Cavendon Hall

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  * * *

  Daphne felt a gentle finger on her face, smoothing away the tears, and then a voice was saying her name. “Lady Daphne, Lady Daphne.”

  She opened her eyes and saw the gypsy girl kneeling next to her, looking concerned.

  “Genevra,” Daphne said, endeavoring to sit up.

  The girl offered her hand, and helped Daphne into a sitting position. She said, “Come on … let’s go, m’lady. Dark clouds. Mebbe rain.”

  With a bit of effort, Daphne managed to get to her feet, and immediately straightened her clothes, pulling her jacket around her torn blouse. Genevra handed Daphne her hat, which had fallen off in the struggle, and she put it on her head. Then she limped back to Cavendon, helped by Genevra all the way. When they came to the end of the woods, Genevra stopped, and gave Daphne a penetrating look. She said, “Yer fell down, my lady.”

  Daphne stared at her, puzzled. She frowned at the gypsy girl.

  Genevra said again, “Yer fell down, Lady Daphne. That’s wot ’appened ter yer.”

  Daphne nodded. “I fell down,” she repeated, and realized immediately that Genevra had witnessed the attack on her. She shriveled inside at the thought, a shocked look on her face.

  The Romany nodded, swung around, and pointed toward Cavendon on the hill. “Go, Lady Daphne, go on! There yer’ll be safe.” She smiled, raced off, heading for the long meadow.

  Daphne watched her go, feeling grateful to her. I didn’t even thank her for helping me home, she chastised herself, annoyed at her thoughtlessness. On the other hand, she was still reeling from what had occurred, her horrific violation, stunned that she had been attacked by one of her own kind, an aristocrat, no less, who had known her all of her life.

  Ten

  Genevra had been right. It began to rain. Daphne felt the first drops on her forehead as she arrived at Cavendon. Avoiding both the kitchen and the front doors, having no desire to run into anyone, she slipped into the house through the conservatory. Only she and her mother used this room, and her mother was in Harrogate today.

  Once she was inside the house, Daphne experienced an enormous sense of relief. She also wondered how she had managed to climb the hill. Walking had been difficult. It struck her that she would have never made it through the woods if not for the gypsy girl’s help. Genevra had supported her, held her upright all the way.

  Crossing the terra-cotta tiles of the conservatory floor, Daphne went up the back staircase. Halfway, she had to sit down on a step for a moment. Her back hurt, and she was sore and bruised. What she needed was a hot bath to ease her aching body. She must also calm herself, take control of her swimming and troubled senses, come to grips with what had happened. She was filled with fear, as well as horror-struck by what had been done to her with such force and cruelty.

  Taking a few deep breaths, she finally rose and continued up the narrow staircase. When she finally stepped out into the bedroom corridor, she found herself standing in front of DeLacy and Cecily. Both girls had their arms full of summer frocks, and Alice was immediately behind them.

  “Daphne!” DeLacy cried, when she saw her sister. “Whatever’s happened? You look as if you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards!”

  Cecily was also gaping at Daphne, looking startled, but she did not utter a word.

  Filled with dismay, her heart sinking, Daphne remained silent. She had been taken by surprise, and was flustered, rooted to the spot. Cringing inside, she shrank closer to the wall.

  It was Alice Swann who immediately took charge. She had noticed Daphne’s disheveled appearance at once, knew something was terribly amiss, and was alarmed by Daphne’s stricken expression.

  Turning to the girls, she said, “Please take the frocks upstairs to the sewing room.” She smiled at DeLacy. “And why don’t you try on a few of them, m’lady? You and Cecily can decide which ones you like the best. I will join you shortly.”

  They did as she suggested, knowing it was best not to say anything, and they did not linger a moment longer.

  Daphne had begun to edge toward her bedroom; Alice hurried over to her. Putting her hand underneath Daphne’s elbow, she gently guided her inside.

  After closing the door behind them, Alice stood there, not only wondering what had happened to Daphne, but seeking a diplomatic way to approach the matter.

  Although Daphne was trying to disguise the fact, Alice noticed that her blouse was torn and the jacket sleeve ripped at the shoulder.

