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  For Bob, with all my love always

  Author’s Note

  It often happens that a character springs quickly to life in my mind. A wholly formed person, whom I know intimately, is hovering there.

  That happened with Emma Harte, Blackie O’Neil, and later on with Paul McGill, in A Woman of Substance. In Voice of the Heart I knew exactly who Victor Mason was when he was suddenly my mental companion. And in The Women in His Life, Maximilian West came to me well formed. The man was a crystal-clear image in my head. I certainly knew Serena Stone when I started to write Secrets from the Past, and told that story in her voice.

  About six years ago the same thing happened, when suddenly a lovely young girl called Cecily Swann was dancing around in my head. I not only knew her intimately, but I also knew what her entire life was going to be. I also had images of DeLacy Ingham and Miles Ingham in my mind’s eye. I knew that Cecily would be friends with the Ingham siblings all of her life. I worked on the outline of the book and saw that the story was covering many years. I understood that it should be a series.

  Unfortunately, other projects and books intervened, and I put the Cecily Swann saga on hold. But finally, two years ago, it came to life once more, and I started to work on it after I finished Secrets from the Past.

  Certain things changed in the storyline as I wrote the first chapter, but the house, Cavendon Hall, was born in all its wonderful glory and historical past. And of course the Swanns and the Inghams became real people to me, as I hope they will be to you. Cavendon Hall is the first book. In the sequel, you will be able to follow the ups and downs, joys and sorrows, of everyone you are now going to read about. I can’t wait to start The Cavendon Women, and to revisit these fabulous characters. For me, when I begin a book, it’s like going on a great adventure. I never know what to expect. Or what’s going to change, as in Cavendon Hall. The Swanns and the Inghams will tell their own stories.

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PART ONE

  The Beautiful Girls of Cavendon

  May 1913

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART TWO

  The Last Summer

  July–September 1913

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  PART THREE

  Frost on Glass

  January–December 1914

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  PART FOUR

  River of Blood

  February 1916–November 1918

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  PART FIVE

  A Matter of Choice

  September 1920

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  Part One

  THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS OF CAVENDON

  May 1913

  She is beautiful and therefore to be woo’d,

  She is a woman, therefore to be won.

  —William Shakespeare

  Honor women: They wreathe and weave

  Heavenly roses into earthly life.

  —Johann von Schiller

  Man is the hunter; woman is his game.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  One

  Cecily Swann was excited. She had been given a special task to do by her mother, and she couldn’t wait to start. She hurried along the dirt path, walking toward Cavendon Hall, all sorts of ideas running through her active young mind. She was going to examine some beautiful dresses, looking for flaws; it was an important task, her mother had explained, and only she could do it.

  She did not want to be late, and increased her pace. She had been told to be there at ten o’clock sharp, and ten o’clock it would be.

  Her mother, Alice Swann, often pointed out that punctuality might easily be her middle name, and this was always said with a degree of admiration. Alice took great pride in her daughter, and was aware of certain unique talents she possessed.

  Although Cecily was only twelve, she seemed much older in some ways, and capable, with an unusual sense of responsibility. Everyone considered her to be rather grown-up, more so than most girls of her age, and reliable.

  Lifting her eyes, Cecily looked up the slope ahead of her. Towering on top of the hill was Cavendon, one of the greatest stately homes in England and something of a masterpiece.

  After Humphrey Ingham, the First Earl of Mowbray, had purchased thousands of acres in the Yorkshire Dales, he had commissioned two extraordinary architects to design the house: John Carr of York, and the famous Robert Adam.

  It was finished in 1761. Lancelot “Capability” Brown then created the landscaped gardens, which were ornate and beautiful, and had remained intact to this day. Close to the house was a man-made ornamental lake, and water gardens at the back of the house.

  Cecily had been going to the hall since she was a small child, and to her it was the most beautiful place in the world. She knew every inch of it, as did her father, Walter Swann. Her father was valet to the earl, just as his father had been before him, and his great-uncle Henry before that.

  The Swanns of Little Skell village had been working at the big house for over 160 years, generations of them, ever since the days of the first earl in the eighteenth century. The two families were closely intertwined and bound together, and the Swanns had many privileges, and were exceedingly loyal to the Inghams. Walter always said he’d take a bullet for the earl, and meant it sincerely.

  Hurrying along, preoccupied with her thoughts, Cecily was suddenly startled and stopped abruptly. A figure had jumped out onto the path in front of her, giving her a shock. Then she saw at once that it was the young gypsy woman called Genevra, who often lurked around these parts.

  The Romany stood in the middle of the path, grinning hugely, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes sparkling.

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” Cecily exclaimed, stepping sideways swiftly. “You startled me. Where did
you spring from, Genevra?”

