by Carola Dunn
“The poor lad seems good-natured enough,” Fanny agreed, “and that’s better than I’d bargained for. I’m not dreading the arrival of the rest quite so much.”
Felix smiled at her. “A good-natured knock-in-the-cradle is a vast improvement over a cross-grained surlyboots.”
“If you ask me,” said Frank, “he’s not just a slowtop, he’s touched in the upper works. When I told him a fellow’s bringing a carriage over for me to inspect with a view to purchase, he tried to dissuade me. He has a bee in his bonnet about the danger of carriage accidents.”
“Perhaps the duke mentioned your injured shoulders to him,” Fanny suggested. “I must admit, I’m a trifle concerned myself. Are you sure you’re ready to drive, Frank?”
“No,” he said patiently. “That’s why Felix lent me Dutton to scour the countryside for a suitable vehicle. Sir George sent him to a friend of his, Parslow, a gentleman-farmer over towards Alton. I did tell you all about it.”
“Fanny has a great deal on her mind at present,” Constantia pointed out. “When shall you see the carriage? Tell us about it.”
His face lit with enthusiasm. “It’s a barouche-landau, in good condition though in need of paint. It will carry four passengers in comfort and it has a box for a coachman, yet it’s light enough for me to drive it myself when I’m able. Parslow’s bringing it round first thing the day after tomorrow. He’ll sell me his horses, too, if I want them.”
“It sounds quite perfect for you,” said Constantia, “But that is the day we go to Winchester. I hope we shall have time to see it before we leave.”
Oxshott, entering, had overheard them. “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” he assured her, adding with a chuckle, “I’m no early riser, as you know.”
Though Constantia and Fanny had hoped for a full day to make their purchases, they once again expressed their appreciation of his offer to take them into the town. He assured them gaily that it was his pleasure. Indeed, his cheerfulness seemed unforced that evening. Poor Dolph, on the other hand, was misery incarnate. No doubt the duke relished having someone defenceless to harass.
* * * *
By the morning post next day, Constantia received a letter from her mother. She set it aside to be perused later, for the contents were bound to be distressing.
The barouche-landau arrived an hour after breakfast. Fanny was busy about her household duties, consulting Mrs Tanner and Henriette, but she no longer needed Constantia’s advice at every turn. Donning a warm pelisse over her walking dress, for it was a grey, chilly day, Constantia wrapped Anita up well and took her out to see the carriage and pair.
“Come for a drive to try it out,” Frank invited, as excited as a child with a new toy. “We’ll be back long before my slug-a-bed uncle comes down.”
Felix helped them in and joined them, and Frank climbed up on the box with the hopeful seller, a lean, weathered country squire. They tooled around the lanes, through King’s Wallop, and back again. Fanny came out as they pulled up before the house.
“Are you going to buy it, Frank?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously. “I want to check the hoods.”
Fanny went in again, but Anita begged to stay to see the leather hoods raised fore and aft, turning the hybrid vehicle into a closed carriage. They were in poor repair, so Frank requested a reduction in price. While he and Mr Parslow stood at the corner of the entrance tower, bargaining, Constantia took Anita to talk to the horses, a sturdy, easy-going pair of greys.
Coming to an agreement, Frank shook hands with the satisfied seller. Felix offered to take the carriage round to the stables and fetch his phaeton to drive Mr Parslow home.
As the barouche-landau disappeared around the corner of the house, Constantia congratulated Frank on his purchase.
“What colours shall you paint it?” she asked.
“Blue and red,” said Anita promptly, “like your uniform, Uncle Frank.”
“Blue picked out in red would be excessively smart,” Constantia agreed with a smile.
“Blue and red it shall be,” said Frank, and requested Mr Parslow’s advice on where to go to have the body repainted and the hoods replaced.
“It’s good it’s got hoods to keep you dry,” Anita observed. “Look, Aunt Connie, it’s beginning to rain.” She held out her hand.
The four of them moved into the shelter of the porch, just as a carriage appeared from the direction of the stables. It was not Felix’s phaeton but the duke’s travelling chaise. As it drew up close to the porch, Oxshott emerged from the front door.
