The Cavendon Women Read online

  This was a desk she had chosen years ago, and it became her favorite, with its many drawers, little cubbyholes, and polished green leather top.

  Unexpectedly, a wave of lovely memories washed over her, and she was surrounded by the past for a few moments. The first diary she had kept, when she was a little girl, had been written here, and her first love letter. She had done her homework at this desk, always diligent about such things; gift cards to her family had been written in this spot, along with Christmas and birthday cards.

  Funny how she had liked desks so much when she was younger. She still did. She had three in her flat in Kensington. That was another safe haven. Thankfully, she could afford it, because of the trust from Grandfather Malcolm Wallace. Only she and Daphne had been given these trusts, because Grandfather Wallace, their mother’s father, had died before the other daughters were born.

  Leaning back in the chair, Diedre let her eyes wander around the room once more. It was light and spacious, and had a lovely oriel window with a window seat. The pale lavender-gray walls and matching silk draperies created a restful feeling, and she felt so comfortable here, and secure.

  Now she wished she hadn’t been so silly, that she had come to Cavendon more often in the past few years. After all, she had grown up here. She loved every inch of the house and the parkland, not to mention the gardens. The history of this estate was the history of the Inghams, and therefore part of her.

  Her father was a little hurt that she had not been home more often in the last few years. She had suddenly become conscious of this earlier today, when she had first arrived and gone to see him in the library. He had said this lightly, but she had caught a hint of sadness in his voice, and then it had passed. He was clever at hiding his feelings, of course. She had always known that about him. He would have made a good actor, she often thought.

  She had pointed out that she had seen him frequently at the Grosvenor Square house; he had laughed, informed her it wasn’t the same thing.

  He had obviously been very happy when she arrived this afternoon, most amiable and kind. Well, she was his eldest daughter, his firstborn girl. As she was leaving he had reminded her there was a small gathering, here in the library later, before tea, and that she must be there.

  And she would be. And at tea, also. Diedre hoped she could walk Great-Aunt Gwendolyn home, so that she could talk to her, confide her problem. A small sigh escaped her, and she bit her lip, and the worrying problem suddenly seemed unsurmountable as she thought of it again. Her close friend, Alfie Fennell, had recently told her someone was out to cause trouble for her at the War Office. He didn’t know who this was, or the reason why.

  And neither did she. Diedre loved the work she had been doing during the Great War, and had stayed on after the war had ended, remained in the same division. She had gone to work there in 1914, when she was twenty-one. Now she was thirty-three, and it was her life, in a certain sense. Without it she would be lost.

  Alfie’s news had shaken her up, shocked her, actually, and she had found it hard to believe. She didn’t want to be pushed out; she was frightened by the mere idea of this. It would ruin her life—what was left of it, now that her one true love was dead and gone.

  When she had finally ranted and railed at Alfie, and demanded he tell her everything he knew, he did so. And it wasn’t much, as it turned out.

  His cousin Johanna Ellsworth had been the first person to hear the rumor, and she had told Alfie at once, suggested he alert Diedre, inform her of a possible problem. Johanna was well connected and mixed in political circles.

  “But it is only a rumor,” Alfie had said last week. “Rumors don’t mean much, now do they?”

  Diedre thought they did mean something, and said so, adding that many people thought there was no smoke without fire.

  Now she focused on the word “rumor.” Who had started it? And why had they? Was it someone with a grudge against her? A competitor? Did she have an enemy inside the War Office? Was it from inside? Or outside? Was someone trying to scare her? If so, why? Part of her job was asking questions, and now she was asking them of herself, racking her brains.

  There was one thing she did know. All of those who ranked above her, the top brass, were truly satisfied with her work.

  Diedre felt certain that her great-aunt would be able to help her, because of her connections in the British government. She knew everyone of any importance, and was considered a genuine friend by many, and a lot of people were indebted to her. If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was Lady Gwendolyn.

  This aside, her aunt and she were very much alike, and were unusually close. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn was willing to listen to her any time, and to give her considered opinion, as well as good advice. Diedre couldn’t wait to confide in her. It would be a great relief just to unburden herself.

