The Cavendon Luck

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Grafton Street was close to the arcade, and the distance between the two buildings was only a few minutes, and it was easy to move from one to the other.

  Cecily said, “To get to the crux of the matter, I think we’re going to have to find new factories in Leeds to make our ready-to-wear items, and some of the accessories.”

  “I’d already guessed that,” Dottie said, and reached out her hand to Cecily, who was holding a sheaf of papers.

  Handing them to her aunt, Cecily said, “The government will soon requisition those factories of ours in Leeds. They’ll need them to make army, navy, and air force uniforms.” Cecily sighed. “I said that to Mike Leigh yesterday, and he sort of pooh-poohed the idea. He won’t accept there’s going to be a war. He dismisses everything I say. He’s got his head in the sand.”

  “What do you expect? He’s gormless in many ways, even if he is a good production manager. And anyway, you’re cleverer than anyone I know, yards ahead of all of us. No one can keep up with your thought processes, and certainly no one has your vision.”

  Cecily smiled, shook her head. “Oh come on, Aunt Dottie, you’re just prejudiced. My mother says I’m too clever for my own good and I should keep my mouth shut, because that’s much safer.”

  Dorothy nodded. “Alice is partially right, of course. But please don’t keep your mouth shut, we need to hear what you have to say.”

  Dorothy now dropped her eyes and scanned the two sheets of paper. “I agree with you, these factories will be taken over by the government. Howard says it’s going to be a big war. Actually, he foresees a world war, with huge armies involved.”

  A grave look spread across Cecily’s face, and she said quietly, “I tend to agree. After being in Berlin for only a few days, I quickly got the picture. There were soldiers everywhere, and from what I heard, Germany has rearmed to its teeth. They’ve been making guns, munitions, and battleships in secret for years. And planes, as well.”

  “Howard says their army and air force are huge, much bigger than ours. He thinks the Luftwaffe could flatten London in a day, dropping their bombs.”

  “I won’t argue. I was told they have enormous supplies. A war is coming imminently; I explained to Mike that factories will have to be passed over to the government to make uniforms, but he wouldn’t accept that.”

  It was obvious to Cecily that Dorothy was genuinely annoyed, and she squeezed her arm, and said, “Don’t be angry or worried. I didn’t pay attention to anything he said. I have a plan.”

  Looking somewhat relieved, Dorothy asked swiftly, “What kind of plan, Ceci?”

  “I am going to create my own new factories.”

  Dorothy stared at her in surprise. “How? Where?”

  “In Leeds. And on the outskirts of the city, in some of the outlying areas … Upper Armley, Kirstall, Stanningley, Hunslet, and down by the river Aire in Leeds, and also near the canals. I’ve already got someone working on this, and he’s found some empty warehouses and old mills that are available. To rent or buy. I shall buy them so they are in my control.”

  “You’re going to redo them? Turn them into manufacturing factories to make clothes?” Dorothy asked, her eyes riveted on Cecily.

  “Two of them for clothes. The other three will be revamped as well. I’ll install cutting tables, sewing machines, all of the usual things, then offer them to the government, and I will offer to make uniforms for the armed services. They’ll accept, I can assure you of that, and they’ll agree that I can make ready-made jackets and skirts in the smaller two. Trust me.”

  Dorothy began to laugh. “Haven’t I always trusted you on everything?”

  “You have, and you’ve been wonderful. I couldn’t have created all this without you, Aunt Dottie. And Aunt Charlotte as well.”

  * * *

  Leaving her office, after she and Dorothy had gone over several other urgent matters, Cecily walked across the hallway to talk to Greta.

  The door was slightly ajar. Cecily pushed it open, and said from the entrance, “Here I am, safe and well and all in one piece.”

  A wide smile settled on Greta’s face and she jumped up, came around the desk to greet her employer. “Welcome back!” she exclaimed.

  Cecily hugged her, and then said, “I know you’re aware I saw your father … and the whole family.”

  Greta nodded, her smile intact. “He told me everything. I was thrilled you met him like that and so accidentally. I was taken aback when he told me.”

