Captain Ingram's Inheritance

by Carola Dunn

  Taggle winked. “Places and dates of birf?” he proceeded.

  “Nilgapur, India,” said Fanny, passing two sheets of parchment to him. “I found our baptismal certificates among Mama’s papers. You must know that we are twins, surely. We were both born on the twelfth of May, 1790.”

  He perused the papers and nodded in satisfaction. “To Lieutenant Thomas Ingram, Royal Horse Artillery, and Frances Cy...” With a knowing grin at Frank, he tapped his nose. “Mum’s the word, Capting. I weren’t ‘ired for me beauty so musta bin acos I’m a discreet sort o’ cove. Lady Frances Ingram, née Kerridge, is what we’ll say. Got yer ma’s marriage lines, ‘ave yer, miss?”

  Fanny shook her head. Taggle tut-tutted. For a moment Frank feared that would be the end of the matter. Though deeply disappointed, he was glad they had told no one. He’d never really quite believed it anyway.

  But the little man just said, “Now wou’ncha think a mort’d ‘ang on to them lines like the very dickens? Specially a gentry mort. Never mind, eh. I seen the church register and all’s bowman. I’m ‘appy to announce as ‘ow you two’s the grandchildren o’ the late Duke of Oxshott and heirs to all ‘is unentailed property.”

  Frank and Fanny exchanged an awed glance, then Fanny asked, “That’s everything that didn’t legally have to go to the new duke?”

  “Right, miss. Not but what ‘e’da bin ‘appy enough to leave you the ruddy lot, I reckon. You’d never guess what ‘is grace called ‘is rightful heir in ‘is will. Right there on the legal dockiment, I seen it wi’ me own eyes: nincompoop.”

  Frank laughed, but said soberly, “I daresay there wasn’t much property unentailed.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Capting. The new Duke’s not going to be ‘appy I run you to earth, I’ll tell you that. How d’you like two estates--small uns, mind--and a plum apiece? That’s an ‘undred thousand, miss.”

  “A hundred thousand?” Frank was utterly incredulous. He’d been thinking in terms of a few hundred a year, if they were lucky. Enough, perhaps, to quit the army and rent a cottage for the three of them if Fanny didn’t marry Roworth. “A hundred thousand pounds each?”

  Taggle shrugged, obviously pleased with the effect of his announcement. “Could be guineas, give or take a few. Mr Mackintyre, the lawyer, ‘e’ll give you the numbers. I got to get back to Lunnon, give ‘im the news. ‘E’ll come down ‘ere to see you, wiv papers to sign and that. Don’t look for ‘im for a week or ten days, though. Lawyers!” he grumbled. “Always on at you to ‘urry but you don’t see them doing nuffink in an ‘urry.” He stood up.

  Fanny also rose, looking dazed. “All I can say, Mr Taggle, is thank you for persevering in your hunt.”

  “Bless your ‘eart, miss, it’s my pleasure. Get paid by the day, I do. Well, Capting, ‘ere’s ‘oping a spot o’ the ready and rhino’ll put you on yer feet.” He shook Frank’s proffered hand with painful heartiness. “And that reminds me. Be fergetting me own ‘ead next.” Delving into an inside pocket, with the air of a magician he produced a roll of flimsies. “‘Ere’s a bit to tide you over, like.”

  He tossed it on the bed. Frank counted the Bank of England notes while Fanny went out to the bureau in the gallery to write out the requested receipt. Mr Taggle departed with a cheery wave of the hand.

  “Two hundred pounds!” Fanny exclaimed, dropping into the chair again. “Frank, with so much money we need not wait here for Mr Mackintyre.”

  “You want to leave? After defying Lord Westwood?”

  “I defied him, but he was right,” she said sadly. “We don’t belong here. Perhaps we could go to one of the estates we have inherited.”

  “Hardly. We don’t know where they are, nor who’s in residence, nor even what sort of condition they’re in.” Frank looked about the cosy room. His gaze came to rest on the bowl of roses. Leave, when Lady Constantia was resolved to make him comfortable and restore him to health? “I hate to admit it, but I’m not sure I’m up to another journey so soon.”

