by Carola Dunn
“It doesn’t matter so much to me,” she said. “Felix is able to support a family, and though we should have to live at Westwood, I should not mind once we are married. But Frank...”
“If the captain were unable to return to military life, Felix would certainly invite him to make his home at Westwood,” Constantia reassured her, sitting down by the fire on the faded loveseat soon to be recovered with blue brocade.
Fanny sat beside her. “But Frank will hate to hang on Felix’s sleeve. I daresay he will refuse.”
“Not ‘will,’ Fanny dear. ‘Would.’ I am sure you need not fret yourself into flinders. After heartily commending your improvements to the Grange and Heathcote, Mr Mackintyre cannot intend to say they are not yours after all.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I’m behaving like a ninnyhammer, I know. Simply having my uncle in the house has me in high fidgets. I cannot wait for him to realize he is mistaken and go away!”
“Indeed, he is not precisely the ideal guest! The sooner he departs, the happier we shall all be.”
The gentlemen did not dawdle over the port, an inferior wine of which Felix had reluctantly acquired a small quantity at the Pig and Piper, lacking time to go into Winchester. Though appreciating a good vintage, neither he nor Frank was a dedicated toper who must without fail take his glass after dinner. Whatever their usual habits, the duke and the lawyer evidently did not find the Pig and Piper’s port an irresistible draw.
When they entered the drawing-room, Miss Bannister removed the unwilling Vickie. Constantia was about to follow when Mr Mackintyre stopped her.
“Pray stay, my lady, if you will be so good,” he said softly. “I know you to be in the Ingrams’ confidence and I shall be glad of another witness.”
“If they have no objection,” she assented, somewhat alarmed. Witness to what? She returned to her place by the fire, a small one, for the evening chill had not yet ousted the day’s warmth from the south-facing room.
When the gentlemen came in, Fanny had gone straight to Felix. Constantia saw Frank glance after his sister, his face forlorn. For so many years the twins had confronted the world together. Now she had abandoned him for the man she loved.
A wave of longing swept over Constantia, for Frank to regard her with the same fond, possessive gaze that Felix was now bestowing upon Fanny. Yet if she ever read so much as hope in his eyes, she must dash it, or flee. She was a fool to seek out his company, to treasure his friendship when she wanted so much more. Yet when he came to take Fanny’s place beside her, she smiled up at him, glad of his choice of seat.
The duke planted himself heavily on an elegant Hepplewhite chair that had barely been reprieved, having a middling case of woodworm. It was Fanny’s favourite, but she was slight, delicate in appearance if not in fact. Constantia held her breath as Oxshott’s large rear end descended. The chair creaked but survived.
Thomas brought in Mr Mackintyre’s valise. The lawyer set it on a table, opened it, and armed himself with a sheaf of papers. He went to stand with his back to the fireplace.
“Your grace,” he said deferentially, Scottish r’s rolling, “I understand you desire to inspect the proof that Captain and Miss Ingram are the legitimate offspring of your late sister, Lady Frances Ingram, née Kerridge.”
“Of course I do, my good man,” snapped the duke. “You don’t think I’m going to hand over two properties and all the ready to m’sister’s by-blows.”
Frank’s mouth set in a grim line, but he held his peace. Felix sprang to his feet, his handsome face wrathful. Fanny grasped his sleeve and held him back. “His grace might have chosen his words better,” she said with disdain, “but his concern is natural. Do sit down, Felix.”
“Quite so, ma’am.” Mr Mackintyre put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and selected a paper from his sheaf. “Here is a copy of the entry in the parish register of the church where Lady Frances wed Captain--then lieutenant--Thomas Ingram of the Royal Horse Artillery, according to the rites of the Church of England and the laws of the land. As you will see, your grace, it is certified as an exact copy by the present incumbent and a churchwarden.”
He stepped forward to hand it to the duke, who bounced up to grab it with an agility remarkable in one of his size and age.
After a brief glance, Oxshott thrust the paper back at the lawyer. “Pah!” He dropped back into his seat. Constantia winced as the abused chair creaked again.
