Secrets of Cavendon

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Hanson used to keep a log of the wine cellar and our stock. I’m sure you’ve kept it up-to-date,” Cecily said.

  “I have indeed. It’s essential to know what we have.”

  “It’s rather a lot, isn’t it?”

  “Enormous, your ladyship, and it worries me sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid that some of the wine might turn. Go off. The fourth, fifth, and sixth earls purchased a great deal of vintage wines over the years. Quantities. Now not enough wine is drunk here, even when the entire family is in residence.”

  “I know that. I was thinking of bringing a wine expert up from London, to do an inventory. And perhaps we could auction off some of the vintage wines.”

  Eric gaped at her, a startled expression flashing across his face. “Do you think his lordship would agree?” he asked, his voice going up an octave.

  “I’m not sure. But an expert opinion is worth listening to, and I’m sure his lordship would take advice, especially if an expert thought the wine might turn. That would be such a waste. I think it’s worth a try.”

  “I agree about getting an opinion, but I still think his lordship might balk at an auction,” Eric persisted.

  “Perhaps.” She gave her second cousin a long, thoughtful look, and said in a very low voice, “When I talk to Miles in a certain way, he always listens, Eric, and we could use the money. We’re strapped for cash.”

  “I know that, Cecily. Which brings me to something else. There’s a large wooden box in the attic, which I happened to look in yesterday, when I was installing the new trunk for the Swann record books. There are some paintings in the box. By Travers Merton…” Eric paused, knowing the sensitivity involved, and finished quietly, “I think they belonged to Lady DeLacy.”

  “He did give her some paintings…” Cecily began, and stopped, staring at Eric. Their eyes locked and they exchanged knowing looks, both of them remembering the night Travers had died. Together they had gone to Travers’s studio to rescue DeLacy, take her away from that terrible scene.

  It took Cecily a moment to settle her flaring memories, and she noticed that Eric was struggling for composure himself. It had been such a bad night. They had struggled until Howard Pinkerton had come to their aid, and had taken over.

  Cecily said, “Those paintings are very valuable, but I’m not sure who they belong to in the family. I will have to seek out DeLacy’s will. I know where it is.”

  “When I saw them yesterday I thought they had come from Lady DeLacy’s flat in London. They seemed familiar,” Eric confided.

  “She probably left them to Miles. Or to the Cavendon Restoration Fund,” Cecily murmured, thinking out loud. “How strange to think she might come to our help after her death … but lovely, in a way.”

  Six

  The four women sat together in the gazebo in Cavendon Park. It was a warm morning, but the position of the gazebo near a shady old oak tree and its open walls made it a cool and pleasant spot for their meeting.

  It was Friday, the first day of July, and Cecily Swann Ingham had named it D-day in her mind. She was going to set about reviving her troubled business and she knew she had a hard fight on her hands. Nonetheless, she understood she had to win. She had no other choice. Failure would be a catastrophe in many different ways.

  As she glanced at the women she smiled inwardly. They were attractive, of various ages, well-dressed, well-put-together, feminine-looking women, whom some might dismiss as being normal, ordinary, and probably not particularly interesting. She knew differently.

  Each one of them had nerves of steel and an iron will. And, like her, they were winners, full of ideas and ambitions. They were her mainstay. With them at her side she knew she couldn’t lose. They made the best team. A winning team.

  Her eyes flicked to Aunt Charlotte, born a Swann, an Ingham by marriage, and, at eighty-one, the Dowager Countess of Mowbray. Her father’s aunt, Charlotte had funded Cecily’s business for her, and then given it to her once it was a success.

  Aunt Dottie, also a Swann, and the wife of Howard Pinkerton, a Scotland Yard detective, who was definitely a Swann because of his marriage and all he had done for them. Dottie was now sixty-six, but like Charlotte she looked much younger and was in great health.

  Then there was Greta Chalmers, her personal assistant, with whom she had bonded the first day they had met. Greta, now forty-two, had worked by her side for many years and they had never been out of step. They were always on the same wavelength, had the same goals, and similar attitudes about life. Both had birthdays in the first week of May.