  “Yonder,” the gypsy answered, waving her arm toward the long meadow. “I see yer coming, liddle Cecily. I wus behind t’wall.”

  “I have to get on. I don’t want to be late,” Cecily said in a cool, dismissive voice. She endeavored to step around the young woman without success.

  The gypsy dodged about, blocked her way, muttering, “Aye. Yer bound for that owld ’ouse up yonder. Gimme yer ’and and I’ll tell yer fortune.”

  “I can’t cross your palm with silver, I don’t even have a ha’penny,” Cecily said.

  “I doan want yer money, and I’ve no need to see yer ’and, I knows all about yer.”

  Cecily frowned. “I don’t understand…” She let her voice drift off, impatient to be on her way, not wanting to waste any more time with the gypsy.

  Genevra was silent, but she threw Cecily a curious look, then turned, stared up at Cavendon. Its many windows were glittering and the pale stone walls shone like polished marble in the clear northern light on this bright May morning. In fact, the entire house appeared to have a sheen.

  The Romany knew this was an illusion created by the sunlight. Still, Cavendon did have a special aura about it. She had always been aware of that. For a moment she remained standing perfectly still, lost in thought, still gazing at Cavendon … she had the gift, the gift of sight. And she saw the future. Not wanting to be burdened with this sudden knowledge, she closed her eyes, shutting it all out.

  Eventually the gypsy swung back to face Cecily, blinking in the light. She stared at the twelve-year-old for the longest moment, her eyes narrowing, her expression serious.

  Cecily was acutely aware of the gypsy’s fixed scrutiny, and said, “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s the matter?”

  “Nowt,” the gypsy muttered. “Nowt’s wrong, liddle Cecily.” Genevra bent down, picked up a long twig, began to scratch in the dirt. She drew a square, and then above the square she made the shape of a bird, then glanced at Cecily pointedly.

  “What do they mean?” the child asked.

  “Nowt.” Genevra threw the twig down, her black eyes soulful. And in a flash, her strange, enigmatic mood vanished. She began to laugh, and danced across toward the drystone wall.

  Placing both hands on the wall, she threw her legs up in the air, cartwheeled over the wall, and landed on her feet in the field.

  After she had adjusted the red bandana tied around her dark curls, she skipped down the long meadow and disappeared behind a copse of trees. Her laughter echoed across the stillness of the fields, even though now she was no longer in sight.

  Cecily shook her head, baffled by the gypsy’s odd behavior, and bit her lip. Then she quickly scuffled her feet in the dirt, obliterating the gypsy’s symbols, and continued up the slope.

  “She’s always been strange,” Cecily muttered under her breath as she walked on. She knew that Genevra lived with her family in one of the two painted Romany wagons which stood on the far side of the bluebell woods, way beyond the long meadow. She also knew that the Romany tribe was not trespassing.

  It was the Earl of Mowbray’s land where they were camped, and he had given them permission to stay there in the warm weather. They always vanished in the winter months; where they went nobody knew.

  The Romany family had been coming to Cavendon for a long time. It was Miles who had told her that. He was the earl’s second son, had confided that he didn’t know why his father was so nice to the gypsies. Miles was fourteen; he and his sister DeLacy were Cecily’s best friends.

  * * *

  The dirt path through the fields led directly from Little Skell village to the backyard of Cavendon Hall. Cecily was running across the cobblestones of the yard when the clock in the stable block tower began to strike the hour. It was exactly ten o’clock and she was not late.

  Cook’s cheerful Yorkshire voice was echoing through the back door as Cecily stood for a moment catching her breath, and listening.

  “Don’t stand there gawping like a sucking duck, Polly,” Cook was exclaiming to the kitchen maid. “And for goodness’ sake, push the metal spoon into the flour jar before you add the lid. Otherwise we’re bound to get weevils in the flour!”

  “Yes, Cook,” Polly muttered.

  Cecily smiled to herself. She knew the reprimand didn’t mean much. Her father said Cook’s bark was worse than her bite, and this was true. Cook was a good soul, motherly at heart.

  Turning the doorknob, Cecily went into the kitchen, to be greeted by great wafts of steam, warm air, and the most delicious smells emanating from the bubbling pans. Cook was already preparing lunch for the family.

  Swinging around at the sound of the door opening, Cook smiled broadly when she saw Cecily entering her domain. “Hello, luv,” she said in a welcoming way. Everyone knew that Cecily was her favorite; she made no bones about that.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Jackson,” Cecily answered, and glanced at the kitchen maid. “Hello, Polly.”

  Polly nodded, and retreated into a corner, as usual shy and awkward when addressed by Cecily.

  “Mam sent me to help with the frocks for Lady Daphne,” Cecily explained.

