* * *
Peggy was the first maid in the kitchen the following morning. She was so happy she felt like singing. But she couldn’t do that. She had a smile firmly in place as she said good morning to Cook.
“Yer looking bright and cheerful, lass,” Nell Jackson said, returning her smile. “He’s a nice lad, that there Gordon Lane. Sincere, for one thing, and kindhearted. Which is more than I can say about Malcolm Smith. He fancies himself, that one does. Vain as a peacock.”
“That’s true, Cook,” Peggy agreed. Walking over to join her near the stove, she whispered, “It’s a secret, but we’re serious about each other.”
“That’s nice for yer, Peggy. Couldn’t wish for a finer young man for yer, lass.” Still smiling, the cook turned back to her stove and picked up a wooden spoon.
A moment later, Mrs. Thwaites appeared. “Good morning, Cook, morning, Swift. Since you’re down first today, I think you had better pop upstairs and light the fire in the library for the earl. As soon as Ince arrives I’ll send her up to help you set the breakfast table. Come on, lass, hurry yourself along. We don’t have all the day.”
Peggy did as she was told, and seconds later she was kneeling in front of the fireplace in the library, sweeping up yesterday’s ashes into a dustpan.
After laying the grate with kindling, extra chips of wood, and the round newspaper circles made by the footmen, she struck a match and brought it to the paper. She soon had a roaring fire in the grate, and added several small logs, then stood up.
Peggy realized that her hands were dirty, and she ran downstairs to wash them.
Mary Ince and Elsie Roland, the two other maids, were standing near the china cupboard in the corridor, whispering together. They stopped speaking abruptly when they saw her.
“Good morning,” Peggy said, smiling at them.
They mumbled good morning in return, but both looked sullen, even unfriendly. Peggy couldn’t help thinking they’d been talking about her and Gordon. They often made funny remarks these days.
There was a rush of footsteps, and Malcolm Smith came flying down the stairs, exclaiming, “Mr. Hanson wants another silver chafing dish. Hurry up, one of you, find one. Quick.”
Peggy was close to the small silver cupboard, and she opened the door, reached inside. Suddenly she felt Malcolm standing right behind her, breathing down her neck. “Got you in the family way yet? I bet he has, you little trollop.” Before she could respond he squeezed her bottom, and stepped away from her quickly, as the back door opened and Gordon walked in.
In a flash, Peggy turned around and said in an icy tone, “Don’t ever do that to me again, Malcolm Smith. If you do, I’ll report you to Mr. Hanson for being overly familiar.”
Malcolm burst out laughing. “Every man around here’s familiar with you, Peggy Swift, to open her legs.”
There was a gasp, a sudden disturbance, a rush of air as Gordon flung himself across the kitchen and into the corridor in a giant leap. He fell on Malcolm and began to pummel him on the chest.
The head footman fought Gordon as best he could, but he was not as strong as his junior. When he threw a punch at Gordon, he missed, then slipped and fell down on his back, his arms flailing. Gordon was about to jump on him, when Peggy grabbed one arm and Cook the other. Together they pulled Gordon away from the fray.
A moment later, an irate Hanson was standing staring at them. “What’s all this about? Fighting like common street lads! And you both footmen in the employment of one of the premier earls of England. The Earl of Mowbray would be appalled. This is the most reprehensible behavior I’ve ever seen. You should know better. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” He looked down at Malcolm, and added in a scathing tone, “Get up at once! And straighten your livery, Smith. As for you, Lane, explain yourself.”
Before Gordon could respond, Cook interrupted in a strong, determined voice, “I was witness to this scene, Mr. Hanson, and it was Malcolm’s fault. He provoked Gordon no end. Take my word for it.”
“How?” Hanson demanded coldly, eyeing Cook. “I need more details.”
“He insulted Peggy, who will one day be Gordon’s wife. And Gordon was defending her good name.”
Hanson frowned and glanced across at Gordon. “What did he say that created this ghastly uproar? Come along, speak up, Lane. Let’s have it.”