  It was Daphne who spoke first. In a shaking voice, she whispered, “Something happened—” She was unable to continue. She turned around and collapsed on a chair, her entire body shaking.

  An exceedingly observant woman, Alice took in everything: Daphne’s dazed and troubled state, the bleakness in her blue eyes, the trembling mouth, the aura of fear surrounding her. It was obvious she was in shock, and Alice could not help anticipating the worst.

  Her eyes swept over the earl’s daughter. Her clothes were in a mess, not only torn, but there were grass stains and dirty marks on the skirt, mud on the jacket, and, as she peered closer, she thought she spotted blood on the skirt. Her chest tightened in apprehension.

  Walking across the floor, she said softly, “Something bad happened, didn’t it, Lady Daphne?” When Daphne did not answer, Alice said, “Am I correct, my lady?”

  Daphne could not speak. She attempted to hold herself still, but the shaking would not stop. She wanted to confide in Mrs. Alice, just for the relief of it, but she did not dare tell her the truth. Not after Richard Torbett’s terrifying threat to have Dulcie and her mother killed. The mere thought of this brought tears to Daphne’s eyes, and she started sobbing as if her heart would break.

  Alice ran to her, knelt down at her feet, and took hold of her hands. “Lady Daphne, I am here to help you. Don’t be afraid to cry. Let it all out. Tears help to release the tension.” She reached into her jacket pocket and gave Daphne a clean white handkerchief. Alice waited quietly, kneeling next to the young woman, wanting to give her support, and a measure of comfort, if that were possible.

  At one moment, Alice rose and went to the door, locked it to ensure their privacy. Then she returned to Daphne’s side. Slowly the sobbing abated. Daphne wiped her eyes again, and finally sat up straighter. She looked at Alice, explained, “I fell down, Mrs. Alice, and I—”

  “Don’t say anything else, my lady!” Alice interrupted. Drawing closer, she added, “I don’t need to know anything. Nothing at all.” In a lower tone, she murmured, “Tell no one. No one at all. Understand?”

  Daphne looked at her intently. “Yes.”

  Alice said, “Do not trust anyone in this house. Not ever.”

  On hearing these words, Daphne was puzzled, and also a little frightened.

  Observing her reaction, and wanting to allay any fears, Alice reached out, took her hand. “Only your parents. You can trust them. Naturally. And you can trust me. And Walter and Cecily. We are Swanns. We will always protect you.”

  Daphne nodded her understanding, a look of relief entering her eyes.

  “Our ancestors made a blood oath over one hundred and sixty years ago. It has never been broken. Please say the motto, Lady Daphne.” As she spoke, Alice stretched out her right arm and made a fist.

  Daphne placed her right hand on Alice’s fist, and said in French, “Loyaulté me lie.”

  Repeating the motto in English, Alice said, “Loyalty binds me,” and she put her left hand on top of Daphne’s, and the young woman did the same. “We are bound together into eternity,” they said in unison.

  After a few moments of silence, Alice broke their grip, and stood up. She said quietly, “I think you must get undressed, and then take a hot bath, m’lady. A good soak will bring ease to your body. Shall I help you?”

  “No, no, thank you, Mrs. Alice. I can manage,” Daphne said hurriedly.

  Understanding that she wanted privacy, Alice nodded. “Please give me your hat, Lady Daphne.”

  Daphne did so, and rose, l
imping toward the bathroom, her mind racing, filled with all manner of thoughts, not the least Alice’s comments about not trusting anyone except her parents and the Swanns.

  Alice explained, “I’m going to take those clothes home with me later. I will clean and mend them, and no one will be any the wiser.”

  Daphne paused, turned around, and stared at her. “But—”

  “No buts, my lady. We can’t have one of the maids finding them, now, can we?”

  Daphne simply nodded, realizing Mrs. Alice was right.

  Alice said, “I shall go up to the sewing room and satisfy the curiosity of DeLacy and Cecily, put their busy little minds at rest. By the way, where did you fall, Lady Daphne? In the woods?”

  “Yes,” Daphne replied, swallowing hard.

