“According to the letters from Humphrey’s mother, after his marriage, Helen fitted in perfectly. She was well bred, the daughter of a knight, and had the abilities you just mentioned. According to what I read, she made an effort to be a good mother. And a good wife. And why not? Widowed young, she was broke, and more or less homeless with her stepson inheriting everything. She was at his mercy. So I think she landed on her feet when James met her through a mutual friend. James arranged for her to be invited to some event at Cavendon.”
Charlotte leaned back on the sofa and continued, “It was meant to be. According to comments in Esther Ingham’s letters to her son, she was ‘fair of face, gentle by nature, and kind in all her actions.’ As far as Mrs. Ingham was concerned, she was rather different from Marie. And incidentally, they remained together for the rest of their lives.”
“So, all’s well that ends well,” Cecily murmured, and giving Aunt Charlotte a searching look, she asked, “You said they weren’t bad men, that they were nice men. What did you mean?”
“They may have manipulated many matters and people to suit their own ends, their needs and desires, but as far as Cavendon was concerned, the two of them ran it extremely well,” Aunt Charlotte told her, and then went on to explain.
“Humphrey kept good logbooks about everything that was happening in his various businesses and on the estate. When he traveled, he was very open about where he was. He could always be reached if he was needed in an emergency. James ran the estate with enormous efficiency, and both men treated the staff well … their personal servants in the house and the workers on the estate. They were known for their reasonable attitudes and understanding.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Cecily said. “James makes lots of references to Humphrey’s fairness in certain situations and his generosity to the staff. I found one notation that was interesting. James wrote that he and Humphrey made sure they gave every man they employed his dignity and his due.”
Charlotte nodded. “David also told me a lot about his ancestors, things that had been dutifully passed down from earl to earl. Fairness, justice, dignity, and safety were the words he usually mentioned. He said anyone who had worked at Cavendon had been safe, protected, and that they had had two strong and clever men to defend their rights. That was important to the fifth earl, and he maintained that the First Earl of Mowbray, Humphrey, set the standards which were scrupulously adhered to by the following generations. They lived by those rules. And they still do.”
“And then there was Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, who fell in love with a Swann and bore him a child,” Cecily suddenly said, remembering that well-hidden secret.
A warm smile spread across Charlotte’s face. “Lovely Great-Aunt Gwen, who longed for all those years to see her only child, given up for adoption at birth, and whom I found quite by accident.”
“Some might call that a fluke, Aunt Charlotte, but using your favorite phrase, I believe … it was meant to be. And certainly it gave Great-Aunt Gwen a new lease on life, not to mention the last chance for a bit of happiness, getting to know her daughter.”
The dowager countess looked off into the distance for a moment, and then turning her head, gazing at Cecily, she said, “I must go over to Harrogate next week, Ceci, and see Margaret, take her out to lunch. Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will. I like her, and she does remind me of Great-Aunt Gwen, there’s no two ways about that.”
“And Diedre. Don’t forget, Margaret has quite a good look of her.”
“She does, and talking of looks, there’s something I’d like to do, and right now.” As she spoke Cecily jumped up, went over to Aunt Charlotte, and helped her out of the sofa. “I want to go and look at them.”
“Who?” Charlotte frowned, seemingly puzzled for a moment.
“The ancestors! At least the Inghams … many of them are hanging on the walls above the double staircase. Come on, let’s go and look at Humphrey, Marie, Marmaduke, Elizabeth, and Helen. They’re all out there, you know.”
“And there is a portrait of James Swann, his wife, Anne, and their children. At one end of the Long Gallery. What a good idea you’ve had, Cecily.”
* * *
The two of them stood on the landing at the top of the double staircase, staring at the painting hanging on the wall above. “This is the First Earl of Mowbray,” Charlotte said. “The famous Humphrey, painted by Thomas Gainsborough. What do you think?”