  “Fate, I suspect,” Cecily responded. She sat down in a chair, and Greta returned to the one behind her desk.

  “Whatever it was, being with you certainly cheered him up. All of them, actually. My father had been longing to meet you, he’d heard so much about you from me. And unexpectedly, he got his wish.”

  Cecily grinned. “So he said. I thought Elise and Kurt were attractive, so pleasant and outgoing, and your stepmother was lovely. She seemed like a very nice woman.”

  There was a moment of silence, before Greta said slowly, “Yes, she is, although she has a rather nervous disposition. She’s so easily upset, rattled, if you know what I mean.”

  Cecily was not at all surprised by this comment. She had detected a jitteriness in Heddy, even a deep-rooted nervousness. Without mentioning this, Cecily went on, “We had such a nice lunch the next day, and Miles and I had hoped to see them again before we left, but your father was tied up with Sir Anthony Parry. What good friends they are.”

  Greta nodded, and leaning across the desk, she said in a low tone, “I know you haven’t been able to help them to leave; my father had assumed it would be impossible. But Sir Anthony hopes to do something, to pull some strings.” Greta forced a smile. “I’m very hopeful that he will.”

  “I think you should be … surprising things can happen,” Cecily said. “Anyway, I thought they looked in good health and your father was cheerful, optimistic, and naturally having his old pal in Berlin was a great boost, gave him pleasure.”

  “They’ve always been very close. For years. And thank you, Cecily, for being so kind to my family. I’m really appreciative. And now perhaps we should get down to work.”

  Cecily nodded. “I do have a few things I’d like you to follow up on.” She handed Greta a sheet of paper, and continued, “This is a list of the women who do hand sewing for us. Some of them work on the top floor here, others at home.”

  “Yes, the ones who make the haute couture clothes.”

  “As you know, haute couture has to be made by hand; otherwise, it can’t be called couture.”

  “That is the law in France, you told me that,” Greta murmured.

  “It is, and it’s a sort of unwritten law here, too. Couture must be hand-sewn. I’d like you and Dorothy to talk to the women upstairs, and Dorothy can also visit those who work at home. I would like to know if they are going to continue working for me? Or whether the younger ones are thinking about going to work in one of the munitions factories, out of patriotism?” Rising, Cecily walked toward the door, and paused, turned around. “I’m going to go over to the Burlington Arcade shop in about half an hour, Greta.”

  Greta nodded, half smiled. “I can run over there if you need me.”

  Cecily left, and Greta sat staring at the door vacantly, thinking about her father and her family. He had been so optimistic about Sir Anthony solving their problem, she had had to take a positive attitude with him. And yet she had become pensive and concerned late last night; the worry had returned this morning.

  If Cecily had been unable to help them through Diedre, who worked at the War Office, then what kind of chance did Sir Anthony have? He was an academic. She had begged her father to leave Germany several years ago, and he had not. Now they were stuck there.

  Greta pushed back tears, and put her head down on her desk. She said a prayer, and kept repeating it like a mantra for ten minutes. Most people did not believe in prayers, but she did. Prayers could work miracles.

  * * *

  “What a bea
utiful day it is, Charlotte,” the earl said, looking at his wife. “I hope the weather lasts for the weekend, when all the family is together again.”

  She smiled at him, squeezed his hand. “I’m as glad as you are that everyone is coming, it will be like old times.”

  “Except that Dulcie and James won’t be here,” he murmured, a hint of sadness in his voice. “What have we heard lately, darling?”

  “That Felix is now in Los Angeles. In fact, he and Constance are there together, and are staying at the house in Bel-Air with Dulcie and James. I think meetings are about to start with MGM about James being released from his contract. The minute he is, they will go to New York, spend a couple of nights there and then take a ship to England. Probably the Queen Elizabeth.”

  “It will be a relief to have them back now. I hate to think of them traveling in the middle of the war, which is inevitable. The Atlantic will be rife with German battleships, and dangerous.”

  He sounded suddenly nervous, and troubled, and Charlotte took hold of his hand. “It’s going to be all right, Charlie, I promise. And just think, we’ll be together to celebrate Christmas.”

