Captain Ingram's Inheritance (26 page)

 “Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the corporal. “I were that int’rested in what you was saying, I forgot what I was at. But there’s no need to take on so, sir. It’s not the good stuff. Here, let me dry you off.” And he attempted to stuff his napkin between Yates’s close-tied, port-stained cravat and his neck.

 “Are you trying to strangle me now, ruffian?” yelled the hapless gentleman, twisting away. He glared at Frank. “Believe me, I’ll be glad to shake the dust of Upfield Grange from my feet.” He stalked from the room.

 Lord Vincent was laughing so hard, he too spilled his port.

 Frank sent Hoskins to refill the decanter. “I hope Yates won’t make trouble with the duke,” he said, frowning.

 “He can’t,” said Lord Vincent candidly. “Godfrey’s tied to his mother’s apron-strings and Millicent hangs on m’brother’s sleeve. They’ve neither of them a ha’p’orth of influence there. Truth to tell, no one does. A law unto himself is his Grace of Oxshott, and so was your grandfather before him, nevvy. Now, where’s that port? Pigswill it may be, but for want of anything better...”

 “I’ll put some decent wines in Frank’s cellar before your next visit, sir,” Felix promised. They chatted vintages.

 As soon as Yates stormed out, Dolph had sneaked around the table and taken the chair beside Frank. He had the bewildered, apprehensive air of a new recruit from Yorkshire being shouted at by a Cockney sergeant.

 “Do I have to go away, Cousin Frank?” he quavered.

 “Don’t you want to, Dolph? The duke will stay here for a while at least, so you’ll be free of him.”

 “Mustn’t go before he tells me. Besides, like you, like Cousin Fanny, like Lady Connie. Like Anita. Calls me Uncle Dolph!” He threw a doubtful look at Felix. “Like Roworth. Like Hoskins,” he added in a burst of inspiration as the corporal returned with a full decanter.

 “There’s a good chap,” said Hoskins soothingly, patting the marquis’s shoulder as he passed.

 “We like you, too,” said Frank. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay.”

 “Can I? Don’t want to hurt you. Don’t want to hurt Cousin Fanny. Try not to.”

 “I’m sure you do. Yes, you are welcome to stay on at the Grange, only don’t mention it to any of the others.”

 “Won’t,” promised Dolph.

 When they repaired to the drawing-room, Lady Yates had already retired, complaining of a sick headache. Lady Vincent, with a terrified glance at Frank and a mutter about early rising, scuttled from the room. Even Lady Elvira appeared as much perturbed as affronted, her usual censorious air diluted by irresolution.

 Frank went to join Constantia. “What on earth have you said to them?” he asked in a low voice.

 “Oh, I said no more than we agreed upon.” Her eyes sparkled with merriment. “I explained how you are amiable unless crossed, but after all, you are a soldier, an officer used to being obeyed, and you can be quite fierce when opposed.”

 “Quite fierce?”

 “Fanny seemed to think that was insufficient. Ferocious was the word she used. I must say that the bloody exploits she credited you with cannot have left you with much time to aim your guns.”

 “She had me running amok on the battlefield, did she? No, no, we artillerymen are mild fellows more concerned with ballistics than bayonets.”

 “Pray do not tell your aunts, or they will change their minds and stay. As it is, they are all prodigious eager to submit to your honeyed decree and leave in the morning.”

 They were gone long before the duke put in an appearance. Stiff and querulous, he hobbled to the drawing-room, leaning heavily on the arm of one of his footmen. Constantia had taken it upon herself to excuse his family’s defection to him. The others played least in sight while she saw him ensconced on a well-cushioned sofa, a glass of the tolerable madeira at his elbow.

 Before he had a chance to remark upon the absence of those who ought to have been hovering solicitously about him, she said with what conviction she could muster, “How obliging and considerate your brothers and sisters are, Duke. They have cut short their visit so that you may have peace and quiet to recuperate. Nothing is so detrimental to a swift recovery as the noise and bustle of a house party.”

 Glaring at her, he jerked upright, then subsided on the cushions with a groan. “Devil take it, I’m black and blue all over and aching in every limb. Those damned spongers may do as they please for the nonce.” He made as if to sit up again, but thought better of it. “But where’s that oafish son of mine?” he growled. “‘Fore Gad, if he’s flown the coop, I’ll...”