“What I’ve always thought, that he was a rather handsome man, and now, as I’m really scrutinizing it more carefully, I must admit he looks like Miles’s father, Charles, the sixth earl.”
“Right on the mark, my dear. And this is Marie.” Charlotte glanced at Cecily. “I don’t think she’s that ugly, do you?”
“No. Perhaps Humphrey’s mother was prejudiced, you know, because Marie was older than him. Though she is a bit plain,” Cecily finished, wrinkling her nose. “Also painted by Gainsborough, I see.”
“I agree. Helen is rather pretty, don’t you think? Quite glamorous, but George Romney tended to give women who sat for him a really gorgeous look.”
Cecily nodded, and then grabbed hold of Charlotte’s arm and exclaimed, “Look at this portrait. It’s Marmaduke, the second earl. But if it weren’t for the awful wig, I’d say it was my brother, Harry.”
An amused smile played around Aunt Charlotte’s mouth. “I’ve often thought that. The portrait is very well executed. It’s by Reynolds. Look, here is Elizabeth, Marmaduke’s sister. She has a look of you, Ceci. It’s by Romney, and a beautiful rendering of her.”
“Do you really think I have a look of her?” Cecily asked, not really seeing the resemblance.
“Yes. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
Cecily shook her head. “Let’s go to the Long Gallery and look at the portraits of James Swann and his family. And be careful walking down the stairs, Aunt Charlotte. Hold on to the banister.”
“I will. I’m quite steady on my feet, Cecily.”
A few seconds later they were walking through the main hall heading to the Long Gallery, where many of the great paintings by famous artists were hanging.
At the far end, near the East Wing, there was a grouping of paintings Cecily knew well. The two main paintings were of James and Anne Swann, both of them by Thomas Gainsborough. Their children had been painted together by Joshua Reynolds, and there was another of Sarah Swann Caxton and her legitimate children by George Romney.
“I’ve looked at these paintings since I was old enough to understand that I was descended from James and Anne Swann, Aunt Charlotte. And I’ve always thought what a good-looking man he was. But since I’ve read parts of the Swann record books he kept over his lifetime, his portrait means so much more to me now. I feel as if I really knew him.” Cecily’s eyes were glued to the painting.
“Yes, it sort of sinks in, doesn’t it, knowing that he was our founding father and that we carry his genes … and Anne’s genes, too. And that we live at Cavendon because of him, and everything he did to make it great, is stupendous, actually.”
Unexpectedly, Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away swiftly, and her voice wobbled slightly when she said, “I feel so very proud of him, and proud to be a Swann.”
“As do I, darling,” Aunt Charlotte murmured, and took hold of Cecily’s arm. “This has been worth fighting for, hasn’t it? Because of Humphrey and James; what they created through their vision is quite marvelous. Cavendon is one of the greatest stately homes in England, and hopefully it will stand forever.”
* * *
Later that day, when she was alone in the upstairs sitting room off their bedroom, Cecily realized how different she felt. About herself, Cavendon, and Miles. About everything really.
When Charlotte had confided important matters and events from the Ingham papers, things she had read in the Swann record books instantly clicked into place to make a whole.
It had been like fitting a jigsaw puzzle together. So much
more now made complete sense, with her newly acquired knowledge about James Swann. In character, vision, and brilliance, James Swann had been Humphrey Ingham’s equal and had been treated as such. He had not been as rich as Humphrey because he did not own a business; he worked for a businessman who became an earl.
However, Humphrey had made sure James was enormously well compensated for his dedication and diligence. In fact, he had treated him like family. James and his wife had lived in the East Wing of Cavendon Hall all of their lives. But then with over a hundred and thirty rooms there was an overabundance of space.
Yet in a sense, Humphrey had turned them into kith and kin, and Sarah Swann had given Humphrey his only children. Family indeed, if you really thought about.
How proud she was of James Swann. He had truly been the cocreator of Cavendon Hall, the estate, and the village of Little Skell, as well as contributing to the prosperity of the Ingham family.
