by Carola Dunn
He was before her, spreading a handkerchief. She sat, Anita settled beside her, and he beside the child, who leaned one elbow on his knee and gazed earnestly up into his face. He told her an exciting tale of a shipwrecked sailor who was borne up by dolphins and carried to an island, where he lived on coconuts until the dolphins led a ship to rescue him.
As he finished, the nurserymaid called from the terrace. “Miss Anita, it’s bedtime and past!”
She gave them each a kiss and scampered off. Constantia and the captain followed more slowly. In the evening light, the geraniums in their urns glowed vivid red and the lobelia had a rich, purplish cast. Like flame, the sun reflected from the mansion’s windows, row upon row. The lilies scented the air with a languid fragrance. Somewhere in the park beyond the garden, a nightingale sang.
Reaching the steps, Constantia turned her head to glance up at the captain. He was gazing down at her with a contemplative air, a slight smile curving his resolute mouth.
She looked away quickly, her breath catching. He laid his hand on her arm.
“No more milk-and-stout!” he said.
Constraint banished, she laughed and they went into the long gallery.
Felix and Fanny had already come down and were entertaining the vicar and his wife and the curate. Constantia had forgotten that the vicarage party were dining at Westwood. She left Felix to perform introductions before Captain Ingram retired to his chamber.
The sight of the curate fixing her as always with his languishing gaze had reminded her of Miss Bannister’s advice on how to discourage him. “Avoid tête-à-têtes and strolls in the garden,” the governess had said, “and never ask after his health.” Where Mr Jones was concerned, Constantia had followed her advice to the letter.
Where the captain was concerned, she had done precisely the opposite.
Not that she cared. She was not trying to discourage Frank Ingram. After all, he never sent languishing glances her way, she thought a little sadly.
* * * *
The next morning Mr Mackintyre arrived.
Constantia had escaped Lady Westwood’s surveillance by retreating to a back scullery to arrange flowers. Mama was not to know that the last vase, delphiniums and marguerites, was delivered to the long gallery. She had just straightened a few blooms, topped up the water with her little watering can, and sat down to talk to the captain when the lawyer was announced.
Captain Ingram, asking the butler to inform his sister and Lord Roworth, rose to greet Mr Mackintyre. He was a short, tubby, energetic man with a jovial face between bushy white sidewhiskers, not at all what Constantia expected of a lawyer, or a Scot. However, he shook the captain’s hand with all the solicitous care she could have demanded of him.
“My dear Captain, I am delighted to see you up and about. That rogue Taggle had you confined to your bed, if not at death’s door.” He had the very slightest of Scottish accents, a faint rolling of the rrrs.
“Captain Ingram has been very ill,” said Constantia proprietorially, “but he is rapidly recovering. I am Lady Constantia Roworth. How do you do, sir. I expect I ought to leave you to your business.”
“No, stay,” the captain urged. “Lady Constantia is aware of the facts of the matter, Mr Mackintyre, and her brother, Lord Roworth, is to marry my sister.”
“Splendid! Simply splendid!” The lawyer beamed and rubbed his hands. He could not have appeared more elated had he arranged the match himself. “We shall wait for his lordship and Miss Ingram, then.”
He put on a pair of gold rimmed spectacles, took a sheaf of papers from his valise and started to leaf through them. Constantia, on tenterhooks, saw that Frank was tense, a trifle pale. His entire future depended on what Mr Mackintyre had to say, though surely the inheritance must be substantial. The lawyer would not have travelled all this way for a pittance.
Bethinking herself of her duty as a hostess, she offered him refreshments and ordered madeira and tea. A glass of wine would do the captain good, she decided.
She had just poured each of the gentlemen a glass, and tea for herself, when Felix and Fanny came in. Her natural self-confidence restored by her certainty of Felix’s love, Fanny had proved to be a lively, cheerful young lady. Constantia admired her sunny temper and friendly openness.
A spring in her step, Fanny crossed the gallery and presented to Mr Mackintyre two documents, which he studied with care.