  “I shall lock the door behind me, m’lady. You don’t need anyone walking in on you unexpectedly. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  * * *

  “Is Daphne all right?” DeLacy asked as soon as Alice walked into the sewing room.

  “Oh yes, she’s perfectly fine,” Alice answered, smiling. She added, “You look lovely in that rose-colored chiffon, Lady DeLacy. I think this one will work beautifully for you, for the spring supper dance later this month. Don’t you agree, Cecily?”

  “I do, Mother, it is a wonderful color for DeLacy, and a change from blue.” Cecily began to laugh. “Everyone in this family wants to wear blue.” She glanced at DeLacy, and said, “I’m sorry, Lacy, but it is the truth.”

  “Oh, I know. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn says we’re all stick-in-the-muds, and unimaginative. She thinks we should all wear purple … the royal color. She even wonders aloud why we want clothes to match our eyes.”

  Alice also had to laugh. “She’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.”

  DeLacy swirled, the chiffon evening dress flaring out around her legs. She said, as she turned again, “I suppose Daphne must have fallen in the woods. I know she was going to see Julian at Havers Lodge … to tell him he could invite his fiancée to the big ball. She must have been hurrying back because of the thunderclouds, and then tripped.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Alice murmured, her mind instantly focused on the Torbetts. She knew the earl and the countess had never been too happy about Lady Daphne’s friendship with Julian, when they were younger. They were afraid the two of them might become too attached to each other. Fortunately, that hadn’t happened, because of Julian’s intentions to have a military career, and Daphne’s lack of interest in him romantically.

  They had only ever been platonic friends. This was also because Daphne’s head was filled with dreams of a duke’s son and a brilliant marriage, planted there at a very young age by her father, the earl.

  To Alice’s way of thinking, there was something odd about the Torbett family. They tended to put on airs and graces, and they weren’t as wealthy as they liked the world to believe. Hanson had always told Walter that they were pretentious, jumped-up nothings.

  On the other hand, Hanson was a bit of a snob and tended to dismiss anybody without a title. However, his damning statements seemed to stick, remained in the head.

  Going over to the rack of dresses, Alice looked at all of them with her beady eye; they were perfect for DeLacy, she decided. She took a honey-colored taffeta ball gown over to DeLacy. “I think this would be lovely—”

  There was a knock on the door, and when Alice called, “Come in,” it was Walter who poked his head into the room. “Sorry to disturb you, ladies, but his lordship would like DeLacy to go down for afternoon tea. Lady Gwendolyn has just walked over, and they are waiting in the drawing room.”

  Alice nodded, and exclaimed, “Tea, of course! You’d better hurry along, DeLacy.” And I’d better go and look in on Daphne, Alice thought, as she gave the honey-colored gown to Cecily, then hurried out to join her husband.

  In the corridor, Alice took hold of Walter’s arm. “Has the countess returned from Harrogate yet?”

  “No, she won’t be back for another hour or so.”

  “I’ll see you at home tonight,” Alice murmured, and went down the stairs to the main bedroom floor. Walter followed her, and squeezed her arm affectionately, before they went in different directions. DeLacy was already halfway down the main staircase, on her way to tea.

  Alice unlocked the door to Daphne’s bedroom, went inside, and quickly locked it behind her. Daphne was nowhere in sight. Alice noticed the small pile of clothes folded up on a chair. She went to examine them. The blouse was badly ripped; Alice thought she could mend it. As for the jacket, the back was smeared with green streaks from the grass, and splotches of mud. The skirt was in the worst condition, with dirty patches, and stains from grass and blood. She could clean them successfully. She had good products and special methods.

  Carefully, Alice folded them up again, and finally picked up the underskirt. There was blood on it, and some other damp patches. Alice bent her head and sniffed, and then turned away, grimacing. Her worst fears had been confirmed. A man had attacked Lady Daphne out in the woods, no two ways about it. That male smell clung to the underskirt. Carefully, she folded it and put it under the pile, shaking her head.

