‘Kiki says her doctor is sure that she should be well enough to travel in a week’s time, which means she can meet you in England to board the flight to Kenya. You can still continue with your visit to Audrey and her family, Cecily. Audrey has made plans especially for your visit.’
So Cecily had set off from New York alone, and having been trepidatious at the thought, had actually enjoyed her days aboard ship. More than anything, it had built her confidence as she had been forced to make conversation with strangers over dinner and accept invitations to play cards (at which she was rather good) afterwards. There had also been at least three young men who had been keen to win her favour; it was almost as if, away from Manhattan where nobody knew who she was, she could finally be herself.
There was a knock on her cabin door and Mr Jones peered round it.
‘Your documents have been checked and the car’s pulled up alongside,’ he said, handing her back her passport, ‘and your trunk is loaded, Miss Cecily. Are you ready to go?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Jones.’
A biting cold wind hit her as she walked down the gangplank, the heavy fog blurring everything around her. The chauffeur helped her into the waiting Bentley and started the engine.
‘Are you comfortable, miss?’ he enquired as she settled herself into the plump leather seat. ‘There are extra blankets if you need them.’
‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you. How long is the drive?’
‘Depends on the fog, miss, but I’d say we’ll be at Woodhead Hall in two or three hours. There’s a flask of hot tea if you’re parched.’
‘Thank you,’ Cecily said again, wondering what on earth ‘parched’ meant.
In reality, the drive took well over three hours and she dozed on and off, unable to see anything of the English landscape through the fog. When she’d been to England before, Audrey had received Cecily and her parents at her grand London house in Eaton Square and then they had moved on to Paris. She only hoped the weather would clear a little so she could see something of the famed British countryside. Dorothea had visited her friend at her vast country estate in somewhere called West Sussex and pronounced it quite beautiful. But when the chauffeur pulled through a pair of large gates and announced that they’d arrived, it was almost dark and Cecily could only see the outline of an enormous gothic mansion sitting eerily against the dimming light behind it. As she approached the imposing porticoed front door, Cecily sighed in disappointment at the workman-like red brick facade. It wasn’t like any house she’d read about in Jane Austen’s books – they had all been mellow stone, whereas this looked like something out of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories.
The door was opened by a stately man that she almost took to be Audrey’s husband, Lord Woodhead, but who in fact announced himself to be the butler. Cecily walked into the vast hall, its centrepiece an impressive but rather ugly mahogany staircase.
‘Darling Cecily!’ Audrey – who was attractive and vivacious, just as Cecily remembered her – came to greet her. She kissed Cecily on both cheeks. ‘How was the voyage? I do so hate travelling across the ocean, don’t you? All those enormous waves – it can quite upset the digestion. Come, I will show you to your room, you must be completely exhausted. I’ve had the maid light the fire for you – dear Edgar can be quite frugal with the heating.’
Once installed in her room, Cecily sat warming her hands by the fire, surveying the stately four-poster bed. The room was utterly freezing, and she was glad her mother had forewarned her about the temperature in English country houses, making sure that she packed long johns and undershirts to keep her warm.
Even though Audrey had insisted that Cecily must be tired after the journey, she was feeling wide awake. Once the maid had unpacked her ‘England’ clothes and taken her gown off to be steamed for dinner that night, Cecily grabbed a woollen cardigan then opened the bedroom door and peered out along the corridor. She turned left and walked along it and by the time she came to the end of it, she had counted twelve doors. Walking back past her own bedroom, she then proceeded right along to the other end.
‘Twenty-four doors,’ she sighed, wondering how the maids remembered who was in which room, as there were no numbers on the outside of them like there were in hotels. Returning to her bedroom, she found the maid re-stoking her fire.
‘I’ve hung your dress in the wardrobe, miss, ready for tonight.’
‘Wardrobe?’
