The Cavendon Luck

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  He had arrived at her apartment in Lennox Gardens ten minutes ago, and they now sat in the living room sipping white wine.

  As he sat listening to her explaining about her father’s broken shoulder, it suddenly hit him. Paloma had the same allure as her mother, and there was a calmness about her that was soothing. He had already noticed this when they had tea together at Burnside Manor. It’s everything that she is that works, he thought suddenly. The whole feminine package; her looks, her intelligence and charm.

  Realizing that she was waiting for him to respond to her last comment, he said swiftly, “I think your mother is right about newfangled ideas sometimes working. I’ve never heard of a soft cast, but seemingly it’s done the trick.”

  “It has. It’s virtually impossible to put a plaster of Paris cast around a shoulder. So the orthopedic surgeon used bandages, and then put my father’s arm in a sling.”

  Paloma grimaced. “What hurts most now is his arm, having it bent all the time. Anyway, he’s managing and he’s lucky my mother sprang to his aid.” A knowing smile slid onto her face. “She still loves him.”

  “So you said before.” Harry paused, then added, “I’m certainly looking forward to having lunch with them tomorrow. I liked your mother the moment I met her at your uncle’s house.”

  “She said to tell you she is going to make you the best Sunday lunch you’ve ever had. Leg of lamb, roasted potatoes, and even Yorkshire pudding … the whole enchilada.”

  Harry laughed. “That’s a funny expression. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “It’s one I picked up from my father, and he picked it up in Hollywood. An enchilada is a Mexican … sandwich … kind of, and he explained it means lots of good things all rolled into one…”

  The ringing telephone cut across her words, and she went to answer it. “Oh hello, Mumma.” She stood listening patiently to Adrianna, and this gave him a moment to study her.

  She was wearing a navy-blue chiffon dress with long sleeves and a pleated skirt that floated around her as she moved. Her jewelery was minimal, a long strand of pearls and dangling pearl earrings. She has the same kind of glamour as Cecily, he thought, and then it struck him that Paloma was wearing one of his sister’s dresses.

  After saying a few words into the phone, Paloma came back to join him. “Mumma wanted you to know there’ll only be us for lunch. And Phoebe. The other Bellamy children are spending the weekend with their Bellamy father, but Phoebe wouldn’t go. She preferred to see you, Harry. I think she’s got a crush on you.”

  He started to laugh, then stopped, exclaimed, “I smell burning.”

  “Oh! My pie!” Paloma jumped up and ran toward the kitchen, still crying, “My pie! My pie!”

  “Don’t open the oven door! Just turn it off,” Harry exclaimed, put down his drink and rushed after her.

  She followed his instructions, and stood staring at him, an expression of dismay on her face. “I made you a cottage pie but I think it’s burned to a crisp.”

  “More than likely, from the smell in here.” He opened the window, and said, “Keep the oven door closed; otherwise the kitchen will be filled with smoke.”

  Paloma nodded, and turning around she took hold of his hand and led him back to the sitting room. “I did so want to make a lovely dinner for you, Harry. What a shame the pie is ruined.”

  “No need to apologize. Tell you what, let’s go to the Savoy Hotel. We can have supper there. Do you like to dance?”

  “I love dancing. What a grand idea. Gosh, the Savoy and Carroll Gibbons and his orchestra! What a treat!”

  Harry smiled at her, enjoying her enthusiasm, and also the way she did not harp on about the burned pie, merely dismissed it. Picking up his glass, he had a sip of wine and said, “You look beautiful tonight, Paloma. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing one of my sister’s frocks.”

  “I am. Mumma bought it for me at the Cecily Swann Boutique in Harte’s department store. I love navy blue, and it’s not as funereal as black.”

  “That’s what Cecily always says. You’ll like her, Paloma.”

  “I want to meet her, Harry, and your mother and father, and everyone in your family. Will they like me, do you think?”

  “Of course they will. How could they not? You’re a very special person.”