“Excellent,” he said, “quite excellent. Taggle has his faults, but he knows his business, my dear Miss Ingram. He has informed you of your relationship to his grace, the Duke of Oxshott, I believe, and given you some idea of the nature of your inheritance?”
“We’d be glad of your confirmation, sir,” said Frank bluntly.
The lawyer regarded him over the top of his spectacles. “Of course, Captain. Your mother was the second daughter of the late Duke of Oxshott, sister of the present duke.” He selected a paper from his sheaf.
The numbers he read meant little to Constantia, but watching Frank’s face she could tell that his hopes were met, or exceeded. In fact, by the end of the recital, both he and Fanny appeared a trifle stunned. Constantia refilled his glass.
Felix looked positively grim. “I’ve no wish to figure as a fortune-hunter,” he said. “I suppose you can arrange to settle everything on my wife and her children, Mr Mackintyre? Including the child we intend to adopt.”
“Naturally, my lord. I shall be happy to meet with you and Captain Ingram at any time to discuss the disposition...”
“Fustian!” Fanny exclaimed. “I shall decide what to do with my money.”
“I’ll not stand in your way, m’dear,” said Frank, grinning.
“Fanny darling, you shall decide except that I absolutely refuse--”
Fanny opened her mouth to interrupt.
Mr Mackintyre’s gentle cough stopped the argument in its tracks. “The matter can be resolved at another time and place,” he suggested. “To continue, there are two small estates in Hampshire. The late duke acquired them when a distant relative, owner of Upfield Grange, married his neighbour, who subsequently inherited Heathcote from her father, the couple dying without issue.”
“Never mind the history,” said Frank impatiently.
“It is relevant, Captain,” the lawyer said with a reproachful glance. “Upfield Grange is separated from Heathcote by another small property. The late duke wished to purchase this property, combining the three into one estate of considerable size, worthy of a more impressive house than either of the two existing manors. Though the owner of the intervening property proved recalcitrant, his grace continued to hope that the son might sell. He therefore refused to permit any expenditure on repairs to the existing manors.”
“You mean we’ve inherited a pair of ruins?” Frank asked. Constantia could not guess whether he was amused or dismayed.
“By no means, Captain,” said Mr Mackintyre. “Both estates--Upfield has three tenant farms and Heathcote two--produce some slight income, though the duke’s agent only visits two or three times a year. They could, I am told, make a good return with the application of modern agricultural methods. However, both parks and gardens have been woefully neglected. Upfield Grange, where the couple to whom I alluded resided, is habitable.”
“And Heathcote?” Fanny demanded.
“The house at Heathcote, I fear, will require considerable funds to render it fit to be lived in. Your income will permit restoration of the houses and parks, but unless you realize a part of your capital, which I cannot advise, you will be unable to afford both that and an entry into the first circles of Society.”
“Society!” Fanny and Frank looked at each other and burst out laughing. Constantia had to smile, but Felix said almost angrily, “As my wife, Miss Ingram will most certainly take her place in Society.”
Fanny patted his arm. “Of course, love. It just sounded such a ridiculous choice when Frank and I have never had a home of our own.”
Again Mr Mackintyre intervened wit
h a gentle cough. “There is one more regrettable circumstance which I feel it my duty to draw to your attention. Naturally I have informed the present Duke of Oxshott of my success in finding his sister’s heirs. His grace, unhappily, had convinced himself that I should fail. He told me, in...er...no uncertain terms, that he regards both monies and real property as his own.”
“The devil he does!” Frank looked as if he was about to jump to his feet and Constantia wondered if the second glass of madeira had been such a good idea after all. But she saw that he had not touched it. He noticed her glance, flushed, and said, “I beg your pardon, Lady Constantia. My tongue ran away with me in the heat of the moment.”
“Most understandable, Captain Ingram.” She gave him a forgiving smile and turned to Mr Mackintyre. “Surely, sir, the duke cannot prevent our friends’ inheriting?”