‘Yes, that,’ said the maid, pointing to the closet. ‘I’ve also drawn you a bath next door, miss, but it’s a bit nippy in there, so I’d dip in quick before the water freezes over, then get back in here to warm up by the fire.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Will you be wanting any help with your hair, miss? I do ’er ladyship’s most nights. I’m a dab hand, I am.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I can manage myself. And you are . . .?’
‘Me name’s Doris, miss. I’ll be back in a jiffy, once you’ve had your bath.’
Cecily felt nonplussed as she undressed and slipped on her robe to go next door to the bathroom. Doris seemed to be speaking a foreign language, but she certainly wasn’t wrong about the temperature of either the bathroom or the water. She was in and out of it as fast as she could and was just walking back to her bedroom when she saw a young man of about her age making his way down the corridor towards her.
Given her current frame of mind over Jack, Cecily was not in the mood for romanticising any male, but as he looked up and smiled at her, her heart rate increased. Beneath the floppy bangs of shiny black hair (worn far too long for a gentleman) a pair of large brown eyes, framed by girlishly thick lashes, appraised her.
‘Hello,’ he said as he reached her. ‘May I enquire to whom I am speaking?’
‘I’m Cecily Huntley-Morgan.’
‘Are you now? And what exactly are you doing here?’
‘Oh, my mother and Lady Woodhead are old friends and I’m staying here for a few days before I travel on to Kenya.’ Cecily put a hand to her décolletage, feeling exposed in the flimsy robe she had put on after her bath.
‘Africa, is it?’ the man said with a smile. ‘Well, well. I’m Julius Woodhead.’ He offered her a hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Likewise.’ Cecily took the proffered hand and felt an odd sensation, not unlike an electric shock, judder up her arm.
‘See you at dinner,’ he called as he sauntered past her. ‘It’s apparently pheasant yet again, just be careful of the shot.’
‘I . . . okay, I will be,’ she replied, not having a clue what he meant.
Julius disappeared into a bedroom just along the corridor. With a trembling hand, she opened the door to her own room, then shut it behind her and went to sit beside the fire.
‘Julius Woodhead . . .’ she whispered. ‘Surely, he can’t be one of Audrey’s children?’ For starters, she wasn’t aware Audrey had any. For seconds, he had been wearing an old woollen sweater with holes the size of her father’s signet ring.
‘Oh my,’ she said, fanning herself, suddenly feeling flushed. She stood up to head over to her lingerie drawer, and decided she would ask Doris to style her hair for dinner after all.
‘Welcome, my dear,’ said Audrey as Cecily entered the vast drawing room, which made the one in her parents’ home look like a doll’s house version. ‘Come, stand by the fire.’ Audrey drew her towards it, taking a cocktail from a tray held by a stationary manservant and handing it to her. ‘Glad to see you’re in velvet – far warmer than satin or silk. We’re having central heating put in next month – I told Edgar I simply refused to spend another winter in this house unless he did.’
‘I’m just fine, Audrey. And it’s awful nice of you to host me here.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Audrey waved an arm vaguely around the room at the guests. ‘Sadly, the beginning of February is not the height of the social season here. Most people are away in warmer climes or skiing in St Moritz. And dear Edgar is up in L
ondon all week so you won’t meet him, but I did what I could. Now, let me introduce you to some of my friends and neighbours.’
Cecily did the rounds with Audrey, nodding and smiling at the assembled company. Disappointingly, only the vicar’s son – Tristan Somebody-or-other – was of a similar age to her. He told her he was on a brief visit to see his parents who lived in the local village, while training at somewhere called Sandhurst as an officer for the British army.
‘Do you think there will be a war?’ Cecily asked him.
‘I bally well hope so, Miss Huntley-Morgan. It’s pointless training for something that never happens.’
‘You actually want there to be a war?’
‘I doubt there’s a person in England who doesn’t think that Herr Hitler needs a jolly good kicking. And I for one am eager to help.’
Feeling faintly queasy, whether due to the two cocktails she’d drunk or the long day of travel, Cecily eventually managed to extricate herself from Tristan and walked back towards the fire.