  Taking a deep breath, Cecily beamed her brightest smile, and then glanced at Dottie and Greta. “Thanks for coming up last night, and for listening to me gabbing on ad infinitum.” She turned to the dowager countess, sitting next to her, and added, “And I’m glad you insisted on being here, Aunt Charlotte. After all, without you there might not have been a business called Cecily Swann Couture.”

  “Oh yes, there would!” Charlotte shot back encouragingly. “You would have eventually done it on your own, Ceci dear. I just helped to make it all happen a little bit quicker.”

  “I’m jumping right into the deep end,” Cecily announced. “We all know Cecily Swann Couture is in real trouble, and could go down at any moment. I have bad debts, but I don’t want to declare bankruptcy. I want to make a lot of good moves very quickly, and they will have to be drastic if I’m going to pull out of this mess.”

  “We’re here to help you,” Aunt Dottie assured her. “And as you suggested last night, we must speak the truth to you, no holds barred. I have certain ideas, and so does Greta, and what we do must be drastic. There’s no other way.”

  “The first thing you have to do is get rid of the two factories in Leeds,” Greta said, leaning forward slightly, her eyes focused on Cecily. “One is empty, and the other we don’t need. Because the ready-to-wear line is not selling.”

  “I agree,” Cecily instantly replied. “I’m going to speak to Emma Harte on Monday. She will be at Pennistone Royal. I told her I needed her to help me find a buyer for the Leeds factories.”

  “Putting two linked factories on the market together at a good price will work, in my opinion,” Aunt Dottie volunteered. “Ever since the end of the war, when we stopped making military uniforms for the troops, the big factory has been a financial burden. Renting it out from time to time hasn’t filled our coffers, and it has to go. Without ready-mades we don’t need the other.”

  Cecily nodded her agreement, and looking over at Greta she asked, “Why do you think the ready-to-wear line doesn’t sell anymore?”

  “At first I was as baffled as you,” Greta replied. “When I spoke to my sister about it, Elise said she thought it was staid. The clothes were well made but a bit out of date, in her opinion. They worked in the thirties, and the war years, but let’s face it, 1950 is only six months away. We have a different world now, and a different market.”

  Aunt Charlotte, who had been listening attentively, now interjected, “I think you must adjust the name of the couture clothes, Cecily. The line should be called Cecily Swann, or perhaps better still, simply Swann. Like Chanel in France. Or Hartnell here in England. He’s dropped Norman. There’s also Hardy Amies, another competitor of yours, who is mostly using only his last name.”

  When there was silence, Aunt Charlotte asked, “Well, what’s the verdict?” She glanced at her companions, frowning.

  “Brilliant!” Cecily exclaimed. “The word ‘couture’ puts people off, I think, because it spells ‘MONEY’ in capital letters. It will be couture, of course, but we don’t have to announce it. What do you think, Greta? Aunt Dottie?”

  “I’m all for it,” Greta answered.

  “As am I,” Aunt Dottie concurred.

  “So we sell the two factories, because they’re not needed, especially since we are dropping the ready-to-wear line. That’s the first step. Change our name to Swann. I prefer it to Cecily Swann. And then I c
oncentrate on the couture.” Cecily’s eyes swept over them. “What else should we do?”

  “Lower our overhead. Dramatically.” Dottie stared hard at Cecily, and went on in a brisk voice. “Close the smaller shop in Burlington Arcade. Keep the original one, of course. It’s brand recognition, and it’s become … well, sort of an institution. And we have to get rid of the offices. Find a smaller space, and let some of the staff go.”

  Cecily took a piece of paper out of her pocket, and glanced at it, then grimaced. “Getting rid of the offices and reducing the number of staff is at the top of my list. It seems we’re on the same page.”

  “Just as we should be,” Greta said. “After all, we’ve been working together for years now, and very successfully. But like so many other businesses, we got into trouble after the end of the war. The public was not ready to splurge on clothes. And speaking of that, Cecily, I think after we leave on Sunday, you should start to design a new couture line. Since you now have to live up here most of the time, it’s an ideal place to be inspired, don’t you think?”