  Alice sat down heavily in the chair. She felt as if a lump of lead was lodged in her chest. Her mind floundered for a moment, and her heart went out to Daphne, so sweet, so lovely. Whoever had done such a thing to a seventeen-year-old innocent girl should be horsewhipped. She wondered then if any of the woodsmen or gardeners had seen anything; several Swanns worked on the outside at Cavendon. Walter would have to ask them if they noticed anything untoward this afternoon.

  A moment later the bathroom door opened and Lady Daphne came out in her robe. She smiled at Alice, but then the smile instantly faltered. “I hoped I hadn’t bruised my face, but there’s a mark, here, on the cheekbone,” Daphne murmured, touching her face. “How will I explain it to Mama and Papa, Mrs. Alice?”

  Alice hurried across the room, peered at her face. “It’s not so bad, Lady Daphne. I think it can be covered up with a few touches of powder and rouge. And you fell, remember, and if you fell forward then you would easily hit your face on a rock, a tree trunk, or roots. You’ll explain it that way. What about the rest of you, m’lady?”

  “Just bruises, nothing broken. Did you see DeLacy and Cecily?”

  “Yes, they were in the sewing room. I told them you’d tripped and fallen. DeLacy assumed it was in the woods, because she said you’d gone to Havers Lodge to see Julian Torbett this afternoon.”

  “That’s true. I went to tell him his fiancée could come to the big ball. Obviously DeLacy heard me telling Father after lunch that I was going there.”

  “By the way, DeLacy has gone down to tea to join your great-aunt and your father. Walter brought a message from his lordship. What about you? Do you want to join them, m’lady?”

  Daphne shook her head. “I think I should rest. I’m hoping I’ll be able to go down for dinner later, but for now…” Her voice trailed off.

  Alice nodded. “Yes, stay and have a rest. I’d get into bed if I were you, m’lady. If it’s all right with you, I will tell Walter to inform your father that you’re resting after trying on dresses most of the day. I’ll say you’re a bit tired.”

  Daphne inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Alice. I’d appreciate that. And thank you … for everything.”

  Eleven

  Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon stood in the center of the great entrance foyer at Cavendon Hall, glancing around, a beatific smile on her face. She had been in London for the past week, and this was her first visit since her return to Yorkshire two days ago.

  To her, Cavendon was the most sublime place. There was nowhere else like it, and only here did she experience a feeling of euphoria … a sense of genuine happiness and contentment. So many memories, so many emotions were wrapped up in this house … her entire life had been spent here.

  The smile lingered as her eyes rested on the oil paintings of her ancestors
which lined the wall above the grand curving staircase. Looking down at her were her parents. Her beautiful mother, Florence, wife of Marmaduke, the fourth earl, her father. Next to her father was a striking portrait of her brother, David, the handsomest of men. He had been the fifth earl, and next to him was a lovely oil painting of his wife, Constance, who had died far too young. She sighed to herself. Her husband, Paul Baildon, had died young; she had been a widow for a very long time.

  Turning away, Lady Gwendolyn walked across the hall in the direction of the small yellow sitting room, where afternoon tea had been served for years.

  Gwendolyn had been born in this house seventy-two years ago, and brought up here with David and their sister Evelyne. She knew every nook, cranny, corner, and secret hiding place. In fact, there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Cavendon and the Ingham family. Well, that was not exactly true. She was ignorant about any number of things, as was her nephew Charles.

  A small, amused smile struck her face fleetingly. Only the Swanns knew everything, and what they knew had been passed down from one generation to the next. There were notebooks filled with endless records, so she had been told once, and this information had come from the best source—a Swann, no less.

  Ah well, Gwendolyn mused, what would we have done without the Swanns? And they’re on our side, thank God, stand sentinel beside us. She would trust a Swann with her life if she had to.

  Her nephew was the only occupant of the yellow sitting room, and he jumped up, came toward her once he saw her appear in the doorway.

  After kissing her cheek, he said, “It’s lovely to see you back at Cavendon, Aunt Gwendolyn.”

  “Thank you, Charles, I feel the same.” She glanced around. “Am I the first?”

  “Yes, actually, you are. I’m afraid our ranks are a bit diminished today. Felicity is still in Harrogate, visiting Anne, and Diedre accompanied her. But DeLacy will be joining us.”