He scowled when he saw them. “Are you ready to leave, Lady Constantia?” he snapped.
“I must fetch my reticule. I shall not keep you above three minutes. Come, Anita.”
The child obediently took her hand and followed, looking back over her shoulder. They were on the threshold when there came a splintering crash behind them, followed by a roar of rage from the duke.
“My carriage!” he howled. “Destroyed!”
Chapter 13
With a cry of fright, Anita ran to Frank. He picked her up and hugged her. Constantia was far more interested in the fact that he did not wince in pain than in the wreck of the duke’s chaise.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he soothed the little girl in his arms. “You’re quite safe. Let’s go and see what happened to Uncle Oxshott’s carriage.” Still holding her, he took a step forward, then stopped. “Good Lord!”
Constantia watched the dawning realization on his face. “Your shoulders do not hurt?” she asked.
“The merest twinge!” His lips curved in a joyful smile, his eyes glowing. “No more than a touch of discomfort. I’ll be driving in no time.”
“You can’t drive his carriage.” Anita, sang-froid restored, pointed at the duke’s chaise. With deep satisfaction she said, “It’s got a big hole in it. It’s ‘stroyed.”
“I heard a crash but I cannot see any damage,” said Constantia doubtfully.
“I saw it. Let’s go and look, Uncle Frank.”
The duke was stamping about, gibbering, his voice for once suppressed by outrage. His coachman wisely stayed stolidly on the box, in firm control of his alarmed team. Mr Parslow stood to one side, gazing upward, his hand shielding his eyes from the spitting rain.
“What did you see, Anita?” Frank asked as they left the porch.
“I did see a stone falling from the sky and it hit the carriage.”
“The child’s right,” said Mr Parslow. “You’ve lost a gargoyle, Ingram. Up there on the corner of the tower, see? There’s one missing. Deuced lucky it didn’t hit anyone, begging your pardon, my lady.” He crouched to peer under the carriage.
“Lucky!” Oxshott found his voice, his most stentorian. “Lucky! Your damned gargoyle went right through the roof and then the floor, Ingram. I hold you responsible.”
“Fustian!” Fanny had come out unobserved, dressed for the shopping expedition, followed by Thomas. “If the house is falling to pieces, our grandfather, your late father, is responsible, Uncle. Frank has not had time to put all in order after years of neglect.”
Taken aback by her sharp rebuke, the duke gaped at her.
“All the same,” said Frank peaceably, “I’ll have to have the roof checked. I thought it was in good repair. Someone might have been killed.”
“They might well.” Mr Parslow had dived under the carriage and now emerged with a piece of carved stone in each large, leather-gloved hand. He stuck them together and a hideous, leering demon stuck its tongue out at them. “It weighs a fair bit, more than enough to dash your brains out, or mine. I was standing just there not a moment earlier. Lucky all it hit was the carriage,” he reaffirmed dourly with a glance at the duke. “There’s no damage that can’t be easily mended.”
Oxshott glared at him, turned, and stalked into the house. They heard him yelling for his numskull of a son.
“Oh dear,” said Constantia with a sigh, “I am afraid poor Dolph will suffer for his fat
her’s frustration, though how the duke can possibly hold him to blame I fail to see.”
Frank apologized to Mr Parslow for his narrow escape, but the man brushed aside his apologies. “No one’s fault, these things happen. I daresay the rest of the roof is perfectly sound.”
Felix drove up in the phaeton just then and had to hear the whole story. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest, so Constantia and Fanny left the men to get wet and took Anita into the house. Constantia abruptly found she had to sit down.
“How silly,” she said faintly, dropping onto the nearest chair, “my knees feel quite weak all of a sudden. Anita and I and your brother were all standing quite close together. Any of us could have been hit.”
“Connie, you’re white as a sheet. Let me take off your bonnet. Put your head down between your knees. I haven’t any smelling salts. Anita, run to Henriette and ask her for tea.”
Thomas had followed them in. “I’ll fetch the madeira, my lady,” he cried and departed on the double.