“I have also a witnessed statement from one of the witnesses to the marriage,” the lawyer continued urbanely, riffling through the documents. “An elderly lady, I am informed, who still sighs over the romantic runaway match of the dashing young soldier in his smart uniform. Naturally there is more than one copy of each. My investigator is extremely thorough.”
“Good for Taggle,” said Frank, grinning. Mr Mackintyre’s eyes twinkled at him over the gold spectacles.
This time the duke waved away the proffered paper. “So she married the rascal,” he growled. “What’s to say this fine pair are really her children and not impudent impostors?”
“I could show your grace a number of affidavits from officers acquainted with the family at various times and places, covering overlapping periods. All expressed their willingness to identify Captain and Miss Ingram under oath in court if necessary. However, perhaps their baptismal certificates will suffice to persuade your grace. Captain?”
“I have them here.” With care, Frank extracted two faded documents from his coat pocket.
The lawyer nodded. “If you would not mind showing them to Lady Constantia, Captain? My lady, his lordship your brother has already examined these certificates and is prepared to swear to having done so, but one can never have too many witnesses.”
Frank passed them to her with a curious reluctance. She perused the first: born to Frances Cynthia Ingram and Thomas Ingram, man and wife, on the twelfth of May 1790, in Nilgapur, India, a daughter Frances, baptized two days later, and the regimental chaplain’s signature. The second was almost identical right down to the date: born to...Nilgapur...a son, Francis Cynthia, baptized...Francis Cynthia?
As she turned to Frank, she caught sight of Felix’s grin and her lips began to quiver.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” Frank breathed through clenched teeth, his still-thin face scarlet. “I’ll explain later.”
Biting her lip to hold back a giggle, she nodded. She held out the parchment pages to Mr Mackintyre, and said with only the tiniest tremor in her voice, “Here, sir. I have read and will remember them.”
“Let me see.” The duke leapt up and seized them from her hand. Moving closer to the light of the candles on the mantelpiece, he squinted at the certificates, holding them at arm’s length.
And then he dropped them. Surely he could not have deliberately thrown them towards the fire, but they landed right beside a glowing log feathered with white ash. At once one corner of the heavy parchment began to scorch.
With an inarticulate cry, Constantia flung herself on her knees and snatched them away.
All but the first word of Fanny’s was still legible. As she sat back on her heels, satisfied, Frank dropped to his knees at her side. He tossed the certificates aside, and grasped her hands, turning them palm upward.
“You’re not burnt?” His voice shook. “My dear girl, of all the idiotish risks to take!”
Her hands trembled in his. Though no flame had touched her, his touch sent a searing heat flaring through her body. Her pulse raced. Did he hear her heart madly beating?
“Well done, little sister.” Felix had already retrieved the documents. He looked down benignly on Constantia and Frank, who dropped her hands abruptly, as though they were indeed afire. Her brother reached down to help her up, then gave the certificates to the lawyer.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Mr Mackintyre. Stroking his white sidewhiskers with one forefinger, he aimed a bland smile at Oxshott. “It would have been a pity to lose these, but of no great importance. Admittedly, Lord Roworth and Lady Constantia might be
considered biased witnesses, despite their consequence. However, I have copies in the safe in my office, attested as true copies by myself and my investigator, the estimable Taggle. You have finished your examination, your grace?”
As the duke turned away with a snarl, Mr Mackintyre returned the parchments to Frank. Flustered, Constantia had sat down without seeing him rise from his knees. She did not know whether he had managed it himself, or if Fanny had helped him.
Fanny sat beside her now, saying, “Bless you, Connie. They may not matter to Mr Mackintyre but they are precious to...”
Creak, crack, CRASH! One rear leg of the Hepplewhite chair had finally surrendered under the assault. His grace, the Duke of Oxshott toppled over backwards with his feet in the air.
In unison, Constantia and Fanny gasped and clapped their hands to their mouths. Over their hands, their eyes met, brimful of mirth. Fortunately Felix’s shout of laughter was almost drowned by the duke’s howl of rage. Felix and Mr Mackintyre rushed to the rescue, while Frank looked on, grinning.
