Secrets of Cavendon

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Glancing up at him, she nodded vehemently. “I’ll say! More than all right, actually. It’s fantastic. I feel as if I’m right there, living through it with you and the boys in your platoon. And Kenny Burne comes out as a real hero, saving the lives he did.”

  “He was. And if you like it, Alicia, then I know I’m on the right track.”

  “You are, and everyone’s going to love it, I can promise you that.”

  Charlie was smiling, knowing she would always tell him the truth. “Let’s go to lunch, shall we? I’m starving,” Charlie said.

  Placing the chapter on the window seat, Alicia stood up. “Where are we going?”

  “The Causerie at Claridge’s, if that’s all right with you?”

  “You know very well it’s a favorite spot of mine,” she answered, laughing. As they were leaving the flat, she wondered if she ought to phone Brin, but decided to leave him alone. He needed to sleep off his hangover. A flicker of worry edged into her mind, but she pushed it away. Nonetheless, a strange sense of foreboding lingered all through lunch, puzzling her.

  Five

  Cecily Swann Ingham knew that she was facing the greatest crisis of her life.

  She was at her wit’s end. For days she had turned over in her mind a thousand thoughts about the immense problems facing her. Cavendon had not made a good recovery after the war, and was at its lowest ebb ever, truly on the brink of disaster. She kept thinking that even the lightest breath of wind would blow the house off the edge of the precipice where it teetered dangerously. Gone in a puff. It was that easy. She shivered involuntarily.

  Her beloved business, Cecily Swann Couture, the one constant in her entire life, her mainstay, was facing financial trouble, and because of that she could not help Miles pay the government taxes and so help to save Cavendon. She had managed to do so many times in the past; she had given him thousands of pounds, but she could not help him anymore. Not now. Sadly.

  Every time she had been about to confide in him, tell him the bitter truth, she had lost her nerve. Instead she had simply promised him that she would now do her full and proper duty as the Seventh Countess of Mowbray.

  She would remain at Cavendon Hall indefinitely; she would not go to London to run her fashion company. She would do that long-distance the best way she could. She would take on the duties her sister-in-law had shouldered. Daphne was gone. Cavendon was in her keeping.

  If Miles had expected her to fight him about this, or quibble, or endeavor to make some sort of compromise, he soon discovered that her acquiescence was genuine, and she would keep her word.

  Cecily had agreed to do what he wanted because she was realistic enough to know she had no choice in the matter. This was the family tradition in most stately homes. The countess ruled. She would do the menus for the meals, and supervise the running of the house. She would show up for all the activities in Little Skell. She would open the garden fetes in all three villages, give prizes at village schools, and be part of the Women’s Institute.

  Fortunately, Miles had nodded his understanding when she had pointed out that Aunt Charlotte was the president of the local Women’s Institute, that they could not take this position away from the Dowager Countess of Mowbray, who must still preside.

  Once long ago, Emma Harte had warned her not to sacrifice her marriage on the altar of ambition. “Husband first, business second,” Emma had instructed. “And just be glad you have that option. Some women have had to discover, the hard way, that a cash register doesn’t keep your cold bottom warm at night.” Cecily half smiled to herself as she walked through the park, remembering those wise words.

  It was now Wednesday morning and early, not quite seven o’clock. Cecily had crept out of the house, needing to walk, be in the fresh air, to clear her head. And to think. Miles still did not know of her dilemma, was unaware that she was on a rack, crippled with despair. If nothing else, at least she knew how to push a bright smile onto her face, and look as if everything were all right and under her control.

  Glancing around, she couldn’t help thinking how beautiful Cavendon Park looked this morning. The huge spreading trees, centuries old, were full and luxuriant under a sky of palest blue, filled with scudding white clouds. There was no sun this morning, but no sign of rain either and the northern light was crystal clear.

  She grimaced to herself as she walked on, thinking how little the weather mattered to her when she had such immense issues to deal with.

  The problem was, she had no solution for anything, and that was so unlike her. For the first time in years her head was totally empty, without inspiration or a game plan.