  Seven

  Henry Hanson sat in his office in the downstairs quarters of Cavendon Hall. Leaning back in his comfortable desk chair, the butler reread the menu for the dinner on Saturday evening. It had been created, as usual, by Lady Daphne, and it was perfect as far as he was concerned. But then she couldn’t do much wrong in his eyes; she had long been his favorite.

  Lady Daphne had chosen vichyssoise to start, and after the cold soup there would be Dover sole with parsley caper sauce. The main course was rack of baby lamb, fresh green peas from their own vegetable garden, and rösti. This was shredded potatoes, fried in hot oil until they became a crisp potato cake, a Swiss dish introduced into the household by Mr. Hugo, which everyone enjoyed.

  He glanced at the wine list, written by his lordship earlier today. He smiled to himself. As usual, Lord Mowbray had chosen his own particular favorites, but the Pouilly-Fuissé was a good choice for the fish, and the Pomerol would be perfect with the main course.

  The earl had made a note on the card, suggesting Hanson select the champagne himself. This would be served with the dessert, and he immediately thought of Dom Pérignon, but he would go to the wine cellar later. Perhaps something else might catch his eye.

  Rising, Hanson walked over to the window and looked out at the blue sky. It was a lovely day, very sunny, and he hoped the weather would last for the next few days. But, come to think of it, rain wouldn’t dampen anything, he decided. Happiness didn’t get diluted by rain.

  Hanson was excited that the earl had decided to have this family reunion, the first in six years, and delighted he had picked the middle of July.

  It smacked of old times, when all was well in the world and they gave the big summer dances, always a hit with everyone in the county. But the county wasn’t invited tomorrow, just the family.

  The last time there had been a reunion was the marriage of Miles to Clarissa Meldrew, a lovely affair, but everything had later gone askew for those two. He felt extremely sorry for Miles, who did not deserve the treatment meted out to him by Miss Meldrew.

  Aristocrat my foot, he thought, with a flash of snobbery mingled with anger. Nouveau riche, he muttered to himself, and the title very new, given for some kind of business endeavor. Hardly a match for the heir to the Earldom of Mowbray, centuries old, created in the mid-1770s. Miles’s pedigree is bred in the bone, and he’s to the manner born, Hanson thought, and she’s a nobody. Certainly she’s shown that to the world. And with bells on. Sometimes he wondered what that young woman would do next to upset Miles.

  Henry Hanson, who was now sixty-four, had worked at Cavendon Hall for thirty-eight years. The stately home and the Ingham family were the be-all and end-all of his life, and he was devoted to both.

  He had arrived here in 1888, when he was twenty-six, hired by the famous butler Geoffrey Swann, who had seen great potential in him. He had started as a junior footman, and risen through the ranks, well trained by his mentor.

  When Geoffrey Swann had unexpectedly died rather suddenly, ten years later in 1898, the fifth earl, David Ingham, had asked him to take over as butler. He had done so with great alacrity, and never looked back. The fifth earl
had trusted him implicitly, and so did his son, Charles Ingham, the sixth earl. He had proved their faith in him many times.

  So much so that the earl had recently confided in him, explaining the real reason for this reunion with his children and the rest of the family. Hanson was sworn to secrecy, and he would tell no one, as the earl well knew.

  Hanson was aware that Lady Daphne and Mr. Hugo also knew what this reunion was all about, and no doubt the Swanns did. They usually were aware of everything, and that was the way it had been forever … since the time of James Swann, liege man to Humphrey Ingham, who became First Earl of Mowbray and built Cavendon Hall.

  The Swanns were true blue, in Hanson’s opinion, and he had a lot of time for them. And whatever would the Inghams have done without them? God only knew. He, personally, was grateful for their existence.