His grace righted and deposited upon a stout sofa, the lawyer brushed him down, murmuring solicitous tut-tuts. Oxshott pushed him away. His face was suffused with blood and Constantia feared he was about to suffer an apoplexy.
After gaping wordlessly for a moment, the duke manifested his mangled sensibilities in a roar. “You needn’t think you’ve heard the last of this! I shan’t be robbed without a fight. I’ll go to law!”
“I cannot advise such a course, your grace,” said Mr Mackintyre, unmoved. “It is highly unlikely that the testament I drew up will be overturned, but even if it were, the suit might take many years to come to judgment. Though I should be the gainer thereby, I must warn you that both parties are likely to be ruined by attorneys’ fees in the process. I have known many such cases.”
“I’ll see you all ruined!” thundered the duke, and rushed from the room.
Mr Mackintyre heaved a sad sigh. “There is no arguing with his grace in this mood,” he observed. “I shall try to have a word with him in the morning. At least he now recognizes that he cannot simply dispossess you, my dear Miss Ingram, or you, Captain.”
“We might really be ruined, even if we won in the end?” asked Fanny in dismay.
“I fear so.”
“What can we do?”
“Wait until morning,” advised the lawyer without much hope.
“I believe, Fanny,” said Constantia, feeling utterly limp, “you had best ring for the tea tray.”
Tea and Henriette’s crisp, wafer-thin, almond biscuits revived them all a little. However, Mr Mackintyre was forced to admit that Oxshott was by no means always susceptible to reason. The fact that he’d ruin himself in the process of ruining the Ingrams would not necessarily weigh with him.
Constantia realized that Frank was not joining in the discussion. He was seated a little way apart, his head resting against the high back of his armchair. His eyes were closed and he looked exhausted. However splendidly indomitable he appeared when he stood up to the duke, he was still convalescent.
As if he felt her gaze upon him, he opened his eyes and gave her a tired smile. She went to him, stopping him with a gesture as he made to stand up.
“Will you take more tea? Or a glass of madeira? Or milk and stout?”
His smile turned wry. “Tea will do very well, thank you, though I am a little weary. I confess I’m glad I don’t have to climb the stairs to my chamber.”
“It has been a difficult day.”
“You never spoke a truer word. It’s far more difficult to hold my temper than it would be to retaliate in kind, yet descending to his level can only make matters worse. If Wellington taught us anything, it’s to hold one’s fire until it will do the most good.” He sat up straighter, his expression grim. “But had anyone other than my mother’s brother impugned her morals as he did, I’d have called him out on the spot.”
“I cannot for a moment suppose he really believed what he suggested,” Constantia said soothingly, though she had been excessively shocked when the duke claimed his sister had borne children out of wedlock. “He simply says whatever comes into his head that he hopes might help his cause.”
“Such insults are not to be endured, whether intended or not.” Nonetheless, he relaxed again.
Taking his cup, she refilled it and her own, balanced two biscuits on the edge of his saucer, and went to sit beside him. She refused to let the strange sensations his touch aroused in her become a barrier between them. What she needed was a cheerful, amusing topic of conversation to return their friendship to an agreeably lighthearted level.
The duke’s tumble had been the funniest thing she had seen in a long time. However, she wanted to banish him from Frank’s mind for the moment. “You promised me an explanation,” she said tentatively, “but I shall not press you if you do not care to tell me.”
“Explanation?”
“Of your name.”
He groaned, flushing. “If I’d guessed Mackintyre meant to show you that paper...! I’ll satisfy your curiosity if you swear on all you hold dear never to reveal my middle name to a soul.”
On all she held dear? Felix, Vickie, Fanny now, and Anita-- and Frank himself. Her blush matching his, she said quickly, “Of course I swear. I should never have told anyway.”
“I know, I do trust you, but it’s a sensitive subject,” he said ruefully. “It was all my father’s fault. Fanny and I were born in the middle of the monsoon floods and Father was distracted with worry for Mama and for his guns. Fanny was supposed to be christened first, named for Mama, but he handed me to the chaplain by mistake.”