  “We need not go far,” she pleaded. “Wells is close, and Bath not too far, I believe, and both must have respectable hostelries.”

  “Travelling in a hired chaise,” he said with exaggerated gloom. “Roworth has already sent the Cohens’ carriage back to them. And think of Anita. She hated to leave Amos, and now you would tear her from her new friend.”

  “I know she is already fond of Lady Victoria, but....”

  “And what about Mr Mackintyre? He won’t know where to find us.” He rushed on before she worked out that they could easily warn Taggle of their departure and write to the lawyer once they were settled elsewhere. “No, we had best stay until Mackintyre arrives. I’m tired, Fanny.”

  “You’re right,” she said, all contrition. “You ought not to travel again so soon, and you would not be near so comfortable in an inn. Come, let me help you out of your coat so that you can rest properly.”

  Frank’s guilt was momentary. His sister might find Westwood uncomfortable at present, but he remained convinced that she and Roworth loved each other. If she left they’d have no chance to patch up their differences.

  And then there was Lady Constantia, he thought drowsily, drifting into sleep.

  He woke to the drip-drip-drip of a steady downpour outside, and a faint sound of music. For several minutes he lay listening, until he recalled Taggle’s visit. Or had the odd little man been a dream? No, there on the bedside table lay the roll of banknotes.

  With a rush of energy, Frank sat up. He put the money in the drawer of the table, out of the way of the prying eyes of servants. Until the lawyer had confirmed Taggle’s news, he wanted no talk of sudden wealth. No making of plans, either, he decided; no castles in Spain to come tumbling down if Mr Mackintyre failed to accept them as the late duke’s grandchildren.

  Cautiously he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The slight dizziness he had come to expect failed to materialize. Perhaps Lady Constantia’s milk-and-stout restorative was already working its wonders! Miriam was right, as usual: despite her efforts to tempt his appetite, at Nettledene he had not been eating enough for the needs of his battered body. Somehow Lady Constantia’s gentle, diffident determination that he should eat was irresistible.

  Crossing to the door, he opened it a crack to let in the sound of the spinet. She--it must be she--was playing a slow, dreamy air on the soft-toned instrument.

  He went to the looking-glass to tie his cravat and brush his hair. It was longer than he had worn it in the army, but not too long for a fashionable gentleman. For the first time since Quatre Bras, he deliberately studied his face, by the gloomy light from the window. The sun-brown of his once active outdoor life had faded to a sickly pallor, and sharp cheekbones stood out above hollow cheeks. No wonder Lady Constantia had been hard pressed to hide her dismay on first seeing him, yet there was no mark on his face to hint at...

  Forget it! he told himself sharply. This is at best a short interlude. Enjoy her company while you may.

  As he put on his coat, he noticed that even that was suffused with the herbal smell of Miriam’s unguents. At least he had persuaded her to change from the rose essence she’d originally used for the lotions and ointments he had to rub in twice daily, before his exercises. Sniffing, he hoped the odour was not offensive to a lady’s delicate nostrils. Lady Constantia had not recoiled when she rushed to support him for that all too brief moment.

  With one last glance at the mirror, he went out into the gallery. The spinet had been set up on a stand at the far end. Bowed over her music, Lady Constantia’s head gleamed pure gold by the light of a branch of candles. Her slender hands plucked a plaintive melody from the ivory keys.

  A sudden vision overwhelmed Frank: a winter’s evening; himself seated by a cheerful fire, a child on his knee; Constantia’s golden head bowed over her music....

  Savagely he cursed his imagination. Rich or poor, duke’s grandson or insignificant soldier, he was not for her. She deserved a husband whose appearance
would not drive her to hysterics on her wedding night. He must think of her as the sister she would become if Fanny married Roworth. What man could complain with two such sisters?

  Looking up with a smile as the captain approached along the gallery, Constantia caught a fleeting melancholy on his face. The shadow vanished as he answered her smile. At once she was reassured that the bond of friendly sympathy between them was not a mere fancy on her part. So quickly formed, it had seemed too good to be true.

  His pace slow but steady, he held himself with a military uprightness no debility could disguise. She started to play Handel’s See the conquering hero come, and he laughed.

