Captain Ingram's Inheritance

by Carola Dunn

  “Do you really need to come? I daresay I can persuade Lady Vickie to give herself up, if she’s there.”

  “No, no, I must go with you.”

  “Then we shall go and return as quickly as we can. With luck no one will notice you are gone.”

  They went out to the front porch to wait for the barouche-landau. It was a windy day, with ragged grey clouds scudding across the sky and leaves whirling to the ground. The saffron-yellow cloak flapped about Constantia’s ankles; the hood threatened to blow off, so she tightened the drawstring.

  Frank was looking at her with a slight frown.

  “I had to borrow Fanny’s cloak,” she said defensively, “because Mama is in my chamber. I know the colour does not suit me.”

  “My dear Lady Constantia, the colour was the furthest thing from my mind,” he said with a teasing smile. “I was wondering whether you will be warm enough without gloves. We had best put up the carriage hoods.”

  “Oh no, we must not waste time!” She frowned at him, suddenly realizing: “You have neither gloves nor overcoat!”

  “I don’t need an overcoat on a day like today. We old soldiers scarcely feel the cold. As for driving gloves, Hoskins will find me a pair in the coach-house.”

  Constantia had assumed Hoskins would drive and Frank would join her in the back. How was she to explain her theory with both men on the box? Yet having abandoned decorum to beg him to take her to Heathcote she was reluctant to implore him to sit with her, since he chose not to.

  While she hesitated, the barouche-landau came around the corner and stopped before them. Frank handed her in and quickly mounted to the box.

  “Spring ‘em,” he told Hoskins, donning the shabby hat and grubby, well-worn gloves the corporal handed him.

  Frank’s pair were no fifteen-mile-an-hour bits of blood, but they were willing. The carriage sped down the drive.

  Constantia sat tensely on the forward-facing seat, her hands clenched in her lap. She could not cry aloud against the wind what she suspected her feckless sister had done. Vickie might after all have taken shelter at Heathcote, persuading the small staff to hide her. If they went there first, she could explain her suspicions privately to Frank and on the way back...

  But no, that would waste so much time. The more she reflected on Vickie’s letter, the more certain she was that she had guessed right: the words scratched out with “Pam and Lizzie” written in above in tiny letters; “him” changed to “them”; “they” squeezed in as if the t and y were added later, and followed by carelessly unchanged “is” instead of “are”. What that passage had originally said was “Please tell Sir George I miss him dreadfully and he is not to forget me.”

  Vickie spending day after day at Netherfield with Anita while Upfield Grange was set in order; Vickie with her constant “Sir George says...”; Vickie refusing to leave without bidding Sir George goodbye, and adding Lady Berman, Pam, and Lizzie as an afterthought; at the picnic, Vickie dragging Sir George off to explore the house--Constantia had thought she was tactfully removing him from Oxshott’s company but her sister was not noted for tact; Vickie joining Sir George on the box on the way home from Netherfield, the day before she left for Westwood; the signs had all been there.

  Constantia blamed herself for blindness. She had been too taken up with her own feelings for Frank to notice what her little sister was about. If she was right, Mama and Papa must never find out.

  The barouche-landau was rapidly approaching the drive to Netherfield. “Turn here!” Constantia called. Frank glanced back, his hand cupping his ear, his face questioning. She flung herself onto the front seat. “Turn left here, to Netherfield!”

  “Turn left,” Frank repeated to Hoskins.

  The carriage swung left as Constantia moved back to her original seat. Something cracked like a branch snapping. The vehicle tilted. She grabbed for a handhold but the door swung open as she touched it and she pitched out.

  Landing on her shoulder, she cried out as a dreadful pain stabbed her through and through. The world faded.

  Chapter 18

  Above her, Frank’s face floated in a haze.

  “Constantia, my love! I can’t feel any lumps on her head.”

  “It’s her shoulder, Captain. Look, there’s blood on her cloak, there where it’s bin tore.”

  “Oh my God!” Frank fumbled with the drawstrings of the cloak. Constantia felt him push aside the heavy cloth. Her feeble murmur of protest as he ruthlessly ripped open her gown was drowned by his repeated cry, “Oh my God!”