“So you were christened Frances Cyn...My lips are sealed.” And as solemn as she could make them.
“Father realized what had happened as soon as he took me back. Though the chaplain agreed to use the masculine spelling of Francis on the certificate, he refused to leave off Mama’s middle name, saying he couldn’t revoke the solemn sacrament of baptism.”
“Oh dear! But why was Fanny also christened Frances?”
“Poor father was in such a state by then he couldn’t think of any other female name he liked. As we’re twins, most people don’t consider it odd that we share a name.”
“I always considered it a charming notion. With Frank and Fanny there is no confusion.”
“Now you know, you won’t snicker every time you see me?”
“Heavens, no,” she promised. “Only occasionally.”
“Wretch!” he said, grinning.
They were back on their old, comfortable footing. Yet, as she sipped her tea, she felt that her sense of intimacy, of significant matters left unspoken between them, had not been lessened as she intended, but reinforced.
Whether he felt the same, she could not guess. At least he looked less worn to the bone, crunching an almond biscuit with relish. She had succeeded in distracting him from his uncle’s animosity.
Fanny soon reminded him. She came up to them and said to him, “Frank, Mr Mackintyre says there’s absolutely nothing we can do to prevent a lawsuit, short of handing over lock, stock, and barrel.”
“That we shan’t do. Nor shall I leave Upfield Grange unless a bailiff comes to throw me out,” he said stubbornly.
“We can stay, and the income is still ours, until the suit is settled, which may be years and years.”
“Splendid.” Frank squeezed his sister’s hand. “There’s no sense leaving more than we must for his grace to set his greedy hands on. Until we’re ruined, let’s enjoy ourselves.”
“With him in the house?” Fanny shuddered. “He still believes it’s his. He may stay forever.”
“He has nothing to gain by staying,” Constantia pointed out, “now he realizes you are not easily cowed. Hotheaded as he is, he will want to set his lawsuit in train without delay. I daresay he will be gone by noon tomorrow.”
“Besides,” said Frank, “he’s used to much grander surroundings. He only wants the Grange in order to tear it down, remem
ber.”
“Dreadful man!” Fanny exclaimed. “I’ll be heartily relieved to see the back of him.”
* * * *
In the morning, Mr Mackintyre joined the family at breakfast prior to going up to Oxshott’s chamber to make a last attempt at reasoning with him. It was a gloomy meal. The lawyer felt he had failed the Ingrams, and Vickie and Miss Bannister were packed and ready to leave for Westwood. Anita sat on Frank’s lap, fearful of losing him, too. Constantia watched as he coaxed the little girl into drinking her milk and eating tidbits from his plate.
Lord Westwood had never taken any of his children on his knee, let alone fed them with his own hands. What a wonderful father Frank Ingram would be! Constantia sighed.
The dining-room door opened. Anita looked round, then shrank back against Frank’s chest as the duke came in. Yet his grace’s face was not distorted into a scowl, nor a frown, was not even wearing its habitual petulant expression. His grace’s face was twisted into a smile, more grimace than grin. He looked as if it hurt him.
“Good morning, good morning!” he cried with a horrid approximation to geniality, rubbing his hands together. “All up with the lark, I see. Excellent.”
Thomas, who had followed him in, hurried to set another place and pull up a chair. He served the duke from the sideboard, poured him coffee, and left with a backward glance, torn between curiosity and eagerness to inform his fellow-servants of this latest start.
“Excellent,” Oxshott repeated, regarding his devilled kidneys and cold tongue with real satisfaction. He looked around the table at the flabbergasted company. His eyes held no warmth, Constantia noted. “Well, now, I expect you’re all wondering what brought me down so early. I wanted to tell you I’ve decided Mackintyre has the right of it. No one will profit from a lawsuit but the lawyers, ha ha.”
“So it would seem, sir,” Frank said cautiously.
“Call me uncle, my dear fellow! I’m determined to be better acquainted with my niece and nephew, dear little Frances’s children.”
“How...how kind of you, Uncle.” Fanny forced the words through stiff lips.