The Swanns truly had a right to be living here, and this knowledge gave her an unexpected rush of joy. Cavendon was hers, too, and suddenly she believed that Aunt Charlotte felt the same way.
Cecily decided she was not going to tell Miles anything about her long session with Aunt Charlotte and what had been revealed to her because she was now an Ingham by marriage. He had no need to know, and anyway he had no real interest in his antecedents of long ago.
Miles had always focused on his father, the sixth earl, and his grandfather, the fifth earl, following their rules. All those other earls who had gone before were lost in the mists of time. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that was his attitude.
After his father’s death, Aunt Charlotte had reminded Miles that the Ingham records were easily accessible to him. She had taken them both to the storage room behind the book-filled walls of the library. Miles had been aghast at the hundreds of labeled boxes piled high. She had seen him shudder when he saw them.
Now she remembered exactly what he had said to Charlotte. “The past doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to those who are dead. I’m alive and the future is mine. That’s what I have to deal with. I have to preserve this place, take it into a new era.”
And he had done that. Cecily was proud of Miles. The odds had been against him ever since he had become the seventh earl. He will succeed, she thought. He knows no other way. And I will be by his side. His wife and his stay. Loyalty binds me.
Part Three
MAGIC AND MAKE-BELIEVE
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
—John Donne, “The Bait”
Seventeen
In the end the new script book took longer than expected to finally arrive, and Alicia had spent the whole month of August feeling restless and frustrated.
As she waited at Cavendon, whiling away her time by cleaning her clothes closets and sorting items, she cursed the associate producer under her breath. His name was Adam Fennell, and she hadn’t met him, but his constant requests for additional rewrites seemed endless. When the approved shooting script finally did come, it was sent up from London by messenger, no less, and she changed her mind about him.
She knew at once, after one quick read-through, that he had been right. This script was excellent and so much better than the others. It now had dramatic force and swifter pacing, and it struck her immediately that her part had been enlarged. She had the female lead, which was now well written and the character she was playing was well defined. Felix Lambert had agreed with her, told her that the rewrites gave her greater prominence in the story line, and that if she was clever and did her very best acting, she could quite easily steal this picture.
“Adam admires your work,” Felix explained on the phone. “He’ll make sure you get plenty of exposure and publicity when the film’s released.”
He told her that her new starting date was Wednesday, September 14, at Shepperton Studios in Surrey, and the producers hoped to wrap the picture in ninety days. He reminded her that she must be available for a week after that for postproduction, looping, and whatever else was required.
Once Alicia had the screenplay in her hands, her mood changed. She curled up on the sofa in her bedroom at Cavendon, reading her lines, committing them to memory. She was at her happiest when she was working, and her excitement about the new movie kicked all thoughts of Brin and his bad behavior out of her mind. Work gave her comfort, courage, and confidence in herself again.
* * *
In the past, Alicia had enjoyed working at Shepperton Studios. There were some big soundstages and a spacious backlot. She was walking across the backlot on her first day at work, when she heard her name being called in a low, masculine voice.
Swinging around, she saw Sir Alexander Korda waving to her. He was not only an extraordinary film producer and director and the creator of some magnificent films, such as Fallen Idol and Lady Hamilton, starring Vivien Leigh, but had the largest financial interest in Shepperton Studios. He practically owned it.
His companion that morning was Orson Welles, the American actor, and she hurried over to greet them. After Sir Alex had introduced her to the actor, she congratulated both men on the success of The Third Man, in which Orson Welles starred. The picture, recently released, was a huge hit.
Sir Alex chatted with her for a few seconds, and seemed to be aware that she was the female lead in Broken Image, being made by Mario Cantonelli and Adam Fennell. He added that her director, Paul Dowling, was one of the best in the business, as she no doubt knew.
A few minutes later Alicia was looking around the dressing room which had been assigned to her. It was one of the best, and quite large, with a window looking out onto the backlot.