  “Am I really?”

  She was looking at him in such an odd way, he frowned, put down his drink on the small table, went over to join her on the sofa. He stared at her intently and for the longest moment, finally said softly, “I came to London to see you, Paloma. Surely you realize I believe you’re very special, indeed.”

  She nodded, took hold of his hand and placed it against her face. “And you are, too, Harry. The most special man I’ve ever met. I’m flushed with excitement that you’re actually here.”

  He recognized the longing in her eyes, and he knew it was for him, and he felt the same about her. He leaned forward, taking her in his arms, and they kissed passionately. Instantly, he was aroused, but within seconds a warning signal went off in his head. Stop. Hold back. A small voice told him not to rush it, to go very slowly with her. Suddenly he understood he was playing for keeps.

  Releasing her, he touched her face gently. “And I’m excited about being here with you, Paloma. I want us to get to know each other properly as we start our friendship. You see, I want it to last for a long time.”

  * * *

  They took a taxi to the Savoy Hotel in the Strand, and Harry was warmly welcomed by the maître d’ in the restaurant overlooking the river Thames. Once they were seated at a table near the window, Harry ordered champagne.

  He could see that Paloma was pleased they had come here. She was looking around, taking everything in. Finally, she leaned closer and said to him, “I’ve only ever been in this room once before. With my father.”

  “It’s my sister’s favorite place, and she’s here often. If she’s in London next week, we’ll all come together. Would you like that?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  A moment later the champagne was served. As they sipped it, they began to talk, first about her siblings, and then he spoke about Cecily and Miles, and his life at Cavendon. They were enjoying being together in such a lovely room, and discovering things about each other.

  Carroll Gibbons, the American bandleader, and his Savoy Orpheans, as his orchestra was called, played popular music in the background. The lights were dim, candlelight flickered, couples danced together, and an atmosphere of pleasant relaxation prevailed.

  Eventually they looked at the menu, ordered a light supper, and then Harry took Paloma out onto the dance floor. She fitted easily into his arms, and since she was wearing high heels they were almost face-to-face. She held onto him, drawing closer as the waltz turned into a slow foxtrot. Harry loved having his arms around her, swaying to the music, breathing in the smell of her hair, the fragrance of roses that clung to her skin. He felt lighter in spirit, happier, freer than he had in months, and he was glad they had met. And all because of a little girl on a bicycle.

  * * *

  They were halfway through their main course of Dover sole, when Paloma suddenly said, “You are totally free, aren’t you, Harry? I mean, to start a relationship with me?”

  Taken aback though he was, he showed no reaction when he answered, “I am, yes. What made you ask me that?”

  “My sister Claudia told me about that lady in Harrogate.” She half laughed, and went on, “The two oldest are very protective of me. Claudia told me to ask you that question straightaway. And so I did. But I felt, deep down inside, that you wouldn’t be playing around with me … you’re not the type.”

  He bit back a smile, and said, “No, I’m not. And I am no longer seeing that lady in Harrogate. Actually, she’s left Harrogate for good.”

  And because he felt so at ease with Paloma, and relaxed in her company, he told her what had happened, and how the affair had finally ended.

  “Thank you,” she said when
he had finished his story. “You didn’t have to tell me, but I’m happy you did. And now you can ask me anything you want.”

  “Let’s begin the same way, shall we? Are you free to start a relationship with me?” he asked in a warm, loving voice, knowing the answer instinctively.

  “I am, Harry. I’ve not had many boyfriends, and my last relationship ended over a year ago. It was not very successful. We were poles apart.” There was a small pause, a hesitation before she continued. “I felt drawn to you the first moment we met. And I was at ease with you. I wanted to get to know you better, spend time with you, become close to you.”

  Harry reached out and took hold of her hand, kissed her fingers. “And I shared those same feelings. You’ve been on my mind every day since then.”

  “And you’ve been in my head, too,” Paloma confided. “It’s a funny thing. I want to do things for you, look after you.” She made a face. “That’s why I made the fateful pie.”