  I’m brain-dead. This terrible thought brought her to a sudden stop. What’s happening to me? It was then she saw the door to the rose garden; pushing it open, she went down the steps, and headed for her preferred garden seat. Sitting down gratefully, she closed her eyes.

  The peacefulness enveloped her, the fragrant scent of the late-blooming roses a balm for her weariness. How could it have come to this? she wondered. And knew at once the answer. The war. The war had not only killed off their men, ruined their cities, left their country broke, and the British Empire in disarray, it had destroyed her couture business and even her ready-made line. Only her accessories were selling and the White Rose perfume.

  Many other businesses, as well as her own, had been affected. Money was short, very tight. People weren’t buying. Yes, the war they had won had left its imprint in more ways than one. Hundreds were ruined.

  The loud fluttering sound of many birds rising up into the air caused her to stand. She glanced around. But no one was there, nothing had disturbed them. They had just decided to leave the trees in the park. She wanted to leave. She couldn’t.

  Scattered, as they flapped their wings and flew up, they became, within seconds, a true formation, totally aligned, as if directed by a hidden giant hand. They formed a huge V and remained in position like a squadron, flying toward the grouse moor, balanced, absolutely perfect, every bird in place.

  Amazement filled her face. How do they know how to do that? she wondered. Well, it’s inside them perhaps, in their genes. They were born knowing how to form these squadrons and when to fly to warmer climes. How extraordinary nature was.

  Born knowing.

  Her son David, now twenty, was born knowing he was the heir, would one day become the Eighth Earl of Mowbray. Her son, Miles’s son, part Ingham, part Swann.

  She could not fail him. She must find a way to solve the problems facing her. She had to win. For David, the future.

  With this thought came an unexpected new vision. Her eyes were suddenly wide open and clear. Everything around her stood out in the brightest of colors. How lovely the mixture of varied pink roses were against the ancient red-brick walls; as she went out of the rose garden and into the park, she glanced up at Cavendon Hall standing high on the hill. It looked pure white, appeared to shimmer in the brilliant morning light. The trees were a mixture of deep greens and the lawns dropping away from the long terrace looked like rolls of emerald velvet spreading out toward her. To her left the white swans floated on the blue lake.

  Technicolor, she thought. Everything is so vivid this morning. She blinked, aware that she was seeing everything in a different way. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.

  In about a month, when August came, the moors ahead of her, a dull brown now, would be covered in heather, flowing like a purple sea along the horizon. And on the Glorious Twelfth, as it was called, the grouse season would begin. There is so much to save, and I must do that, she told herself.

  Automatically, she began walking down the path which led to the small wood and the Romany wagons.

  * * *

  “Don’t cry, liddle Ceci,” the Gypsy woman said as Cecily hove into view. She was sitting on the steps of her wagon.

  “I’m not crying,” Cecily answered as she walked into the clearing near the wood where Genevra’s wagon was parked.

  “In yer heart yer
crying,” Genevra told her. “But there’s no rhyme or reason … no need for yer tears. Swann rules, yer knows that, I’ve allus told yer.”

  Cecily nodded and sat down in the chair which Genevra usually had waiting for her. “You have told me. And I’ve always believed you, but we’re not ruling too well at the moment.”

  “Big mess, aye, I knows, my lass. But yer gifted, liddle Ceci, yer’ve got many talents. And like no person I knows of, anyway.”

  Cecily remained silent for a moment, pondering on Genevra’s words. The Gypsy was fifty now, the same age as Miles, but had retained her exotic looks and a certain youthfulness in her appearance.

  The Romany said, “Five ways ter skin a cat, yer knows.”

  “I don’t even know one way.” Cecily shook her head. “I’m brain-dead.”

  “No, yer not, Countess Cecily. Yer blinded by worry. Swann rules. I have the sight. Remember. Swann wins.”

  “I don’t know what to do…” Cecily’s voice trailed off, and she did feel quite helpless at this precise moment.