 “Captain Ingram has taken Lord Mentham and Anita out in his carriage,” said Constantia hastily, glad that Frank had relented and let poor Dolph remain at the Grange. “My brother and Fanny have driven over to Heathcote. I stayed to make sure everything possible is done for your comfort.”

 Oxshott briefly recovered his manners. “Much obliged, ma’am, I’m sure. So Roworth and my niece are gone to Heathcote? They’re looking to wed soon, I daresay.”

 “As soon as the house is habitable, which will not be long now. They need new furnishings, but the roof is finished, the broken windows mended, the painting and paperhanging begun, and a few servants hired.”

 “Ha!” A look of such malevolence passed across the duke’s features that a cold trickle of fear ran down Constantia’s spine. But she must have imagined it. His peculiar kind of forced affability was to the fore as he said civilly, “Be so good as to have Mentham sent to me at once when he returns.”

 “Certainly, Duke.”

 Oxshott reconciled to the departure of the rest of his family, her mission was accomplished. She made an excuse to leave him and went up to see if the transfer of her belongings to her old chamber was completed. All trace of the occupancy of Lady Elvira and Lady Yates had been cleared, the window opened wide to dispel a faint smell of medicines. The air coming in had an autumnal chill though the sun was shining.

 A shawl about her shoulders, Constantia settled on the window seat to read, but she found herself gazing out of the window, hoping to glimpse the barouche-landau returning. Only because the duke was so anxious for his son’s company, she tried to persuade herself.

 But it was no use pretending it was not Frank she wanted to see. If only...With a sudden shock she realized she had never written to Miriam, her time and attention occupied by the now departed guests. She set down her book and moved swiftly to the little inlaid writing table in the corner.

 Two days later, when she went down to breakfast, Thomas presented her with a letter on a silver salver. She reached for it eagerly. though surely it was too soon to expect a response.

 “From Vickie!” She tried to hide her disappointment.

 “What has she to say?” asked Fanny, cutting up a rasher of bacon for Anita.

 Constantia slit the seal, unfolded the paper, and quickly scanned her sister’s scrawl. “Poor Vickie! Miss Bannister is unwell so she is constantly under Mama’s eye and never does anything right. She is not permitted to write to the Bermans.” Constantia kept to herself Lady Westwood’s reported opinion that the Squire and his family were unfit acquaintances for the daughter of an earl.

 She frowned over a passage marked with blots and heavily scratched out words. “Please tell...Pam and Lizzie she misses thim...oh no, them, of course, but why has she dotted the e?...misses them dreadfully and they is not to forget her. I thought Miss Bannister had drummed more grammar into her than that. And she has run her words together though she left a blank space at the end. She must be sorely tried.”

 “Poor Vickie!” said Fanny.

 “I shall write a note to Lady Berman with her message.”

 “We haven’t seen the Bermans since she left. I suppose they will not call as long as Uncle Oxshott is here. Thank goodness he’s rapidly recovering. He’ll soon be well enough to go home, if we can only persuade him to remove himself!”

 By that afternoon, the duke had recovered enough to insist that Frank take him for an airing in the barouche-landau.

 Frank suppressed a sigh. “If you’re sure you are fit, Uncle, Hoskins shall tool us about the lanes for a while.”

 “No need for Hoskins. I want to see your skill with the ribbons, my boy.”

 “Very well. I daresay the ladies will enjoy a drive.”

 Oxshott testily declared that he was damned if he’d have the ladies fussing about him. So they went off together, Frank on the box and the duke seated in the back, shouting directions as to the route he wished to take. A blustery, invigorating wind swirled bronze and yellow leaves down from the trees. Frank was sorry Constantia and Fanny were missing the outing, but it was not worth an argument with his uncle.

 They were bumping along a rutted lane through a copse when the duke shouted, “Stop!”

 “What...?” Frank reined in his pair.

 “A poacher!” Oxshott stood up in the back, gesticulating at the trees to their right. “I saw him clear as day. You’d better go after the ruffian or you’ll have no game left to call your own. Hanging’s too good for the brigands!”

 Frank saw nothing but trees swaying in the wind and brambles laden with blackberries, and he did not much care if his poorer tenants helped themselves to his land’s bounty. But once again it was easier not to argue with the duke, who was excitedly, if stiffly, descending from the carriage.

 Tying the reins to a nearby sapling, Frank started along the nearest path, a rabbit track, to judge by its narrowness. He penetrated some twenty yards into the copse, pushing aside briars and ducking low branches.