‘Good evening, Miss Huntley-Morgan. Glad to see you’ve put your clothes on for dinner.’
Cecily swung round to see Julius – looking utterly divine in black tie – grinning at her in undisguised amusement.
‘Why, I’d just come from the bathroom!’
‘Really? I thought that perhaps you were sneaking along the corridor from your lover’s room.’
‘I . . .’ Cecily felt a blush rising up her neck into her face.
‘Only teasing,’ Julius smiled. ‘I must say, you look spiffing in that dress. It matches your eyes.’
‘But my dress is purple!’
‘Oh yes, well,’ Julius shrugged, ‘isn’t that the kind of thing gentlemen say to ladies all the time?’
‘When appropriate, yes.’
‘Well, that’s me all over; inappropriate should be my middle name. Forgive me. I hear that good old Aunt Audrey has laid on this little bash all for you. You’re the guest of honour apparently.’
‘That’s very kind of her. She didn’t have to.’
‘As you’re American, I presume you’ll be casting your eye around the room for an eligible member of the British aristocracy. Granted there are a few here, but all over the age of fifty. Except for me, of course,’ he added with a smile.
‘You say Audrey’s your aunt?’
‘Yes, but not by blood. My late father was Uncle Edgar’s younger brother.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you for your condolences, but my father died over twenty years ago in the Great War. I was only eighteen months old at the time.’
‘I see. Do you have a mother?’
‘I do indeed, yes. Luckily she’s not here tonight . . .’ Julius leant in towards Cecily. ‘My uncle and aunt can’t stand her.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Oh, because rather than hanging around in widow’s weeds when my father shuffled off his mortal coil in Flanders, she found herself a far richer suitor than dear old Pa and married him six months later. She lives in Italy now.’
‘I love Italy! You were so lucky to grow up there.’
‘No, no, Miss Huntley-Morgan,’ Julius said as he lit a cigarette. ‘Mama didn’t take me with her when she scarpered for warmer climes. She dumped me on the doorstep of this mausoleum and I was brought up by Uncle Edgar’s old nanny. Miss Naylor she was called, and what a dragon she was.’
‘So you live right here at Woodhead Hall?’
‘I do indeed. I’ve done my best to dig myself out, but time and again, like the proverbial rubber ball, I find myself bouncing back.’
‘What do you do? I mean, for a living?’
‘Well now, what I do for a “living” is rather a euphemism, because I hardly earn a penny from it, more’s the pity. But I am in fact a poet.’
‘Goodness! Should I have heard of you?’
‘Not yet, Miss Huntley-Morgan, unless you are an avid reader of the Woodhead Village Gazette, which, out of the kindness of its heart, publishes the odd scribbling of mine.’
There was a loud clanging from somewhere outside the drawing room, which reverberated around it for a few seconds.
‘Dinner gong, Miss Huntley-Morgan.’
‘Please, do call me Cecily,’ she said as they wandered through the draughty hallway with the rest of the guests, then into the equally lofty and freezing dining room.
‘Now then, let’s see where my aunt has put you,’ said Julius, marching along the table and staring at the beautifully handwritten names at the top of every place setting. ‘Thought as much!’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re here, right by the fire. Whereas I am banished to Siberia at the other end of the table. Remember about the shot,’ he said as he left her side and walked off.
Cecily sat down, feeling decidedly disappointed that she’d been put next to Tristan rather than Julius. All through dinner, even though she managed to make small talk with both Tristan and an elderly major to her right, her thoughts and her eyes kept flying along the table to Julius. Just as she had extracted a small hard lump of silver metal from her mouth, having taken a bite of pheasant, she glanced up at him.
‘I did warn you,’ he mouthed with a smile, and then went back to his conversation with a bosomy matron, who was apparently the major’s wife.
‘So, headed for Africa, are we? Whereabouts?’ boomed the major. ‘I was there meself a few years ago. My younger brother bought a cattle farm in Kenya, somewhere west of the Aberdare Mountains.’