  Genevra sat very still, staring at Cecily before speaking, saying in a firm voice, “Go to Swanns. Yer need yer Swanns.” An amused smile flickered on Genevra’s face when she added, “More Swanns than Inghams these days. Go see Eric … he’ll help yer, liddle Ceci.”

  * * *

  Genevra’s right, there are more Swanns at Cavendon than Inghams at the moment, Cecily thought as she walked slowly back to the house.

  Miles was the only born Ingham in residence with his sisters gone; Lady Daphne to Zurich, Lady Dulcie to Los Angeles, and Lady Diedre to France. Aunt Charlotte and she were Inghams by marriage, and her four children were half Ingham, half Swann.

  Cecily had great belief in Genevra, knew she had the sight. Her predictions had usually been correct over the years. So she would go to Eric Swann, her father’s first cousin. Now head butler at Cavendon, he had worked for them all his life. His sister Laura had too, and it was Laura who had died with DeLacy at the South Street house when it was hit by a flying bomb in the war.

  If Genevra believed Eric could help her, then he would. But it was Percy Swann she ran into a few seconds later, as she came up the dirt path leading to the house.

  Percy was the head gamekeeper at Cavendon, and her father’s younger brother. Her uncle, in fact.

  “Good morning, your ladyship,” Percy said. Like all of the other Swanns, he always addressed her formally.

  “Morning, Percy,” she said, smiling at him. He was one of her favorites and a mine of information about the estate. “How’s the grouse moor doing?”

  Beaming at her, Percy exclaimed, “Never been better, thriving. We’ve kept it in good shape all through the winter, coaxed it along, treated it well, coddled it really. Birds’ll be good in August.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Cecily said. “Congratulations. I know how valuable the grouse moor is to the estate, and I’m glad you and Joe are in charge. I hear we have some Guns coming for the Glorious Twelfth.”

  “That’s correct, milady.” Percy took a step closer, and said in a low voice, “This is just a tip, to use if you can. Tell his lordship that many other stately homes with grouse moors are making money out of them. Inviting people to shoot, but charging them.”

  Cecily gaped at him. “Charging them! Who on earth are they?”

  “Rich Americans,” Percy answered. “They stay as guests … you know, bed and board. Business is growing. We should do it.”

  Flabbergasted though she was, Cecily was quick to agree, and nodded, then exclaimed, “Now I remember something, Percy. I’ve heard about this before, from Mrs. Harte. She told me some American tycoons she knows often came to shoot in England in the season. Thanks for the tip. It’s also jogged my memory. I’ll speak to Miles, have no fear.”

  He hoisted his gun onto his shoulder, and winked. “Good lass,” he murmured in a voice so low she hardly heard him. She smiled to herself as she went up the terrace steps to the house.

  * * *

  Five pairs of eyes stared at her as she walked into the morning room, and four voices cried in unison. “Good morning, Mummy!”

  Miles stood up and went to kiss her, his eyes sparkling as he brushed his mouth against her cheek.

  “Good morning,” Cecily said to her children, and turning to Miles, she whispered, “I love you. And good morning.”

  “Likewise,” was his only comment, but he held her arm tightly and led her to her chair.

  Once they were seated, Miles said, “I went looking for you in the annex, darling. Where have you been?”

  “I went for a walk. I needed the fresh air,” she explained.

  Gwen said, “I’m sorry I started to eat before you came, Mummy, but I was hungry.”

  Laughter bubbled up in Cecily as she looked across at her youngest child, her wartime baby, she called her, who was now eight years old. “Well, you know me, I’m always late somehow. And it doesn’t matter that you didn’t wait, Gwen.”

  The others laughed with Gwen, and Venetia said, “Shall I pour you a cup of tea? And do you want any breakfast?”

  “The tea would be lovely, thank you.” Turning to David, she said, “You’re looking very smart this morning. Are you going somewhere perhaps?”

  “With Father. He has to see his solicitor in Harrogate, and he invited me to go with him.”

  Cecily nodded, and looked down the table at Miles, raising a brow.

  “Just for company, nothing special,” Miles explained, seeing the worried look in her eyes. “David’s going to drive us.”