  The way she said this brought a gust of laughter, and he murmured, “You’ll get another chance to make me a cottage pie, I assure you of that. In the meantime, I’m enjoying myself just being here with you, Paloma. And you can tell Claudia I’m now taking over as your protector.”

  “Are you?” she asked in her straightforward manner, her eyes sparkling.

  “I am indeed.”

  * * *

  They had dessert and more champagne, and danced the night away. Finally, over coffee, Paloma asked him another unexpected question.

  “Who is Eric?”

  “Eric?” Harry repeated, frowning, and then realized she had heard him phoning the South Street house earlier tonight, asking Eric to make the reservation at the Savoy.

  “Eric runs Cecily’s South Street house, which is where I stay when I’m in London. He used to be the butler for Lord Mowbray, but the earl doesn’t have a home in London any longer. He’s a Swann like us, a cousin, actually.”

  “I see.”

  “Why did you ask?” Harry wondered aloud, looking at her keenly.

  “Just being nosy, Harry. I suppose I want to know everything about you.”

  “That will take a little while, I think.”

  “Will you stay at the South Street house when you come to London again? Or will you stay with me?”

  He did not answer. He stood up, drew her to her feet, and took her to the dance floor. Holding her tightly in his arms, he pressed her closer to him, and said against her hair, “No, not yet, my sweetest girl. I want everything to go slowly and go right. I’m playing for keeps, you see. I don’t like games of chance. Far too dangerous.”

  * * *

  Diedre went down the main staircase, and into the library at Cavendon. Picking up the phone she dialed the international operator and gave Toby Jung’s number.

  “Hey, Daffy Dilly, how’re you doing?” he said on hearing her voice.

  “I’m well. How’s the weather there?” Diedre asked.

  “Lousy. I’m glad I’m going to be trotting. Early next week. Change of climate. Are you with Robin Red Breast?”

  “I am indeed. He’s a happy little bird. What about you, Toby?”

  “I’m happy. Caviar was good. Source even better than ever.”

  “Excellent news. Earlier than you thought?”

  “Yep. I met our musical friend yesterday at the Adlon. We are of the same mind.”

  “Thank heavens,” Diedre said softly. “Keep in touch.”

  “You’ll hear from me when the clochards are in my sights.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Diedre answered. “And you do find the quaintest ways to tell me where you’ll be calling me from … now it’s the bank of the river Seine where the tramps meet for tea.”

  Tony chuckled. “Got to admit I’m colorful.”

  Diedre said, “The instructions from Will are to come in. You must kiss Berlin good-bye.”

  “Every intention, Daffy Dilly.”

  They said good-bye. Diedre rose, left her father’s library, and went upstairs as the clock in the grand entrance hall struck seven. It was far too early for breakfast, she decided. As she went back into her bedroom she experienced an enormous sense of relief. The Steinbrenners would be leaving Berlin, more than likely on Tuesday now, escorted by Tony Jenkins and Alexander Dubé.

  Fingers crossed, she said to herself, as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her. Fingers crossed.

  Thirty-two

  Cecily was well aware that a war would have an enormous effect on her business. And, since she was positive war was coming in the immediate future, she was making her plans accordingly.

  Now, on this cool Monday morning toward the end of August, she and Dorothy Pinkerton were walking down the main floor of a factory in Leeds. Aunt Dottie had spent the weekend with Cecily’s parents in Little Skell; earlier today Goff had driven them over to the city.

  This particular building was close to the center of Leeds and, in fact, overlooked the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. The main floor was unusually light with many tall windows, and of the five factories she had recently decided to purchase, it was in the best condition.

  “This was a really good choice, Ceci,” Aunt Dottie said, after they had walked the length of the room. “Lovely, clear light throughout, spacious and airy. A good place for the women to work.”

  Turning around to face Cecily, Dorothy continued, “I know you’re going to be using three of the other factories for the servicemen’s uniforms, when you get the government contract, but what about the fifth one? What have you planned for that?”