  “Aye, I knows that. So go on then, luv, get along with yer. Lady DeLacy is waiting upstairs for yer. I understand she’s going to be yer assistant.” As she spoke Cook chuckled and winked at Cecily conspiratorially.

  Cecily laughed. “Mam will be here about eleven.”

  The cook nodded. “Yer’ll both be having lunch down here with us. And yer father. A special treat.”

  “That’ll be nice, Mrs. Jackson.” Cecily continued across the kitchen, heading for the back stairs that led to the upper floors of the great house.

  Nell Jackson watched her go, her eyes narrowing slightly. The twelve-year-old girl was lovely. Suddenly, she saw in that innocent young face the woman she would become. A real beauty. And a true Swann. No mistaking where she came from, with those high cheekbones, ivory complexion, and the lavender eyes … Pale, smoky, bluish-gray eyes. The Swann trademark. And then there was that abundant hair. Thick, luxuriant, russet brown shot through with reddish lights. She’ll be the spitting image of Charlotte when she grows up, Cook thought, and sighed to herself. What a wasted life she’d had, Charlotte Swann. She could have gone far, no two ways about that. I hope the girl doesn’t stay here, like her aunt did, Nell now thought, turning around, stirring one of her pots. Run, Cecily, run. Run for your life. And don’t look back. Save yourself.

  Two

  The library at Cavendon was a beautifully proportioned room. It had two walls of high-soaring mahogany bookshelves, reaching up to meet a gilded coffered ceiling painted with flora and fauna in brilliant colors. A series of tall windows faced the long terrace which stretched the length of the house. At each end of the window wall were French doors.

  Even though it was May, and a sunny day, there was a fire burning in the grate, as there usually was all year round. Charles Ingham, the Sixth Earl of Mowbray, was merely following the custom set by his grandfather and father before him. Both men had insisted on a fire in the room, whatever the weather. Charles fully understood why. The library was the coldest room at Cavendon, even in the summer months, and this was a peculiarity no one had ever been able to fathom.

  This morning, as he came into the library and walked directly toward the fireplace, he noticed that a George Stubbs painting of a horse was slightly lopsided. He went over to straighten it. Then he picked up the poker and jabbed at the logs in the grate. Sparks flew upward, the logs crackled, and after jabbing hard at them once more, he returned the poker to the stand.

  Charles stood for a moment in front of the fire, his hand resting on the mantelpiece, caught up in his thoughts. His wife, Felicity, had just left to visit her sister in Harrogate, and he wondered again why he had not insisted on accompanying her. Because she didn’t want you to go, an internal voice reminded him. Accept that.

  Felicity had taken their eldest daughter, Diedre, with her. “Anne will
be more at ease, Charles. If you come, she will feel obliged to entertain you properly, and that will be an effort for her,” Felicity had explained at breakfast.

  He had given in to her, as he so often did these days. But then his wife always made sense. He sighed to himself, his thoughts focused on his sister-in-law. She had been ill for some time, and they had been worried about her; seemingly she had good news to impart today, and had invited her sister to lunch to share it.

  Turning away from the fireplace, Charles walked across the Persian carpet, making for the antique Georgian partners desk, and sat down in the chair behind it.

  Thoughts of Anne’s illness lingered, and then he reminded himself how practical and down-to-earth Diedre was. This was reassuring. It suddenly struck him that at twenty, Diedre was probably the most sensible of his children. Guy, his heir, was twenty-two, and a relatively reliable young man, but unfortunately he had a wild streak which sometimes reared up. It worried Charles.

  Miles, of course, was the brains in the family; he had something of an intellectual bent, even though he was only fourteen, and artistic. He never worried about Miles. He was true blue.

  And then there were his other three daughters. Daphne, at seventeen, the great beauty of the family. A pure English rose, with looks to break any man’s heart. He had grand ambitions for his Daphne. He would arrange a great marriage for her. A duke’s son, nothing less.

  Her sister DeLacy was the most fun, if he was truthful, quite a mischievous twelve-year-old. Charles was aware she had to grow up a bit, and unexpectedly a warm smile touched his mouth. DeLacy always managed to make him laugh, and entertained him with her comical antics. His last child, five-year-old Dulcie, was adorable, and, much to his astonishment, she was already a person in her own right, with a mind of her own.

  Lucky, I’ve been lucky, he thought, reaching for the morning’s post. Six lovely children, all of them quite extraordinary in their own way. I have been blessed, he reminded himself. Truly blessed with my wife and this admirable family we’ve created. I am the most fortunate of men.

  As he shuffled through the post, one envelope in particular caught his eye. It was postmarked Zurich, Switzerland. Puzzled, he slit the envelope with a silver opener, and took out the letter.

 
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