“No, no, I am perfectly all right.” Bent double in her seat, Constantia felt an utter peagoose. After all, no one had been hurt. Why should her head swim so horridly? “I shall go upstairs and take off my pelisse and perhaps lie down for a moment.”
“Fanny, do you want to take my new carriage to Winchester? Felix has gone off with...Lady Constantia! What’s wrong?”
“She’s just a little dizzy, Frank. You and I are accustomed to close escapes but it’s alarming if one is not.”
Fanny’s light pressure on the back of Constantia’s neck eased, and she ventured to raise her head. Frank looked down at her in consternation.
“I never thought! My dear Lady Constantia, forgive me.”
She managed a shaky laugh. “No, forgive me for such absurd behaviour, Captain. I did not expect to swoon--I have never done so before!--so how should you foresee it? It is a most peculiar sensation.”
Thomas rushed up with a decanter and a glass. A few sips of the strong wine greatly revived her, and again she declared her intention of going up to her chamber.
Anita had returned from her errand. “Don’t you want some tea, Aunt Connie?” she asked, disappointed. “I did tell Henriette to make some.”
“Yes, I should like tea, but you will not mind if I drink it in my room, will you?”
“No, I don’t mind. Are you feeling better?”
“Much better, darling.” She stood up, still a trifle wobbly, with Fanny’s hand beneath her elbow.
“Take my arm, my lady,” said Thomas anxiously.
Frank intervened. “I shall help Lady Constantia,” he announced in a tone that brooked no denial.
“Yes, do, Frank,” his sister approved. “Thomas, tell Joan her mistress needs her, if you please.”
Though Constantia’s knees no longer resembled jelly, she was glad of Frank’s arm to steady her for the dizziness returned as they started up the stairs. She was aware of a certain awkwardness in his gait, but he did not falter. He was rapidly regaining his full strength and vigour. How ironic, how unbearable, if he had been killed by a falling gargoyle after surviving Bonaparte’s efforts to slay him!
As they climbed, he told her Felix was to return via Heathcote and ask his builder to come and inspect the roof of the Grange.
“I hope he won’t find any more unsafe gargoyles,” he said. “If I have to have them all taken down, Lady Vickie will rake me over the coals when next she visits. Perhaps it’s just as well she left,” he added ruefully as they approached the door of the duke’s chamber. “I’d not wish her to take my uncle’s abuse as a patterncard.”
“Sapskull! Lobcock!” Oxshott’s voice might easily have penetrated two inches of oak, but the door was ajar so they heard Dolph’s bleated response.
“C-couldn’t help it, Father. Took longer than I thought, then I couldn’t stop it.”
“You’re a bungling blockhead! What did I ever do to be cursed with such a simpleton for a son?”
“What on earth has the poor milksop has done wrong now?” Frank wondered aloud.
“The duke does not need a reason to take out his ill-temper on poor Dolph. Is there nothing we can do to help him?”
“Nothing but to give him a chance to escape now and then. In the future, I’ll invite him to visit Upfield whenever he chooses. In the meantime, I’ll see whether he’d like to go with me about the estate. I’ll soon be able to ride about my business.”
Reaching the door of the small chamber which had been Anita’s, she turned to face him. “I am so glad, so very glad, you were able to lift the child.”
He grinned like a carefree boy. “I must write to tell Miriam. Will you advise me on the proper wording again?”
“Of course, if you wish. Thank you for lending me your arm up the stairs.”
“Not so long ago I doubted I’d ever climb stairs again unaided. You are recovering from the shock, aren’t you? The roses are back in your cheeks.”
Though he spoke matter-of-factly, not at all as if addressing a compliment to a young lady, under his approving gaze her face grew warm. “I feel much better already,” she said hastily and escaped into her room.
She took off her pelisse and sat down at the makeshift dressing table to stare at herself in the mirror. Roses in her cheeks? Yes, and ringlets of spun gold, though a little disordered now, and eyes of cerulean blue, but what did they avail her?
Sometimes she thought Frank was falling in love with her, sometimes that he barely tolerated her presence. She did not know which she wanted. When he insisted on helping her to her chamber, Fanny had sounded delighted. She would be happy to see her brother marry her betrothed’s sister. Would she, too, be hurt if it came to the point where Constantia had to refuse, without explanation, an offer from Frank?