“If it should come to a legal battle, ma’am, I shall be obliged--most reluctantly!--to represent the duke. However I have made and shall continue to make the most forceful representations to his grace that he has nothing to gain from taking the matter to court. Having made exhaustive enquiries as to your antecedents, Captain, Miss Ingram, I am perfectly satisfied that you are the legitimate offspring of the late Lady Frances Kerridge. I drew up the will myself, and I am not accustomed to having my wills overturned in Chancery, I assure you. All that his grace can expect from public scrutiny is public broadcast of the late duke’s...er...intemperate language.”
“Nincompoop,” said Frank with a broad grin.
“Taggle, I presume?” Mr Mackintyre sighed. “Taggle must be admitted to have his occasional lapses from perfect discretion.”
“This is all very well,” Felix said impatiently, “but I have reason to know that the present Duke of Oxshott is no more temperate in his language than was his sire. I will not have my betrothed subjected to his abuse.”
Fanny took his hand. “My dear, I’m not such a weakling that harsh words will shatter my bones.”
“No,” he said with a rueful smile, “but you must give me leave to protect you now.”
The loving look that passed between them constricted Constantia’s heart. She had believed herself resigned to never knowing the joy of a loving husband, but their happiness reawoke the pain. Her hand crept up unconsciously to press against her chest where the hidden ugliness lay.
The lawyer called them all back to business. “We must hope his grace will heed the dictates of reason. For the present, I have a great many documents which need signing.”
At Felix’s suggestion, he, Mr Mackintyre, and the Ingrams repaired to the library where papers could be spread on the long table. Constantia could not help feeling excluded, though she had no conceivable reason to go with them. After telling the butler that Mr Mackintyre would stay to luncheon and Captain Ingram would eat with everyone else in the dining-room, she went up to the schoolroom.
Finding the schoolroom party about to walk down to the stream, Anita’s favourite place, she decided to join them. She fetched a bonnet and gloves and met them in the great hall.
Vickie and Anita dashed ahead across the grass, hand in hand, skirts, ribbons, black hair and blond flying.
“I fear Lady Victoria will never attain your self-restraint and poise, Lady Constantia,” said Miss Bannister with a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder whether anything I say has even the slightest effect on her conduct.”
Constantia was about to console the governess with the likelihood that Vickie would suddenly recall every precept when she made her come-out under Lady Westwood’s stern eye. Then she realized that Vickie’s emancipation from the schoolroom would force Miss Bannister to seek a new post. Whatever the difficulties of her present situation, that could hardly be a pleasant prospect.
But Anita was nearly old enough to need a governess, and Fanny and Frank were now in a position to hire one. Indeed, Felix meant to adopt the child and would certainly expect to have a governess for her. She already knew and liked Miss Bannister. What could be better?
Not wanting to raise any false hopes, she resolved to say nothing until Felix and the Ingrams had been consulted. However, she saw no reason to keep their news a secret any longer.
Like the rest of the household, Miss Bannister had been expecting to hear that Felix and Fanny were betrothed. The Ingrams’ inheritance was more of a surprise, though everyone knew that an odd little man had brought them good news and they were presently closeted with a lawyer.
“Two estates as well as a fortune?” she said. “No doubt they will leave Westwood very soon, then. Lady Victoria will be sadly distressed to lose her little companion. I daresay Lord and Lady Roworth will live at her estate when they are married?”
“Perhaps...I daresay...I don’t know.” Constantia’s heart sank. In her pleasure at the Ingrams’ good fortune, she had not considered their next actions. Of course they would wish to see their properties at once. Mr Mackintyre had said one house was habitable, and the captain was well enough for the short journey into Hampshire.
A short journey, but for Constantia too far. Felix and Fanny probably would choose to live there--Fanny had had a poor enough welcome at Westwood. No doubt Constantia would be invited to visit them, and when she was there she might expect to see Frank occasionally.
Desolate, she felt she had already lost a friend.
Chapter 7
The cold luncheon spread on the sideboard was lavish and appetising, but Frank was too weary to appreciate the sight. If he had guessed signing papers could be so arduous, he’d not have agreed to join the others for the informal meal.
Except that Fanny needed his support. Roworth was going to announce their betrothal and the Ingrams’ newly discovered connexions. He had arranged for Lady Victoria to be present, and had even ordered champagne.