  Cecily stared at her. “There’s a hint there. Isn’t that so? Do you and Elise think the couture line is staid also?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Greta responded in a steady voice full of warmth. She did not want to sound critical. “Your clothes are fabulous in their cut and line, but there’s a new mood now. People want frills, and flounces, and pastel colors, florals, and chiffon fabrics. Listen, I don’t mean you should copy anybody, but can’t you create a line that has the same appeal of the Christian Dior clothes which came out in 1947? He called that collection the ‘New Look.’”

  “I know his clothes, and I love them,” Cecily said, her voice suddenly growing enthusiastic. “And I will get inspiration here … from Harry’s fantastic gardens. If I start working next week, I can probably have a collection ready for next spring—”

  “No!” Aunt Dottie exclaimed sharply, cutting in. “Design a collection for next summer. We need to get the business in order first, which Greta and I can do, with your advice and help. Remember, we may have to hire a few more women who are good at making couture, and there will be fabrics to hunt down, and all of the usual things you’ll need. Don’t rush this, Cecily.”

  “Dottie is correct,” Aunt Charlotte remarked. “Remember that old saying, ‘Make haste, make waste.’” Let’s not do that. Put everything you’ve got, all that brilliance and talent, and take as much time as you need to create a summer collection. One that is spectacular. And don’t forget, the Festival of Britain is currently being planned. Next year may well be a turning point for the country. And for us. Now let us discuss the debts. A great worry indeed.”

  Cecily sat up straighter in her chair, and looked carefully at the other three women. After a moment, she said, “I need at least fifteen thousand pounds to be free and clear of everything the business owes, and be ready to start afresh. I will also need money for that. There are such things as rent for the shops, the offices, wages for the staff. I need money to buy fabrics, and all of the items needed to make the clothes. Wages for the dressmakers making everything by hand. That is a necessity if they are to be sold as couture.”

  Cecily shook her head, her face suddenly turning gloomy. “The war has been over for four years, and in that time we have been losing money, customers, and clients, going down rapidly.” After taking a deep breath, she finished, “Because of this failure on my part, I am unable to give Miles the money he needs for the government taxes on the estate. But he doesn’t know that yet. I’m sorry to say I haven’t had the heart to tell him the bad news.”

  There was a silence. No one spoke. Each woman settled back in her chair, obviously thinking of the financial problems facing Cecily and, indirectly, them in regard to the business.

  It was Greta who broke the silence and spoke out. “If you would consider this, Cecily, I would like to become a partner with you, you see—”

  “Goodness me, no!” Cecily cried, interrupting Greta. “I won’t let you do that. What if you lose your money? I’d never forgive myself. Elise and Kurt are dependent on you, I know that.”

  “Please, Cecily, just listen for a moment. When my father died, he left his money to Elise and Kurt. You see, he knew I would inherit rather a lot from my grandmother. My mother was an only child, and after her death when I was young, I became my grandmother’s only heir. She was widowed, and my grandfather had left her financially very well placed. As you well know, Grandma died last year, and I put her house in Hampstead on the market. It’s taken a while, but I could afford to wait until I got the right price.

  “Last week it finally sold. The contract is in the works right now. So you see, I can afford to invest in Swann.” Greta cleared her throat, and added carefully, “But only in Swann. I can’t invest in Cavendon.”

  “I would never let you do that,” Cecily answered softly. “And thank you for offering to invest with me. But I will have to think hard about it, Greta. It is a responsibility, having a financial partner.”

  Dottie said, “Have you told Miles about Howard’s suggestion? Regarding an auction of the wine?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “When are you going to tell him? About everything, actually?”

  “I’d planned to do that tomorrow. Saturday is his day off, and we get to spend more time alone together.”

  “Auctioning the wine?” Aunt Charlotte said, sounding astonished. “What a brilliant idea. Howard is rather clever, Dottie.”