Obviously it had been recently repainted and spruced up. Aside from the dressing table and several straight chairs, there was an armchair and sofa, and the lighting was excellent.
Alicia smiled to herself, knowing she was getting special treatment. She could not fail to miss the enormous bowl of flowers on an end table, and the white envelope propped up next to it. Opening the envelope, she read the card. It welcomed her to the production, wished her luck, and was signed by Mario and Adam.
She walked over to the dressing table, turned on the lights which surrounded the mirror, and sat down. Everything sparkled, and she could see herself very clearly. It was obvious to her that there had been a big effort to make the dressing room comfortable. Glancing down, she saw her call sheet for that day and tomorrow on the table. A glass vase on top of the two sheets was holding a single white rose.
Immediately, she knew it was from Anna Lancing, undoubtedly the best makeup artist in the picture business. Anna always gave her a white rose at the start of a production. Alicia jumped up, walked across the room. She would go to Makeup to greet her longtime associate and friend.
Pulling open the door, she then stepped back swiftly.
The two men standing there, about to knock on the door, looked totally startled. One was Mario. She assumed the other one was Adam Fennell.
Recovering themselves at once, Mario greeted her warmly, stepped forward, and kissed her cheek. He then introduced his companion. It was indeed Adam, who thrust out his hand and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re part of the production,” he said.
He held on to her hand a moment too long. It was Alicia who let go of his. Smiled in return. She was surprised by his looks, had imagined he would be a much older man. He appeared to be in his thirties, and he was extremely good-looking. In fact, he might easily be mistaken for a film star himself, and he was impeccably groomed.
“We came to welcome you,” Mario now said.
Alicia opened the door wider. “Please, do come in. And I want to thank you both for the flowers. They’re lovely.”
* * *
Mario immediately zeroed in on Alicia, sitting down next to her on the sofa, and he did all the talking.
Adam sat back in
the armchair. He said nothing. He listened. He had learned that listening was a gift. It pleased those who loved the sound of their own voices, and he usually learned a lot when he kept his mouth shut. Let Mario take the stage, he thought. My time with her will come later. He smiled inside as he thought of the plans he had made for Alicia Stanton.
* * *
Adam Fennell had started listening acutely and very attentively when he was a child. It had saved his life time and again and had taught him a lot about people and the world at large. Being a good listener had given him an edge.
Long ago, when he was ten, he had overheard someone say that he was nothing, a nobody from nowhere, a piece of rubbish only worth pissing on.
He had ruminated on those words for many months, and one day he had made up his mind to become somebody from somewhere.
His endgame was to be an important man with money and power … those were the great protectors. And so he had dragged himself up out of the gutter, out of poverty, starvation, abuse, and disregard, by using any means he could.
This enormous effort had made him stronger, brought out his natural drive, and then a sense of ambition had kicked in. As he became older, he had grown relentless in his determination and ruthlessness. The huge push to save himself had also embedded in him the desire to take everything he wanted, without any consideration for others, and by sheer force, if necessary.
He was thirteen when he had decided he must run away. His father had been a volatile and dangerous drunkard, living on the dole; his mother a terrified and quaking battered wife, with no spirit, life, or love left in her. His older brother, Andy, had been blindly following in their father’s tracks, with no real purpose in life.
When Adam had left the ramshackle cottage in Manchester, he had set off to walk to London. Instinctively, he had realized that was where he was meant to be, where fortune and fame awaited him. Well aware, even at his age, of the hopelessness of his life with his family, he had understood that he must put this behind him as fast as possible.
That night Adam Fennell possessed only the clothes he wore—shabby gray trousers, a dark green jumper of Andy’s, and his father’s only jacket. In his pockets were a pound note he had stolen from Andy when he was in a stupor and reeking of booze, two apples, and a penknife he had found in a gutter months ago. He had always treasured that knife.
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