Gordon remained silent, still angry with the other footman, and now growing nervous under Hanson’s stern scrutiny. He shook his head. “I’d rather not repeat it, Mr. Hanson.”
“Please take my word for it,” Nell Jackson interjected. “I heard every word. Oh my goodness!” She began to smile at a small, neatly dressed woman with bright red hair under a green hat, who had just entered the kitchen from outside, and was carrying a suitcase.
Nell rushed over to her, exclaiming, “Miss Wilson! What a lovely surprise. Welcome back. Aren’t yer a sight for sore eyes. I thought yer wasn’t coming back to us ’til next week.”
“I managed to get everything straightened out sooner than I expected,” Olive Wilson responded. Smiling warmly, she took hold of Cook’s outstretched hand and shook it, then squeezed it affectionately. They were old friends, good friends; both had worked at Cavendon for years.
With a glare at the two footmen, Hanson went over to greet Olive Wilson himself. She was lady’s maid to the countess, and he was well aware how much she had been missed. “Welcome back. I trust all is well, Miss Wilson?” the butler said, shaking her hand.
“It was, Mr. Hanson, until I walked into Bedlam here.”
Hanson grimaced. “Bedlam indeed … or any other madhouse. Excuse me for a moment.” He swung around, looked at the footmen. “I’ll deal with the two of you later,” he announced. “Now get a move on, both of you.” He stared at the kitchen clock. “Get upstairs at once, and set the table for breakfast, prepare the sideboard. Ince, Roland, you’d better go with them and help to get the dining room up to snuff.”
The two footmen and the maids rushed out, and Hanson looked across at Peggy and said, “You’d better stay down here. I think that’s more appropriate today. You can help Polly—” He looked around for the girl, saw her cowering in a corner, and went on, “You and she can get the food into the chafing dishes as soon as it’s ready, help Cook in general.”
“Yes, Mr. Hanson. And thank you very much, sir.”
He nodded. “Stay out of Smith’s way.”
“I will, sir. It was his fault, you know.”
Hanson sighed heavily. “Speak to you later, Miss Wilson.” He walked out of the kitchen; he was angry and humiliated that the countess’s personal maid had seen this ridiculous display.
Olive Wilson came into the middle of the kitchen and looked at Peggy. She smiled. “Were they fighting over you?” she asked. There was a hint of laughter in her voice, and her green eyes were full of merriment.
“No. Gordon’s my boyfriend, you see, and Malcolm made a nasty crack. Gordon took offense. So did I, to be honest.”
“Typical. He’s a lout and a bottom-pincher, that one. Watch out for him. I’m Lady Mowbray’s lady’s maid, by the way.”
“I realize that. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Only nice things, I hope?”
“That’s right, they only said nice things, sang your praises.”
Nell Jackson, always a bit nosy, said, “So yer got it all sorted, and here yer are.” Suddenly puzzled, she remarked, “It’s very early. How did yer get here from the railway station in Harrogate?”
Olive Wilson began to laugh, explained, “I arrived from London last night, and her ladyship had arranged ahead of time for Mrs. Sedgewick’s chauffeur to meet me at Harrogate station. He drove me over here, and I spent the night at Miss Charlotte’s. We knew it would be after ten when I got to the hall, and that was prearranged too. I didn’t want to disturb the whole household.”
“Well, I’m glad yer back, Miss Wilson. It’s seemed much longer than two months, though. More like two years.”
�
��I know what you mean, Mrs. Jackson. I’ve missed all of you, too.”
Twenty-three
He had been sixteen when he left, a slightly callow Eton schoolboy preparing to go to Oxford, and looking forward to it. He had returned to Yorkshire for the first time in sixteen years, a man in his prime at the age of thirty-two. Hugo Ingham Stanton was good-looking, ambitious, highly motivated in whatever he did, and extremely successful.
He was a real estate tycoon of no small measure, a go-getter, a dealmaker, and a supremely talented businessman. Fast moving and decisive, he was blessed with a charming manner as well. People easily fell under his spell, men as well as women, and children were instantly captivated by his marvelous ability to treat them as equals.