  “It wasn’t really Howard’s idea,” Aunt Dottie answered. “He read about a wine auction, which was held by the Earl of Overshed. Apparently he had a huge cellar and he was worried about some of the vintage wines turning, and so the earl had an auction, and made a lot of money. It was in the Times. Howard suggested I pass on this information to Cecily, because he knows there is an enormous cellar here. Hanson took him on a tour of it. In 1938, in fact, when Hanson was converting the basements into … dormitories, I suppose we should call them. In case the country was invaded by the Nazis.”

  “I do know the wine cellars are heavily stocked,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Charles bought some wine, but it was his father and grandfather who really built the stock up. And I certainly think Miles should consider the idea. Do you think he will?” Aunt Charlotte looked at Cecily, a brow lifting eloquently, a quizzical expression on her face.

  “I feel sure he will, but if he hesitates, I will persuade him. And you’ve just reminded me of something.” Cecily went on swiftly, “I ran into Percy, earlier this week, and we spoke about the grouse moor, which is in good condition, by the way. Anyway, he told me that some aristocratic families who have shoots like ours are taking paying guests during the shooting season. Mostly rich Americans, who apparently enjoy staying at stately homes and mingling with the toffs.”

  Cecily had sounded so droll when she uttered those last words, the other three women burst out laughing. And she joined in.

  A moment later, Eric arrived at the gazebo with lemonade and glasses on a tray. As he served them, Eric felt a rush of alarm. Miles Ingham would never agree to the idea of paying guests at a shoot. Cecily was asking for trouble.

  Seven

  Cecily stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, listening. In the distance she could hear footsteps, and she knew immediately who was coming along the corridor to the front hall. It was the slightly uneven step that told her it was Charlie.

  Moving into the hall, she stood waiting for him; suddenly he was visible as he left the corridor, walked into the hall. He waved. She waved back. He had always been her favorite when he was a child; after he was wounded in the war, tragically had to have a leg amputated, her heart had gone out to him.

  And yet she had known that he would handle his disability well, and he had. He used a walking stick for proper balance, but few people realized he had lost a leg. His limp was almost imperceptible; he stood tall, and was a good-looking man at thirty-one.

  When he came to a standstill, she pu
t her arms around him and gave him a huge hug. They were both smiling when they stepped away from each other. There had always been a special bond between them and they had often relied on each other for many things over the years.

  “I’m sorry we arrived so late last night,” Charlie apologized. “All my fault. I was on a special story, and it just took longer, was more complex than I’d realized.”

  “No problem,” Cecily replied. “I’m glad you and Alicia are staying until Monday, and I understand from Paloma that your little publishing company is doing well. Congratulations. And thank you for sharing with us. Your contributions do help to pay some of the staff in the shops.”

  He grinned. “Our pleasure. And I must say, I am rather chuffed that my little history of the Inghams and the Swanns is sold out. Who’d have thought it, eh?”

  “I knew the history book would work. It’s a very well told story, rather intriguing. Like a novel, in a certain sense.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Ceci, and listen, I’m so sorry about Mama … Alicia and I were really upset that she blamed you for what she calls ‘the commercialization of Cavendon.’ We know she loves you, and deep down she is probably very appreciative of everything you’ve done over the years, to save the estate and the family. We believe she’s just worn out. We do hope you can forgive her one day. You can, can’t you?”

  Cecily linked her arm through his, and said, “I’ve already forgiven her. Daphne has put her heart and soul into this house, and she’ll come back refreshed, her old self. Now, let’s go to the library for a few minutes. It’s a bit early for lunch.”

  Within moments they were sitting together on a sofa near the fire, which burned year-round because this room was always icy cold.

  Cecily said, “I understand from Eric that Bryan didn’t come with you after all.”

  Charlie nodded as he leaned back against the cushions, stretching out his artificial leg. “He had to beg off. His father is sick, and he felt he had to go to Brighton to sort things out. Bryan’s mother is dead, as I’m sure you know, and I don’t think Bryan’s younger brother is all that good about taking care of their father.”