  Charles Ingham, the Sixth Earl of Mowbray, couldn’t help laughing. “It’s still only August,” he spluttered, amused by her.

  “Well, at least I made you laugh,” she shot back and laughed herself.

  “And you make me happy, so very happy, Charlotte. And where is it you said you’re going this morning?”

  “I have to go to Harrogate, to see a woman called Margaret Howell Johnson. She’s the president of the WI there, as I am here. Alice wants me to go over to see her because apparently the Harrogate branch has a canning machine, and our WI would like to borrow it.”

  “You will be back in time for lunch, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. It’s only ten-thirty. Half an hour there, half hour back, and maybe fifteen minutes talking to her,” Charlotte assured him, then asked, “Do you need anything from Harrogate?”

  “No, only you to come back quickly,” he answered and winked at her. She laughed, got up from the sofa, and he asked, “Goff is driving you, I hope?”

  “Yes, he is. Please don’t worry so, Charles, I won’t be long, and anyway Alicia is coming in to talk to you in a while, so you’ll have some good company.”

  “You know I’ve lots of post to go through,” he muttered. He, too, rose, and followed her across the library, sat down at his desk.

  “I believe she wants to discuss her acting career…” He paused, his blue eyes warm and loving. “And Annabel confided she wants to be a concert pianist. It looks like we’re becoming a family of entertainers.”

  Charlotte blew him a kiss and left the library.

  * * *

  About forty minutes later Charlotte Swann, the Countess of Mowbray, was walking down the row of shops known as the Parade. Charlotte had always loved Harrogate, with its stately homes, elegant restaurants and hotels, and the Stray, that long piece of common green lawn in the town center which was covered with hundreds of daffodils in the spring.

  In the Victorian and Edwardian eras, Harrogate had been a true spa town, with visitors from all over the world coming to take the waters from the underground sulfur springs. In Edwardian times, most especially, it had been a favorite of royalty, the aristocracy, and stars of the theater, hence the elegance of the houses and hotels, and, of course, the beautiful baths where the waters were enjoyed.

  She finally came to a stop outside the jewelry shop owned by the Johnsons, and stood for a moment looking in one of the two windows on either side of the front door. They had some very beautiful pieces artfully displayed, and she could tell that the jewels were of the best quality. It was Harrogate’s finest jewelry shop and quite renowned.

  After staring in the other window, and admiring a lovely old cameo, Charlotte finally opened the door and went inside.

  It was a large shop, and there were several glass cases containing jewels, and, to the right, a small mahogany table with two matching chairs. One of the two young saleswomen came forward, a smile on her face. “Good morning, madam,” she said. “May I be of help to you?”

  “I telephoned earlier and made an appointment to see Mrs. Johnson, but I think I’m a little early.”

  “You must be Lady Mowbray from Cavendon … you are, aren’t you?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Please, my lady, be seated here, and I shall go and fetch Mrs. Johnson immediately. She’s waiting for you.”

  Several seconds later a tall, slender woman was walking toward her. She was elegantly dressed, and wore her blond hair swept back from her face and turned under in pageboy style. As she drew closer, Charlotte felt a sudden flash of recognition, thinking she had met her before, and she stood up, smiling.

  A split second later, Margaret Howell Johnson was offering her hand to Charlotte and saying, “Good morning, Lady Mowbray, I’m very happy to meet you. And most especially since we are both so involved with the Women’s Institute.”

  Charlotte was stunned.

  That flash of recognition was not because they had met before. It was because this woman, whose hand she was still holding, was the spitting image of a slightly older Diedre, and she had those peculiar smoke-gray lavender eyes she knew so well. They were her own eyes. Swann eyes. Oh my God, she thought. Oh my God.

  Slipping her hand out of Mrs. Johnson’s grip, Charlotte steadied herself against the back of a wing chair, and swallowed. She said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Johnson. I suddenly feel a little faint. Could I sit down for a moment, please?”