  “Nothing yet, Dottie,” Cecily answered, leaning against one of the long workbenches. “It’s a good thing to have handy for an emergency, and if I don’t have any use for it, I can always sell it. Or rent it out. It’s a good investment in the long run. And, anyway, it belongs to the company that owns this one, and I have to buy both factories. That is mandatory.”

  “I think you could have this one up and running within a few months, don’t you?” Dorothy asserted.

  Cecily nodded. “All of the wood floors are strong, and the walls are in good condition. They need painting, but that’s all. The windows are also in good shape, and new electrical wiring was put in recently. So, in a sense, we’re all set to go. Well, almost.” She gave Dottie a questioning look. “You do agree with me about the importance of ready-made clothes for women, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. Haute couture is going to suffer when war comes, that’s a given. And to stay in business, you must have product. Let’s face it, you’re certainly in the right city. The ready-made clothing industry was started here.”

  “Yes, I know. John Barran opened the first ready-made clothing factory after Singer invented the sewing machine, and then a Jewish tailor who had a small tailoring shop came up with the idea of ‘piecework.’ Herman Friend invented it, actually. Small tailoring shops like his, mostly in North Street, would make ‘pieces’ of a suit. In other words, one tailoring shop would create lapels and sleeves, another, the back of a jacket, yet another, the two front pieces. And all the pieces were sent to Barran’s factory where the suit was put together. And off they went to the stores. It was brilliant.”

  “I remember reading about that years ago. It revolutionized the business and has made Leeds the greatest center of ready-made clothing in the world. But you’re not going to use that method, are you, Cecily?”

  “No, I’m not. The entire garment will be made here.” Walking into the middle of the floor, she spread out her arms. “From the entrance door over there, right down to the exit door down there, we’ll have long workbenches like that one where you’re standing, and comfortable chairs at the sewing machines. I want working conditions to be the best. Up-to-date, very modern.”

  Dorothy nodded her understanding. “When are you going to start hiring people?”

  “Once the factory is ready, I’ll have the management team begin to hire women, and men, if they’re available. You see, Dottie, I’m not going to wait for
the war to start, which it will within the next eight or nine months or so. I’m going to start making the clothes as soon as we can. I want to have them on the market, get my customers used to them. My intention is to copy much of the couture line. It will be very fashionable.”

  Dorothy grinned. “Bravo, Cecily. That’s the right attitude, and what will you call the ready-made clothes?”

  “I haven’t come up with a name yet, but I’m sure I will. For the moment I’m calling it Cecily Swann Ready. But hopefully I’ll come up with something better. Please put your thinking cap on.”

  “I certainly will.” Dorothy glanced at her watch. “We’d better go. I don’t want to miss my train back to London.”

  “I’ll drop you off at the railway station. And thanks for coming up this weekend.”

  “I’ve loved it, Ceci, and I’m really excited about the new project. I’m positive you’ll have another winner.”

  * * *

  On the drive to Cavendon, Cecily turned her thoughts to Charlotte and her predicament about Margaret Howell Johnson. Cecily had carefully hidden her reaction to the news that Lady Gwendolyn had given birth to a child, and that the father was Mark Swann. But she had been startled, even shocked, there was no doubt about that, and also terribly saddened that Great-Aunt Gwen had had to live with that kind of heartache for years.

  She also now understood what Genevra had meant when she had talked about Ingham and Swann blood mingled again, with the emphasis on the word “again.” Genevra always got it right.

  Cecily had agreed that they ought to go and see Mrs. Johnson as soon as possible, mainly because of Lady Gwen’s great age. As Charlotte had pointed out, despite Lady Gwen’s desire to live to be a hundred, she might easily expire at any moment. They both wanted her to meet her daughter before she died. Cecily had suggested that Charlotte should ask Mrs. Johnson to see them this afternoon, and she hoped that the appointment had been made in her absence.