sounds horrid. Though if it helps to restore your strength, Captain....”

 “I’ll try it,” said the captain valiantly. “I place myself entirely in your hands, Lady Constantia.”

Chapter 4

 Frank had rarely done anything so difficult in his life as to make a joke of his weakness to Lady Constantia. He had noted her momentary hesitation on first catching sight of him, and he knew that at all costs he must avoid her pity.

 At least he had walked into the room. Two stout footmen had carried him down the stairs, seated on their linked hands, his arms about their shoulders, which left his shoulders aching. A humiliating necessity, and one he was glad Lady Constantia had not observed.

 He had expected beauty of the handsome Lord Roworth’s sister, but not perfection. Her hair was of a brighter gold than her brother’s, her eyes a deeper blue--the summer skies of Spain to his England--set in a heart-shaped face. Her cheeks and tender mouth were touched with the delicate hue of the wild rose. When she smiled, her air of shy gravity vanished in a burst of sunshine.

 As an insignificant half-pay officer and a semi-invalid, Frank was in no position to set up as a worshipper of the lovely daughter of an earl. The best he dared hope was to make a friend of her.

 Nonetheless, he could not tear his gaze from her graceful slenderness as she turned away to ring for a servant. Luckily, Fanny came in at that moment, distracting Roworth, and by the time anyone looked at Frank again he was in full command of himself.

 “I trust I have not kept you waiting, Felix.”

 Fanny was cheerful, her eyes sparkling. Her delight in the prospect of riding with Felix appeared no whit diminished by the shabbiness of her brown riding habit. Frank dismissed the guilt awakened by her unhappy report of her cold reception from the earl and countess. He had been right in insisting on coming to Westwood.

 She turned to him. “I see Lady Constantia has made you comfortable, Frank.”

 “I’m in clover. Off you go and enjoy your ride.”

 “I shall keep the captain company, Miss Ingram,” Lady Constantia promised.

 Felix moved towards Fanny as if drawn by a magnet. He offered his arm and she laid her hand on it, looking up at him with a joyful smile. Glancing at Lady Constantia, Frank saw that she was aware of the attraction between his sister and her brother. Her eyes met his and a message passed: she was content to have it so. Somehow she had found the strength to repudiate her parents’ disdainful arrogance, the pride that counted most of the human race unworthy of respect and friendship.

 “I am so glad you came to Westwood,” she said softly.

 Perhaps Felix heard her. As he and Fanny reached the door, he swung round with a frown. “You ought to have a chaperon, Connie.”

 “Not Mama!”

 He grinned. “No, not Mama. I’ll send for your abigail.”

 They departed, and a footman entered. Lady Constantia ordered tea, milk-and-stout, and plenty of biscuits and cakes. The servant, a lad by the name of Thomas, was too new to his position not to show his surprise at this curious repast, but he knew better than to question it. He went off, leaving them alone together.

 Silence fell in the long gallery. Outside, a blackbird perched in an Italian cypress and sang his heart out.

 The mention of a chaperon had disconcerted both Frank and Lady Constantia. She sat with downcast eyes, while he searched desperately for something to say. He was suddenly conscious of the need to mind his tongue. Fanny was used to a soldier’s rough-and-ready speech--duly expurgated in the presence of respectable females--and Miriam Cohen had taken it in her stride. It would not do for the sensitive, delicate creature sitting opposite him. He thought back to the days before his mother died, when she had demanded gentlemanly manners of him.

 “Your brother has...” he began, just as she said, “Your sister told me....”

 They looked at each other and laughed, she with a rosy blush. Her maid came in, a small, middle-aged woman in grey who curtsied and took a seat at a distance. She set about some needlework, but Frank noticed that she kept a watchful eye on her mistress.

 Lady Constantia seemed once again tongue-tied, so Frank completed his sentence.

 “Your brother has been a most generous friend to us.”

 “Felix is a dear, the kindest and best brother in the world. Oh,” she cried, flustered, “but I expect Miss Ingram says the same of you!”

 “Not Fanny. I could not ask for a more devoted sister, but she is more apt to roast than to praise me.”

 “I have already observed that Miss Ingram has a lively sense of humour. You are twins, are you not, and you have always been together? You must be very close. Vickie is five years younger than I, and my other sister, Augusta, is five years older. She left home to be married eight years since.”

 Her wistfulness touched him. She was lonely, this daughter of privilege in her great mansion with servants running to do her bidding.

 Two came in now, one with a laden tray, the other to set up a small pie-crust table between Frank’s sofa and Lady Constantia’s chair. He transferred from tray to table several plates of confections, a pewter tankard, and tea things including two elegant porcelain cups and saucers.

 “In case your drink is nasty, you can have tea instead,” Lady Constantia explained.

 “Am I not to be bribed to drain every drop with promises of sweet things?” Frank teased.

 A gleam in her eye, she retorted, “Miss Ingram advised me to coax rather than command you. She said nothing of bribery.”

 “I am perfectly amenable to bribery,” he assured her, delighted by her show of spirit.

 “Splendid.” She passed him the tankard, then heaped a small plate with Shrewsbury biscuits, almond cakes, and blackcurrant tarts, and set it close to him. “If ever I meet Mrs Cohen, I want to be able to tell her that at least her patient was well fed at Westwood.”

 “Roworth has told you about Mrs Cohen?” He sipped at his concoction. “Hmm, odd but by no means undrinkable.”

 “I hope you will like to live to be eighty-three, like Nurse. Yes, Felix told me about the Cohens when he came home from France after smuggling Mr Rothschild’s gold to Spain.”

 “I was on the receiving end of that gold. Isaac brought it down from the Spanish mountains like manna from heaven, the day before the battle of Fuentes de Oñoro. Believe me, it put heart into the men to have it jingling in their pockets. Of course, Roworth didn’t make it so far. He was stranded in the Pyrenees with a dislocated shoulder, being nursed by Mrs Cohen.”

 “He and Miss Ingram say that she has performed wonders in healing your...your injuries,” Lady Constantia said hesitantly.

 “She has, indeed.” Refusing to think of the limits of Miriam’s skills, he took a long draught from the tankard. “Aha, now I know why you and Fanny have been discussing my differing susceptibility to commands and coaxing! I am to be wheedled into performing Miriam’s exercises.”

 She looked absurdly guilty. “Yes,” she confessed, “but you must not tire yourself.”

 “You have an awkward task, Lady Constantia, to make sure that I take precisely the correct amount of exercise.”

 “Are you a difficult patient, Captain?”

 “Madam, I am at your command.”

 His teasing gallantry set Constantia quite at her ease. “Then I decree that you shall rest here until after luncheon.” She refilled his plate, which he had absentmindedly emptied as they talked. A tinge of colour in his cheeks encouraged her to hope he was not quite the invalid he had appeared on entering the gallery. “Miss Ingram said you found the journey from Kent exhausting, and coming downstairs tired you still more, did it not?”