Free Captain Ingram's Inheritance by Carola Dunn Page A

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