‘Oh, well, that’s where I’m headed too; to Kenya I mean. I’m staying at a house on the shores of Lake Naivasha. Have you heard of it?’
‘Have I heard of it?! Of course I’ve heard of it, my dear. So, joining the “Happy Valley” set, are you?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, I’m afraid. My godmother has invited me out there to stay for a while.’
‘And who might your godmother be, if I may be so bold to ask?’
‘Oh, a lady called Kiki Preston. She’s American, like me.’
‘Good Lord!’ Cecily watched the major’s ruddy cheeks become even ruddier as he glanced at her. ‘Well, well, who’d have thought it, a sweet girl like you . . .’
‘You know her?’
‘Now then, I would be telling a lie if I said I did, because I’ve never met her in person. But I certainly know of her. Everyone in Kenya does.’
‘Is she famous there?’
‘Oh yes, her – and her friend Alice de Trafford – are what one might call infamous. The Muthaiga Club in Nairobi was always awash with talk of their capers, and of course, that gorgeous girl Idina Sackville. If I’d been twenty years younger and not married, Idina could certainly have led me astray, and indeed, she did lead many other lucky blighters off the straight and narrow. Her and Joss Errol’s parties were the stuff of legend, you know. And . . . I say, I’m pretty sure it was your godmother, Kiki, who was known as the girl with the silver needle.’
‘You mean, she sewed?’ Cecily’s head was positively spinning.
‘I’m sure she had plenty of Negroes to do that for her, but . . .’ The major stared at Cecily’s nervous expression. ‘Well now, m’dear, I’m sure a lot of it was merely gossip, and besides, it was almost twenty years ago when I was there. I’m sure all concerned have calmed down from their youthful shenanigans.’
‘It sounds like they had a lot of fun out there.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll say.’ The major wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Rather sadly, my brother wasn’t part of that set – more interested in his cattle than getting up to high jinks at Muthaiga Club. We did enjoy some jolly good nights there nevertheless. Well now, you must look up my brother while you’re there. I’ll leave his name and address with Audrey. Mind you, he’s not hard to find – just ask for Bill and you’ll be pointed in the right direction.’
‘You said he runs a cattle farm?’
‘Indeed. Funny old stick, my brother,’ the major mused. ‘Never married and seems to spend rather a lot o
f time out on the plains with the Maasai tribe. He was always a bit of a loner, even as a child. Now, Miss Huntley-Morgan, tell me a little about you.’
Cecily was almost dropping with fatigue when the last guest finally left and she was able to say her goodnights and walk wearily up the endless staircase. She was just about to open the door to her room when a hand was placed on her shoulder. Letting out a small scream, she turned round to find Julius grinning at her.
‘I was just coming to check if all your teeth were still in place after that ghastly pheasant.’
‘Holy moly! You scared me half to death, creeping up on me like that!’
‘My apologies, Cecily, but before you retire, I wanted to ask if by any chance you ride?’
‘Why, yes, I do. We have horses on our estate in the Hamptons. I love it, even though I’m not sure my riding is terribly polite.’
‘I’m not sure how riding can be “polite”, but never mind. I normally go out early for a charge across the Downs. Blows away the cobwebs so I can sit down to a morning’s work. If you fancy joining me, I’ll be in the stables at seven tomorrow morning. If there isn’t any fog, of course.’
‘I’d love to, Julius, but I don’t have a thing to wear.’
‘I’ll ask Doris to lay out some jodhpurs and boots. There’s an entire wardrobe full of them from guests who have left them behind over the years. There’s sure to be something in your size. Until tomorrow, maybe,’ he smiled at her.
‘Yes. Goodnight, Julius.’
Ten minutes later, although hugely relieved to be horizontal (albeit on a mattress that must have been stuffed until it was stiff with horsehair), Cecily couldn’t sleep. And her damned heart began thumping every time she thought about Julius.
The Sun Sister Page 15