  “Of course, Lady Mowbray, come with me.” Holding her by the elbow, Mrs. Johnson led her to a far corner of the shop, and helped her to sit down in a comfortable chair. Leaning toward Charlotte, she asked, “Can I get you a glass of water? Or perhaps smelling salts?”

  “I would appreciate both, please,” Charlotte answered, amazed that her voice was so steady.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” Mrs. Johnson said. As she walked away, Charlotte’s eyes remained glued to her.

  Twenty-four

  Charlotte had always exercised great control over herself, and she could keep her face neutral, showing no emotion whatsoever. A long time ago, the Fifth Earl of Mowbray, David Ingham, had told her never to display weakness, never show face, and she had listened to him, and did as he said as usual. It was a stance she had adopted and never given up.

  Now she knew she must not show any unusual interest in Margaret Johnson, nor should she stare at her. A moment later Mrs. Johnson returned to Charlotte’s side, with a glass of water on a small tray and a bottle of smelling salts as well.

  At once, Charlotte took the latter, unscrewed the top, and sniffed. The smell of ammonia in the salts was so potent, she drew back, gasping, her eyes watering.

  “They’re very powerful, aren’t they?” Mrs. Johnson asserted. “I’ll take them from you, please, m’lady, and do take a sip or two of the water. It will help you.”

  Charlotte did as she was asked, and drank half the glass and placed it on the tray. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Johnson. I don’t know what came over me. I thought I was going to faint.”

  After handing the tray to one of the saleswomen, Mrs. Johnson said, “Why don’t we go into my office, m’lady? It’s quiet in there, and we won’t be disturbed if any customers come into the shop, which is likely.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Charlotte responded, stood up, and followed Mrs. Johnson across the floor.

  Once they were settled in two comfortable wing chairs in front of the fireplace, Charlotte said, “I came to see you to ask a favor, Mrs. Johnson. Two of my WI ladies heard you had a canning machine at the Harrogate WI, and we were wondering if you would possibly lend it to us. Apparently, we’ve run out of jam jars.”

  Mrs. Johnson was nodding her head, and smiling. “The machine does solve that problem, Lady Mowbray, but one of our ladies will have to show your members how to use it.” Quite unexpe
ctedly, she let out a loud guffaw, and laughed for a few seconds.

  Charlotte had stiffened. Margaret Howell Johnson had the same hearty laugh as Lady Gwendolyn. As Mrs. Johnson endeavored to stifle her merriment, Charlotte glanced at her surreptitiously and noticed that she had a broad brow and an aquiline nose, as did Diedre. Is it my imagination? Charlotte glanced away, afraid that this rather nice woman would notice her fixed scrutiny.

  Finally, Mrs. Johnson calmed herself, and said, by way of explanation, “I burst into laughter when I suddenly remembered that a can exploded last week, and we were all covered in strawberry jam. What a mess we were in. Obviously the machines do need careful handling. But of course we would be happy to lend ours to you, no problem at all.”

  They spoke for a while about how wonderful the Women’s Institutes were for countrywomen, and how useful they were going to be during the coming conflict. And they made an appointment for the canning machine to be picked up from the jewelry shop next week.

  * * *

  On the drive back to Cavendon Hall, Charlotte sat in the backseat, pondering this extraordinary resemblance Margaret Johnson had to Diedre. Her hair was not quite as golden as Diedre’s, but she was tall like Diedre, and had her finely chiseled nose and broad brow, very obvious because of the way her hair was swept back.

  Years before, Lady Gwendolyn had confided a secret to Charlotte, a secret no other soul knew.

  The problem was, Charlotte knew she had no one to talk to, no one to confide in, except for Lady Gwendolyn herself. But at this stage she didn’t like the idea of doing that. Why get an old lady worked up about a child she has thought about every day since she had given her away? And what if I’m mistaken? Charlotte thought. She couldn’t bear to think how disappointed Lady Gwen would be.

  I wish I could confide in Cecily, Charlotte thought as she went upstairs to her boudoir, to take off her coat and hat, and freshen up for lunch. But I dare not. No one can know about Lady Gwen’s love affair with Mark Swann. Cecily? Her name hovered in her mind. No. Not possible.