  “I recognize that,” he said. “Mama used to sing it whenever my father returned to whatever quarters we happened to call home at any moment. Play some more.”

  “The spinet is a little out of tune, I fear. Vickie uses it to practise on. I hope you will soon be able to come to the drawing-room to hear the pianoforte.”

  “Very soon. I feel the effect of your nurse’s favourite remedy already.”

  “The milk-and-stout? Oh, splendid!”

  Whether that peculiar concoction was responsible; or his willingness to oblige her by devouring the meals and snacks she pressed upon him; or the easy access to the gallery for exercise; or the sunshine that succeeded the rain and made possible strolls and idle lounging out on the terrace; whatever the cause, Captain Ingram’s health improved visibly over the next two days. With delight, Constantia watched his wan face begin to fill out and take on colour, his steps grow firmer and swifter.

  He still tired easily, breakfasted in bed and retired thither before dinner, but the moment came when she could no longer postpone presenting him to her parents. Their guests left, and the countess was becoming curious about the invalid who occupied so much of her daughter’s time.

  Felix ought to have performed the introductions, but Felix was always out riding, or fishing, or searching for a mount for his sisters or himself. Doubtless for that reason, the Westwoods had softened towards Fanny, her ladyship even going so far as to commend her neat stitches. Nonetheless, Constantia was apprehensive when her mother informed her that they intended to repair to the long gallery at noon to make the captain’s acquaintance. She hurried to warn him.

  “You must lie on the sofa,” she urged, “with the rug over you.”

  Turning unexpectedly stubborn, he adamantly refused. “Lord no, not I. I’ll face ‘em on my own two feet.”

  Constantia bit her lip. “But--”

  “I’ve stood up to Boney’s Grande Armée.” He touched her hand. “You wouldn’t want a soldier to show the white feather in the face of...er...hm....”

  “The enemy?”

  “An adversary, let’s say.” He grinned and she had to smile. “I wager they’ll not shoot me without a declaration of war.”

  The meeting passed off much better than she had dared to hope. Her parents were stiff but civil, the captain courteous and undaunted. The countess remarked upon his having been wounded in the service of his country, and hoped he was being made comfortable; the earl asked a question or two about fighting under the Duke of Wellington.

  As, in obedience to her mother’s signal, Constantia followed them from the room, she tried to guess the reason for their lack of antagonism. Captain Ingram had gentlemanly manners, though of a plain, soldierly kind. He was neither handsome nor possessed of a dangerously insinuating charm that might make their daughter forget herself. By their reckoning, having rejected several highly eligible suitors she was not likely to fall for a shabby invalid. After all, even Felix had come to his senses and was now paying as little attention to the captain’s sister as any uneasy parent could possibly desire.

  Lord and Lady Westwood probably failed to notice that Felix went around with a set face, nor did they care that Fanny was utterly miserable. Constantia did. She could not sit by and let her brother ruin his own life and Fanny’s.

  As soon as she was able, she returned to the gallery. Captain Ingram was seated at the bureau, a pen in his hand, Anita on his knee. The little girl jumped down and ran to Constantia, took her hand and tugged her forward.

  “I’m drawing a picsher for Amos, Aunt Connie. Come and see. Uncle Frank’s going to send it to him, ‘cos he’s writing a letter to Aunt Miriam.”

  Writing to Miriam! Why should that send a stab of an emotion very like jealousy through Constantia’s heart?

  “Trying to write,” the captain amended. “I don’t have a way with words, I fear. I know Fanny’s written to thank the Cohens for all they did for us, but I cannot any longer postpone writing on my own behalf. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to advise me?”

  “If you wish,” she said shyly, pulling up a chair as Anita scrambled back onto his lap and picked up her pencil.

  “You see, it mustn’t be too formal, because Mrs Cohen is not at all a formal person, nor too casual, because we owe them a great deal, and I wouldn’t wish to be disrespectful.”

  Constantia smiled. “A nice distinction, but I expect we can manage.” She suggested several phrases and he wrote them down.

  “Excellent. And now I must tell them about the angel of mercy who is so kindly ministering to my needs here.”