Bowing her head, she hid the deceptive beauty in her hands. Better, perhaps, that it should have been destroyed, and she with it, by the falling stone.
Joan bustled in, clucking like a mother hen. “What a horrid fright you’ve had, my lady! Why anyone would want those nasty gargles stuck up on their house I’m sure I can’t guess. There now, let me help you out of that gown and you lie down on your bed for a bit.”
“I feel quite well now, Joan,” Constantia said as her abigail unfastened the walking dress. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone to brood. “I shall change and go down. Oh, I must drink a cup of tea, first, since Anita ordered it for me specially.”
“Young Thomas’ll bring it up any moment. Is it true, my lady, as the captain picked up Miss Anita with never a second thought?”
“Yes, is it not wonderful?”
“That it is, my lady, when I think how he was carried into Westwood like a bundle of laundry, thin and pale as a wet sheet and fragile as old lace.” Joan lifted the gown over Constantia’s head. “Mr Trevor says it was a Jewish lady, his lordship’s friend, physicked the captain and set him on the road to recovery.”
“Yes, a Mrs Cohen.” Returning to the stool at the dressing table, she ran her fingertip along the scar. The puckered skin felt as ugly as it looked. Miriam had cured Frank, saved him from life as a cripple. Was it possible she might have some remedy for so hideous a blemish?
Did she dare write and ask? She had heard enough about Miriam, from Felix first and then from Fanny and Frank, to be sure her secret would be kept. Nor did she suppose Miriam would take offence at being consulted by a stranger. She could write about Frank’s recovery and add her question as an afterthought, as though it did not really matter to her, as though she were asking for a friend.
“Joan, I want to write a letter.”
“Then you’ll have to put on a dress and go down to the bookroom, my lady. There’s no room in this cupboard for such things.” The abigail sniffed. “It’s not right your ladyship should be stuck in here.”
“Now, Joan, you know quite well that I offered to take this chamber. It is perfectly adequate, though I do miss the window seat. I trust you will do what you can to help Miss Fanny throu
gh this difficult time.”
“You know I will, my lady. We all will,” said Joan, injured. She added tartly, “But it’s to be hoped the rest of miss’s grand relations is somewhere between nasty-tempered blasphemers and hapless halfwits.”
Thomas arrived with the tray of tea. While she sipped at a cup, Constantia noticed her mother’s letter, lying unread on the dressing table. She slit the seal and unfolded the page.
Vickie and Miss Bannister had arrived safely at Westwood. Miss Bannister was laid up after the journey, leaving Vickie on her mother’s hands. Vickie was a hoydenish romp, quite unfit for a London Season. Constantia, on the other hand, was a perverse, disobedient miss. Her brother’s support of her insubordination only showed that he, too, was lacking in the most elementary sense of duty to his parents. Lady Westwood was displeased.
Constantia sighed. Maybe it would be best for all if she yielded to Mama and went home.
Finishing the tea, she dressed and left her chamber. Fanny and Anita were coming down the passage towards her, hand in hand. Anita ran to her.
“Are you awright, Aunt Connie? Me and Aunt Fanny’s coming to ask.”
“I drank a cup of tea, and now I am right as rain.”
“Good.” Beaming, she took Constantia’s hand.
Fanny studied her. “Are you sure you are fit to go down?”
“Yes, truly. I must write a letter. I have just read Mama’s.”
“Connie, you won’t leave? You promised.”
So, once again, she allowed herself to be persuaded to stay. “I shall tell her Oxshott’s heir is here,” she said wryly. “If she believes I have a chance to contract so desirable a match, perhaps she will stop demanding my return. She has been out of the world for so long I doubt she is aware of his deficiencies, and if she is she may not care.”
“You wouldn’t marry poor Dolph!”
“No. I shall never marry.” She had not meant to say that, but perhaps it was for the best.
“That’s what I thought until I met Felix,” said Fanny wisely, though she looked disappointed. She must imagine that if Constantia had not yet found her true love, then Frank was not the man.