Now as the Rolls-Royce moved smoothly along through the center of Harrogate, Hugo sat looking out of the window. He couldn’t help noticing that the town had changed. He was seeing new buildings and far more hotels. Harrogate had been a spa town for centuries, after the discovery in 1571 of underground wells filled with healing water. And apparently it was currently booming. From what he had read in The Times the other day, the first week of July had been spectacular with concerts, events, all kinds of other entertainments, and a flock of royal guests visiting to sample the water and take the baths. It seemed that Harrogate was at its best this summer, and very social.
It pleased Hugo that Charles had sent his Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur, Gregg, to pick him up at the railway station. The gesture was an indication that a warm welcome awaited him, although he had never really doubted that.
Charles Ingham had always been a first-class guy. Hugo smiled to himself, wondering if the family would find him too Americanized. He didn’t believe he was, but others might think so.
He settled back against the leather seat, at ease with himself, and looking forward to visiting Charles, Felicity, and the rest of the family.
Hugo had no qualms about returning to Cavendon, where he had grown up. He had not done anything wrong when he was abruptly sent away by his mother because she needed someone to blame for the loss of her favorite son. She hadn’t been able to accept that his sibling was his own worst enemy, a daredevil, and spoilt.
Lady Evelyne Ingham Stanton, sister of the fifth earl, and his mother, had behaved unfairly and irrationally. Everyone thought that. His father had backed him up, and together they had decided it would be better for Hugo if he went to New York, to work with his father’s good friend Benjamin Silver. “If you stay, she’ll only punish you in some way or other, and pick on you constantly,” his father had said. Hugo had agreed, and plans were made for his trip to New York City.
To Hugo’s relief his father had never cut off contact. He wrote every week, and visited him in New York every year until his death eight years ago. They had remained close, the best of friends.
His parents had lived separate lives long before his brother’s terrible accident, but they had never divorced. Sixteen years ago his mother’s treatment of him had so enraged his father, it had driven yet another wedge between them. They were very different people, and had lived in their own worlds. His mother had been wrapped up in Cavendon, where she had been born, and had become something of a recluse, her music and garden her only real interests.
His father had lived in the world of racehorses and horseracing, and the highly successful stud he owned in Middleham, not far from Ripon. The Stanton yard at Endersby House had been run for years by Major Gaunt, a breeder and trainer employed by his father. Since his father’s death the yard had belonged to him, but it continued to be under the control of Major Gaunt, which suited Hugo.
He loved horses, but not quite as much as his father had, and he did not want to be involved with the yard on a daily or even weekly basis. He left it to Gaunt. Hugo planned to go over to see him during this visit. He wished to congratulate him on his continuing success, and reassure him about the future. Hugo had no plans to close the yard. It was a moneymaker.
Endersby House was one of several properties Hugo owned in Yorkshire, but he would never sell the house and the stud as long as the major was alive. It was his home, meant everything to him, and it was there that he had bred so many racehorses for them. Then there was Little Skell Manor, which his mother had left to him, as well as his father’s house in East Witton.
Oh, I’ll deal with all that later, Hugo decided, pushing these thoughts to one side. As he settled back against the soft leather of the Rolls, Hugo thought of the last time he had driven through these great iron gates looming ahead. The gates of Cavendon Hall, which opened onto the long tree-lined drive.
He had been with his father, and they had been on their way to Liverpool. It was from there he would set sail for New York.
As it turned out, Manhattan had been the perfect place for him. Benjamin Silver had taken to him at once, and it was not long before he had begun to treat him like the son he’d never had. And what a training Hugo had been given in the real estate business, and in banking, and wheeling-and-dealing on Wall Street. Hugo had been an avid pupil; Benjamin an inspired teacher. They became close, and inseparable.
And then one day he had become Benjamin’s son-in-law, after marrying Loretta Silver, Benjamin’s only child. It was through his own intelligence and talent that Hugo had become a millionaire many times over. Then Loretta had made him even richer, after her untimely death. He had inherited her entire estate, which Benjamin had bequeathed to her.