  “That you will have to work out for yourself!” she said, blushing. “Captain, I want to talk to you about your sister and my brother.”

  He sobered at once. “Yes, it’s time something was done about that situation. Anita, love, that’s a beautiful picture. Why don’t you take it to show to Aunt Fanny?”

  “And Aunt Vickie.” She slipped down again and ran off, her paper clutched to her chest.

  “She already feels quite at home in this great mansion,” said the captain. “If she can’t find Fanny she’ll just ask the nearest maid or footman. I believe she thinks the footmen are some odd kind of soldier, because of their livery.”

  “All the servants adore her. Even our starchy butler has been seen to smile at her, which he never has for me.” She hesitated, reluctant to voice so uncharitable a thought about her brother: “You don’t think Felix and Fanny came to cuffs about her, do you? That he asked Fanny to marry him but refused to take on Anita? He seems so fond of the child!”

  As if he guessed how the suspicion hurt her, he reached out and took her hand. A loud cough reminded them that Joan was not far off. The abigail spent a great deal of her time sewing in the long gallery these days. The captain dropped Constantia’s hand like a stinging nettle plucked by mistake.

  Or perhaps it was his hand that resembled a nettle. Certainly his touch left the oddest tingling sensation in her fingers.

  She concentrated on what he was saying.

  “It’s always possible, of course, that Roworth don’t choose to bring up Anita. If that’s it, you mustn’t think too hardly of him.” He went on awkwardly, “I daresay I ought not to speak of such things to a delicately bred young lady, but Anita is a love-child.”

  Shocked, but conscious of his serious scrutiny, Constantia swallowed a gasp and took a deep breath instead. “You mean, her mother and father were not married?” she asked, her voice a trifle unsteady.

  “Such things happen in war-time.” He smiled wryly. “Indeed, as you visit your father’s tenants, you must be aware that they happen in the most peaceful settings. Anita’s mother was a refugee from the French, a Spanish lady, a Catholic, and her father was an English soldier. They loved each other, but circumstances at that time, in that place, made marriage impossible.”

  “And then they both died.” Tears rose to Constantia’s eyes. She blinked them away. “The poor child! Or, no, she is not to be pitied, for she has you.”

  His eyes were warm. “I knew you would understand. I trust you not to spread the story. I’d not have told you but that I didn’t want you to judge your brother too harshly if he rejected Anita. However, I doubt that’s the case. Have I mentioned that the Cohens wished to adopt her? When Fanny and I declined their offer, Roworth cried out ‘Bravo,’ and it
’s my belief that was after he’d realized he loves Fanny.” Now he was uncertain. “He does, doesn’t he? It’s not my imagination?”

  “He has told me he loves her and wants to marry her.”

  “That’s more than Fanny’s told me, though I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves him.”

  “The trouble is, perhaps he has changed his mind, as he did over Lady Sophia.”

  The captain considered this. “In my opinion, he courted Lady Sophia for her suitability, not because he liked her.”

  “In other words, because my parents would approve her. Then I am very much afraid that he may have let them convince him that your sister is not suitable.” She gazed at him in dismay.

  Something enigmatical in his regard made her fear that she had offended him. His next words increased her chagrin.

  “If that’s so, it’s not for me to induce Lord Roworth to accept her as an eligible bride. The best I can do for Fanny is to take her away from here at once.”

  “No! At least let me talk to Felix. Surely I can persuade him not to sacrifice Fanny’s happiness and his own to Mama and Papa’s antiquated notions! He is out riding, but I shall give orders that I am to be notified the moment he returns.”

  As she turned away to ring for a footman, she received a distinct impression that he was both admiring of her resolve and, for some reason, amused. She did not always understand him, yet she had to admit to herself that, besides her concern for Felix, she did not want Captain Ingram to leave Westwood. He filled a void in her lonely life. Somehow, against all the odds, he had become a friend.

  * * * *

  When word came that Felix had ridden into the stable yard, Constantia hurried there to accost him before he could disappear again. She attacked at once, the wait for his return having increased her indignation at his perfidy.

  “Fanny is very unhappy. How can you treat her so? I had not thought you so weak-willed as to crawl like a worm at Mama’s and Papa’s bidding.”