  Before Venetia could pour the tea for her mother, Eric arrived and took over. As he put the cup and saucer in front of her, she thanked him and then asked in a low voice, “What time could we have a short meeting this morning, Eric?”

  “Whenever you wish, your ladyship,” the butler answered. “Around eleven? Is that all right?”

  “It’s perfect. I’ll come to your office.”

  “Can I serve you breakfast, milady?”

  “Nothing to eat, but thank you.”

  Eric retreated to the small butler’s pantry behind the morning room, and there was a silence as everyone ate their breakfast.

  It was Walter who spoke first, when he said in a rush of words, “I took a message for you, Mummy, from Aunt Dottie in London. She said she was returning your call, and she would be at the shop all day.” Walter grimaced and added, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you immediately when you arrived.”

  “That’s not a problem, Walter,” Cecily said warmly, eyeing her second son. At eighteen, he was tall for his age, and extremely good-looking, all Ingham with their wonderful blue eyes and blond hair. He was athletic, loved sports, and seemed totally unaware of the extraordinary effect he had on girls.

  His sixteen-year-old sister, Venetia, who teased him unmercifully, now said, “It’s rather nice to be here, just the six of us.”

  “Seven!” Walter exclaimed. “You’re forgetting Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Seven then, but I’m glad it’s just us,” Venetia murmured, looking at her father, whom she adored. “Don’t you think so, Daddy?”

  Miles swallowed the sudden laughter bubbling inside, and nodded. “It’s a change,” he answered noncommittally.

  Before Cecily could make a comment, Gwen said, “I agree with you, Venetia. Now that the cousins have left I only have you to boss me around.”

  “I never boss you,” Venetia protested, her voice rising indignantly.

  “Yes you do,” Walter shot back, smiling at Gwen, as usual in cahoots with her. “You think you’re the bee’s knees.”

  Gwen said, “The American cousins are very bossy.”

  “They’re not American,” Venetia corrected her sharply. “They just live there part of the year.”

  “They’re still bossy!” Gwen exclaimed. “Like you.”

  “Don’t be a big baby,” Venetia began, and stopped abruptly when she saw the look on her father’s face.

  Miles said, �
�Enough of this. We’re going to be here alone together all summer, and we should enjoy ourselves. No more squabbling. Or I’ll take your mother on a holiday, and leave you all to fend for yourselves.”

  Cecily smiled to herself, sneaking a look at Gwen, who had flushed bright red. Her youngest child might look like her, with her features, her russet-brown hair, but she reminded Cecily of Dulcie when she had been Gwen’s age. Spirited, independent, and able to defend herself. Cecily had no worries about Gwen, or who she would become when she grew up. Most decidedly her own woman. A warrior woman like her aunt.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Cecily went down to Hanson’s old office, now occupied by Eric Swann. She tapped on the door, opened it, and looked inside. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” Eric exclaimed, jumping up, going forward to greet her.

  “This room always reminds me of Hanson,” Cecily said as she sat down in the chair Eric had pulled out for her.

  “I know what you mean,” Eric replied, sitting down at his desk, facing Cecily. “I haven’t touched a thing. When I was installed here I felt this place was sacrosanct.”

  “I know we had a frank talk and went over all the routines on Monday,” Cecily began, “but I have a couple of questions, Eric.”

  “I’ll answer them as best I can, milady.”

  “I know that the public visit all of the main reception rooms in the East and North Wings, and the Long Gallery between those wings where all the paintings are on display. And a couple of dining rooms in those wings. But obviously they don’t go upstairs to the bedrooms. Or do they?”

  Eric shook his head. “No, they don’t. Just the rooms you mentioned.”

  “I think we should close up the North and East Wings, only on the upper floors, of course. Why keep them open to be dusted and cleaned all the time? Why not cover the furniture in sheets? We don’t use the rooms much, if at all these days. Let’s close them off.”

  “I’ve often thought the same thing,” Eric answered. “It would certainly take a burden off the maids, and make them available to do other things. More help for Peggy, too.”