  “Look, Captain, her la’ship must’ve landed on this flint. Sharp as a knife it is.”

  “Never mind that, Hoskins. Help me lift her to bind this gash. It’s not deep but it won’t stop bleeding. No, first take off my neckcloth, this handkerchief is too small.”

  “Here, Captain.”

  Her head swam again as gentle hands raised her and bound her shoulder.

  “Constantia! She’s still not coming round.”

  “Shock, I reckon. Don’t fret, sir, it don’t look too bad. Mostly bruised, and that’s a nasty scrape.”

  “It must have hurt like the very devil to make her fall into a swoon.”

  “Likely she wrenched it, too.”

  With a huge effort, Constantia opened her eyes and brought Frank’s worried face into focus. “Not a swoon,” she said faintly. “I just feel a trifle peculiar.”

  His eyes brightened in relief. “I beg your pardon,” he said with a grin, “not a swoon, of course.”

  “I shall be perfectly all right in a minute.” She tried to sit up.

  He pressed her back, one hand on her uninjured shoulder. “Lie still, Lady Constantia,” he commanded. “You’re hurt and you’ve had a shock.”

  There was something soft beneath her head. She realized he was in his shirtsleeves, white against the fleeting grey clouds. Hatless, too. How handsome he was with his crisp, dark hair ruffled by the wind, his dark eyes concerned, intent upon her. She loved him. She could not help herself.

  Had she dreamed of hearing him call her his love?

  That was when the full horror of what had happened burst upon her. She closed her eyes, despairing. He had called her his love--before he ripped open her bodice and saw her scar. Now she was Lady Constantia again.

  “Hoskins, I must carry her to Netherfield,” Frank said urgently. “I’ll have to ride bareback on one of the horses and take her before me. You’d better try to move this wreck out of the way with the other horse. They are not injured are they?”

  The men’s voices moved away from Constantia and she heard the jingle of the harness. Then Hoskins lifted her up onto the horse in front of Frank. The pain of the movement made her dizzy again. Though she had intended to sit upright, she slumped against his chest with a moan. His arm went around her waist, holding her steady.

  He had no saddle, no stirrups, only a makeshift bridle for reins, yet she felt quite safe as he set the horse in motion. He was her valiant hero on a charger. It was too much to expect that every hero should fall in love with every rescued damsel.

  His friendship would have to be enough for her.

  * * * *

  By the time Frank reached Netherfield’s front door with his precious burden, they had been seen from the house and the entire family was waiting--the entire family plus Lady Victoria. How the devil had Constantia guessed?

  It was not the moment to ask. Amid a babble of questions, Sir George lifted Constantia down. Frank watched jealously as he carried her into the house, followed by Lady Berman and the girls. Sliding down from the horse’s back he tied the bridle to a post and went after them.

  Sir George came to meet him. Crimson-faced, he said gruffly, “I daresay you’re wondering...”

  “Not I. Lady Victoria is none of my responsibility, thank goodness. Where is Lady Constantia?”

  The young baronet ushered him into the parlour. Constantia was reclining on a sofa, the ladies crowded about her.

  To Frank’s r
elief, the colour was already returning to her cheeks. She waved away vinaigrette and cordial, and gratefully but adamantly refused to let Lady Berman examine her shoulder.

  “I must hurry home,” she said, “that is, back to Upfield Grange. Vickie, Mama and Papa have come looking for you. Mama is sorely distressed. We shall...”

  “Is Oxshott still there?” Sir George demanded.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Frank.

  “She shan’t be forced to marry that old villain!”

  “But there is no question of Vickie marrying the duke,” Constantia exclaimed. “Vickie, what on earth have you been telling the Bermans?”

  With everyone staring at her, Lady Victoria flushed to the roots of her hair. “I only said I was afraid Mama might try to make me marry him,” she maintained, her lips quivering. “And she might, Connie. She said the sooner I am off her hands, the better. If it wasn’t Oxshott it could be some other horrid old widower, so it wasn’t a lie.”

  Roaring with laughter, Sir George enveloped her in a bear hug. “Never mind, love, I’ll take you off her ladyship’s hands, soon as ever I can.”