Benjamin and his daughter had been his best friends, and he had loved them both dearly, and he knew how much he owed to them. And it was because of his loss, his loneliness, he had decided he needed to come back to Yorkshire, where he had grown up, and had family ties. He had been filled with optimism when Charles had been so warm and welcoming, first by letter and then on the telephone.
He had ended his youth here. In New York he had found himself, and started afresh, to become the man he was today. And now perhaps he would find a new beginning here, where he had once belonged, and where he wanted to belong again.
Twenty-four
A sense of excitement gripped Hugo as the Rolls-Royce finally pulled up at the huge, double-fronted door of Cavendon Hall. As he alighted from the motorcar, and stood looking up at one of the greatest stately homes in England, countless memories flooded him and, momentarily, he was carried back into the past.
A split second later the front door opened and Charles and Felicity appeared in the doorway. Together they came hurrying down the few steps to meet him, followed by Hanson, who in turn was accompanied by two footmen to carry the luggage.
Charles embraced him, shook his hand, and exclaimed, “Welcome, Hugo, welcome home!”
“It’s wonderful to be here, Charles,” Hugo answered, and turned around to embrace Felicity, who, it seemed to him, had not changed one iota. She was still the beautiful strawberry blonde he remembered from his teen years, warm, friendly, and as elegantly dressed as always. As they drew apart, Hugo said, “You haven’t changed, haven’t aged, Felicity. You’re as lovely as ever, and not a line, not a wrinkle. I don’t know how you do it.”
She laughed. “It’s the Yorkshire climate, Hugo, darling. But I must admit, you have changed. You were a schoolboy when you left here, and look at you now. A grown man, and a successful man of the world, I sense.”
He nodded, and winked at her, then turned to greet Hanson, who had a huge smile on his face. “How good it is to see you, Hanson,” he said, shaking Hanson’s hand.
“And you too, Mr. Hugo.” Leaning closer, the butler said in a lower tone, “You’ve been missed by many. Your father usually filled me in when he got back from New York. You see, he knew I wanted to know how you were. All of the staff did.”
“He told me, Hanson,” Hugo responded, and nodded, as Felicity and Charles led him up the steps and into Cavendon.
In the front hall Hugo glanced around, his throat tightening with emotion. It was as he had remembered it over the years, but somehow it was just better in reality, more golden
and embellished, if that were possible.
The hall had a gleam to it, and its beauty gave him great satisfaction … the grand staircase flowing down, with his ancestors’ portraits on the walls, the crystal chandeliers, the mellow antiques, and the urns filled with flowers. He had yearned to be back here over the years, and now here he was, welcomed as family, and with enormous affection. He was filled with relief, and glad he had finally had the courage to take this step, to come back to his roots.
“Would you like anything?” Charles asked. “A refreshment? Are you hungry, do you want something to eat? Or do you prefer to wait for tea?”
“Oh yes, I’ll wait. There’s nothing like afternoon tea at Cavendon, not anywhere in the world.”
“Let me take you up to your room, Hugo,” Felicity murmured, slipping her arm through his. “The Blue Room. I know you always liked it.”
“It’s my favorite.”
Charles said, “Come down whenever you like, Hugo. I’ll be in the library. There’re a couple of things I would like to discuss with you, before you get surrounded by women at teatime.” Charles chuckled.
“I’d enjoy that. See you shortly, Charles.”
The moment Hugo stepped into the Blue Room his face broke out in smiles. It was exactly the same as it was the day he left for America. White walls, blue-and-white fabrics, and everything so fresh and appealing to him. And, of course, the big bowls of flowers everywhere, including his favorite pink peonies. Felicity’s trademark. He looked at her. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be back at Cavendon.”
“And we’re happy too, Hugo.” She smiled at him and walked to the door, added, “Hanson has assigned Gordon Lane to be your valet. He is most suitable, you’ll find.”
“Thank you, Felicity.”
She simply nodded, and slipped out, leaving him alone, as usual aware of other people’s need to have their privacy for a while.
Cavendon Hall Page 14