Sinking into a chair at the table, Frank hoped his future brother-in-law was not going to take it into his head to challenge his parents. If he told the earl and countess of the engagement first, before they learned that Fanny was the wealthy granddaughter of a duke, fur would fly. Frank felt too tired to face a brangle, and he didn’t want his sister hurt.
Too late to give Felix a hint. Lord and Lady Westwood entered the room and instantly the temperature dropped several degrees. Even Vickie stopped chattering. The atmosphere cooled still further when Mr Mackintyre was presented to them. A lawyer to take luncheon with the family!
If they were puzzled as well as offended by his presence, neither deigned to enquire the reason.
Fanny brought Frank a plate of cold meat, bread, and cheese, and sat down beside him. He was about to eat, hoping to recruit his strength, when Lady Constantia came in.
Her dispirited face jolted him. She’d been happy for him and Fanny. What had happened to distress her?
She looked at him, and at once her expression changed to concern. His weariness must be as obvious to her as to his sister. Not for the first time, he wondered at the joining of so much compassionate sympathy with such loveliness. Beauties were supposed to be spoiled and selfish. He smiled at her and started to eat, knowing she’d be pleased and reassured.
As soon as Lady Constantia had served herself and sat down at the table, Felix rose from his place beside Fanny. “Mama, Father, Vickie, it gives me the greatest pleasure to acquaint you with capital news.”
The earl frowned. The countess’s pale, chilly eyes grew icy. Evidently they expected to hear of a betrothal between their only son and an insignificant nobody.
Lady Victoria clapped her hands. “Do tell, Felix.”
“First,” he continued, “Mr Mackintyre has been kind enough to come down from London--” He paused, and Frank guessed he was enjoying his mother and father’s bafflement at the lawyer’s part in the affair. Thank heaven he’d decided to make that report first. “--from London, to confirm that my dear friends, Captain and Miss Ingram, are the grandchildren of the late Duke of Oxshott.”
“A duke!” Lady Victoria squealed, drawing all eyes. “Oh, splendid!”
&nbs
p; Lord Westwood appeared frankly flabbergasted. If Lady Westwood had lost her countenance, she had already recovered enough to reprimand her younger daughter.
“Victoria, pray restrain your enthusiasm.” She turned to Frank and Fanny. Her own enthusiasm, if any, was so restrained as to be undetectable, but though there was no warmth in her look or tone, the iciness had thawed to mere hauteur. “Captain, Miss Ingram, allow me to felicitate you on this singular discovery.”
Frank and Fanny murmured their acknowledgement of her condescension.
“Oxshott, hey?” said Lord Westwood, almost genial. “The present duke is your uncle?”
“He is, sir.” Frank wondered whether Felix was going to disclose their inheritance, or if he himself should. Perhaps money was not an acceptable topic. He foresaw an unexpected need to learn the complexities of fully-fledged gentlemanhood.
“The Ingrams are Lady Frances Kerridge’s children,” Mr Mackintyre informed the earl. “His late grace left them two estates and a pretty penny besides,” he added.
Lord Westwood ignored all but his first words, thus proving to Frank that lawyers, like artillery officers, dwelled on the fringes of gentlemandom. “Lady Frances Kerridge,” he mused. “I recall...”
Felix, probably for the first time in his life, interrupted his father. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I have a further announcement, to me infinitely more important.” He looked down at Fanny with a smile of such warmth and tenderness that Frank had to close his eyes and fight down his envy of their love. “Miss Fanny Ingram has done me the inexpressible honour of agreeing to be my wife.”
Lady Victoria thrust back her chair, jumped up, and ran round the table to hug her brother and kiss Fanny. “Splendiferous!” she crowed. “Anita will be my sister.”
“Near enough,” said Felix indulgently.
The Westwoods offered their more temperate good wishes, and Felix called for the champagne. He prevailed upon his mother to allow Vickie a taste and Constantia a glass of the sparkling wine. The earl forestalled Frank in calling for a toast, and they all drank to the health, happiness, and prosperity of the betrothed couple. Felix and Fanny, arms entwined, drank to each other.