  “George!” Lady Berman called him to order.

  Looking sheepish, he let Vickie go. “Come on,” he urged her, “we’ll take your sister and the captain back to Upfield Grange and beard the lions together.”

  Frank wanted Constantia to rest, but she insisted she was much recovered and would be perfectly comfortable in the Bermans’ wagon. Lady Berman put her arm in a sling, which obviously eased her discomfort considerably, so Frank gave in. Sir George lent him a neckcloth and went to harness the Suffolk Punches while the girls collected cushions.

  Constantia was able to walk out, leaning on Frank’s arm. Though he’d rather have travelled in the back with her, he joined Sir George on the box so that a subdued Vickie could exchange confidences with her sister. They set out for Upfield Grange.

  At the end of the Netherfield drive, the barouche-landau with its splintered wheel had been hauled aside just far enough to allow the wagon to pass. Of Hoskins and the second horse there was no sign, so Frank assumed they had gone home. He himself was in no hurry to reach the Grange. The one certain result he foresaw from the Westwoods’ arrival was that they would take Constantia away with them.

  It was for the best, of course, yet he still dreaded the moment of her departure, the blank hole it would leave in his life.

  Sir George distracted him with his own problems. He wanted to know how Frank thought the Westwoods would respond to his suit, how best to approach them. Frank was unable to offer much reassurance or advice, but he did encourage the baronet to stick to his guns. If he had been in the same position he’d have gone through hell or high water to win Constantia.

  The wagon turned into Upfield’s drive. Between the elms, nearly bare by now, Frank saw Felix’s phaeton standing at the door, his high-bred team tossing their heads as leaves swirled about their hooves.

  “I’m afraid your absence has been discovered, Lady Constantia,” he called over his shoulder.

  “It does not matter so much since we found Vickie.”

  “Don’t forget, Connie,” her sister cried, “you have promised to support us.”

  Frank didn’t hear her answer. As the wagon drew up alongside the phaeton, Felix’s groom stared. Leaving the man to keep an eye on the placid Suffolks as well as his own restive charges, Sir George and Frank helped Constantia and Vickie down. Vickie clutching Constantia’s good arm, they proceeded into the hall.

  They were met by an agitated crowd: Lord and Lady Westwood, Felix and Fanny, and the duke and Dolph. For a few minutes all was a chaos of questions and explanations.

  As he put in his word about the accident to his carriage, Frank saw the duke draw Dolph aside and berate him with quiet ferocity, heaven alone knew what for. Poor Dolph was white and frightened. Frank moved towards them to rescue his cousin. He wished Lady Victoria and Sir George well, but nothing he could say was going to affect Lord and Lady Westwood’s opinions.

  As he reached his uncle’s side, the hubbub died, giving way to Lady Westwood’s cold, incisive voice. Only the fact that she was upbraiding her daughter in public suggested a certain degree of discomposure.

  Oxshott turned to Frank with a strained smile. “Mighty fortunate Lady Constantia was not badly hurt. Your man was driving? Turn him off, my boy, turn him off without a character. You can’t have clumsy rogues like that endangering the ladies.”

  “The accident wasn’t Hoskins’s fault. The wheel just collapsed. I should have had everything checked more carefully.”

  Behind him, Frank heard Constantia’s soft voice joining Vickie’s, Sir George’s, and the Westwoods’ in argument. He wanted to listen, but the duke started inveighing against swindlers who sold unsound goods to unsuspecting gentlemen.

  At that moment, Hoskins rushed into the hall. He dashed up to Frank, skidded to a halt, saluted, and announced in his best parade-ground tones, “Captain, sir, that there carridge wheel was meddled with. Half sawn through it was.” He rounded on Dolph, who cowered away. “And this here blue-blooded cousin o’ yourn’s what done it!”

  Frank stared at him, stunned. In the sudden silence, the rising wind howled about the house and somewhere a door slammed. “Dolph?”

  “I got witnesses, Captain, seen his lordship sneaking about where he got no business to be, poking round your carriage, and another what’s seen a saw in his chamber.”

  Dolph burst into tears. “I did it,” he wailed. “He made me.”