 “There’s no one here, Uncle,” he called.

 “Go a little farther. The damned miscreant’s hiding from you.” Oxshott started after him, then stopped and bent over, leaning with one hand against a tree-trunk. “Devil take it, a stone in my shoe.”

 A shot rang out. The duke screeched, clapped both hands to his buttocks, and fell over.

 A crashing in the brush marked the precipitate retreat of the poacher. Frank briefly contemplated pursuit but decided it was more important to go to his howling uncle’s aid. He ran back.

 Upon his Grace of Oxshott, fortune once more frowned. The duke had been well and truly peppered in the backside.

* * * *

 “Most fortunately it was the lightest gauge of birdshot,” said the doctor, closing the chamber door behind him. “Otherwise his grace might well have bled to death. He will be in severe discomfort for a fortnight or so, I fear.”

 Ingrams and Roworths managed to hold back their groans until the physician had departed. Another fortnight at least, and who could guess how long before he was fit to travel!

Chapter 17

 “St. Luke’s little summer we call it hereabouts,” said Mrs Tanner, “though it’s a bit early this year.”

 The second week of October was warm and dry. The duke had been confined to his bed for nearly two weeks of blissful peace. The household ran smoothly and Constantia could not pretend Fanny still needed her support.

 Daily she expected another summons from her mother, which she would have no excuse to disregard. Daily she hoped for a letter from Miriam Cohen. The longer she waited, the more sure she became that Miriam was delaying answering her enquiry because there was no remedy for her scar.

 And that was another reason why she must leave when Lady Westwood next sent for her. In the meantime, she tried to enjoy Frank’s company, the beautiful weather, the changing colours of autumn, without thinking of the future.

 Then Miriam’s letter came. She took it unopened up to her chamber and sat down in the window seat, turning the folded sheet over and over in her hands before she brought herself to break the seal.

 The letter opened with apologies. Constantia had directed her letter to Miriam’s father’s house in London. It had arrived after the Cohens returned to Nettledene, taking her parents with them, leaving the London house shut up. So the delay was not due to Miriam’s reluctance to disappoint her! A tiny seedling of hope sprang up.

 A moment later it withered, blighted. Miriam regretted that her attempts to restore badly damaged skin to its original smoothness had never proved successful. If the scar itched or flaked, a lotion composed of...

 Constantia stared down blindly at the crumpled paper in her fist, the other hand clenched to her breast. In her head throbbed a single word: never, never, never.

 “Are you ready, Connie?” called Fanny from outside her door. “The sunshine is so glorious I hate to miss a moment of it.”

 She had forgotten that she, Fanny, and Dolph were to take Anita down to the bridge, the child’s favourite walk. It was no use wallowing in self-pity.

 On the second attempt, her voice came out right. “I shall be with you in just a minute.” Half-boots, bonnet, pelisse, gloves, anything else? She looked distractedly around the room. The letter lay discarded on the floor by the window. She picked it up, smoothed it flat, and hid it in a drawer. The scar did itch at times.

 She did her best to be cheerful as they strolled down the hill, crunching through heaps of yellow elm leaves, but Fanny noticed that something was amiss.

 “You are blue-devilled today,” she remarked as Anita and Dolph stopped to throw armfuls of leaves at each other.

 “The duke will soon emerge from his lair,” Constantia said lightly. “Is that not reason enough for blue devils? But you are quite capable of coping with him by now. I shall have to leave soon.”

 “Oh no, Connie!”

 “I cannot defy Mama for ever.”

 “I suppose not. Oh drat!” said Fanny with a disconsolate sigh. “You will come back before the wedding, to hold my hand?”

 “Of course.”

* * * *

 In the general gloom caused by Oxshott’s return to circulation, Constantia’s low spirits aroused no further comment. The duke, still unable to sit on any but the softest of cushions, took to wandering about the house, materializing unexpectedly like a disgruntled ghost. Dolph, who had blossomed, grew more and more silent and unhappy.

 One morning, shortly before the hour when the duke usually appeared, Frank met his wretched cousin in the hall and invited him to drive out with him. Frank now drove his carriage about the estate nearly every day. He was thinking of buying a riding horse, for regular exercise had at last restored the strength of his arms and shoulders. If it were not for the sight of himself in the mirror, which he did his best to avoid, he might almost believe the exploding shell at Quatre Bras had never happened.