  “Imbecile!” roared the duke. He glared round at the startled faces turned to him. “You can’t believe a word he says. He may be my own son and heir but he belongs in Bedlam.”

  “No, Father, don’t send me to Bedlam!” Dolph entreated. “Told you, didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to hurt Cousin Frank. Didn’t want to hurt Cousin Fanny. Didn’t want to hurt Lady Connie.”

  “Dolt, it’s your fault Lady Constantia was hurt,” Oxshott snarled at him.

  “No, it is not his fault.” Constantia swept forward to Dolph’s side. “If you threatened him with Bedlam, of course he did what you told him.”

  Fanny joined them, laying a soothing hand on Dolph’s arm. “You shan’t go to Bedlam,” she said firmly. The two of them took him to sit on one of the settles by the fire.

  Lord Westwood took a hand, his equanimity shaken. “You are responsible for the injury to my daughter, Oxshott? I can hardly trust my ears!”

  “Naturally I’m sorry Lady Constantia was hurt,” the duke blustered, self-righteously. “Mentham bungled it, as he bungles everything he attempts. It’s those upstart Ingrams I’m trying to rid myself of, as you would yourself, Westwood, in my position. Nobodies, marching in and taking my property! I thought I’d have to dispose of the child, too, but she ain’t their legal heir yet, as I took pains to find out, mind you. Don’t want to hurt innocent bystanders if it can be avoided.”

  “Good Gad,” the earl snapped, “it is you who belong in Bedlam! I’ll see you brought to justice if it takes every last ounce of influence I possess.”

  That was when Frank began to laugh. He simply could not help it, as everything came together in his mind. It was his turn to be stared at as if he were an escaped bedlamite.

  “Lord Westwood,” he gasped at last, “you needn’t fear my uncle will go unpunished. He’s already suffered. He brought his own punishment upon himself.”

  “What the deuce do you mean?” Felix demanded.

  “Think! Just think back over his grace’s visit. Who was standing beneath the gargoyle minutes before it crashed? I was.”

  “And it destroyed Oxshott’s carriage.” Felix began to grin.

  “Who rises early and goes downstairs before anyone else is about? Fanny does.”

  Felix’s grin vanished. “The stairs where Oxshott slipped on an inexplicable mess of tallow,” he said grimly. “If it had been on a higher step, and he had not fallen asleep in the drawing room...”

  “
Precisely.” Frank continued his litany. “Who was directed into the copse where an invisible poacher let loose a shot? Again, I was.”

  “And who was peppered? Oxshott!”

  His face livid, the duke charged at Dolph. “You did it on purpose!” he howled, raising his fist.

  Even as Frank moved between them, he realized that Constantia was gone. Was she worse hurt than he had supposed? His heart skipped a beat but he said calmly, “Don’t touch Dolph, Uncle.”

  The duke stepped back, spitting venom. “I’ll get you yet!”

  “I think not, sir. You have too many witnesses now ever to try to harm any of us again. Lord Westwood?”

  “If any harm comes to you, or your sister, or the child, his grace shall be pursued by the full vigour of the law. You have my word on that, Captain Ingram.”

  “Felix?”

  “Need you ask?”

  “Sir George?”

  “Count me in.”

  “After all, Captain,” said Lady Victoria unwisely, “Sir George will soon be practically your brother-in-law.”

  As Vickie’s misdeeds superseded the duke’s at the centre of attention, Frank made his escape and went in search of Constantia.

  He hurried to her chamber and tapped on the door. When there was no response, he opened it and glanced in. If she was in pain, no considerations of propriety were going to stop him going to her aid.

  She was huddled on the low window seat, a picture of misery. Though she had changed her torn gown for a soft blue wrapping dress, her golden ringlets were disordered, her eyes were red, and she sniffled as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Frank recalled a time when he had called her an angel. She was no angel, just a mortal like himself, and very dear.

  A vagrant gust slammed the chamber door. Constantia looked up, startled. Frank was striding across the room towards her, the sound of his footsteps drowned by the wind’s moan. Hastily she wiped away the foolish tears with the back of her hand.

  He stood frowning down at her. “Is the pain very bad? I shall send for the doctor.”