  Turning away from the window, Hanson decided he would go to the wine cellar, look at the different champagnes. Dom Pérignon was undoubtedly the best, though. He would also look in on Cook, reassure her about Saturday’s dinner. She was a wonderful cook, having inherited the culinary talents of her aunt, Nell Jackson. Tomorrow there would be nineteen people for dinner, and she understood she had to be deft, prompt, swift, and on her toes the entire time. She was a capable young woman, and her food was delicious, but she had told him last week she was concerned about the big dinner. He knew she would be fine, do well, but now he must go and tell her that again, give her a boost.

  Hanson went out of his office, thinking about Nell, Susie’s aunt. He had been sorry to see her retire, but after standing on a stone kitchen floor for hours on end, day in, day out, cooking for the Inghams for the best part of her life, she had started to have problems with her legs. They were always swollen and red, and painful, and she had a backache, which troubled her greatly.

  In the end, retirement had been the only solution, but she still lived in Little Skell village, and had stayed in touch with them.

  There was a lot of the Jackson flair around Cavendon because of Susie. Nell’s niece was like her in almost every way, not only in her cooking, although she was taller than her aunt, heavier built, and a comedian at times, making all of them laugh. Her sense of humor was often a boon.

  “Mr. Hanson! Hello!” she exclaimed as he strode into the kitchen a moment later. “You’ve arrived just in time for a cup of tea. And how about a few sweet biscuits?”

  “Thank you, Cook, I wouldn’t say no,” he murmured, and sat down. “I just wanted to pop in to tell you to stop worrying about tomorrow evening. You’ll manage very well. I have no doubts about you, Susie. And you know the footmen and the maids are well trained; they’ll help you no end.”

  She laughed, poured tea into two cups. “That’s what Auntie Nell said this morning. I went down to the village to have a word with her, and she was very reassuring.” Susie smiled at him, and added, “Can you believe it? She said I was a far better cook than she’d ever been. That I was really a chef and that, if I went to London, I would easily get a job at the Ritz.”

  “I think she’s right,” Hanson answered sincerely. Nell had been a good cook, with long experience, but Susie was more inventive and imaginative with food, which put her in a different category altogether.

  They sipped their tea and munched on their biscuits in silence for a few seconds before Susie threw Hanson a questioning look. “We’re not looking for any maids, are we, Mr. Hanson?”

  He stared at her, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because my friend Meg Chalmers has just lost her job. She’s been a maid at Fullerton Manor for quite a few years. Now the family is closing the manor, throwing dust sheets on the furniture and locking the house up. For an indefinite period. They’re going to stay at their London residence. They’ve let all of the staff up here go, and everyone’s down in the dumps and desperately looking for work.”

  Hanson felt as if he had just been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. He had heard that the Fullertons were in a bad way, but had not realized how bad; yet another aristocratic family feeling the pinch, going under, he thought, and then said quietly, “No, we’re not hiring at the moment, Cook,” and left it at that.

  Whatever anybody else thought, he knew that Cavendon was still safe. Lady Daphne had assured him of that. Nonetheless, he did worry a lot, even though he knew she would never lie to him. Lately there had been a lot of penny pinching, and cuts, and Lady Daphne had discovered a new phrase. “We’re on a budget, Hanson.” When he heard those words he cringed.

  But Lady Daphne and Mr. Hugo were clever, and now that they were involved in the running of Cavendon there was a great deal of efficiency. Not that his lordship was inefficient, but his heart attack, which had felled him last year, had slowed him down.

  Mr. Hugo had insisted on taking matters into his own hands, and so had Miles. They all worked well together, made a good team.

  Last year, Miles had turned to him for guidance, and he had been happy to explain certain matters to do with the house. In fact, he had given him what turned out to be a short course on the house, and the many valuable possessions in it. All were exceedingly precious, from the paintings and the silver, to the magnificent antiques.

  The paintings in the Long Gallery included some extraordinary pieces, such as those by Constable, Gainsborough, and Lely. These three great portraitists had painted the Ingham ancestors; there were also wonderful Canalettos, Van Dycks, and Rembrandts. “Another safety net the earlier Inghams provided us with,” Lady Daphne had said to Miles one afternoon last week. He had looked at her askance. “Would we ever sell any?” he had asked, sounding slightly aghast. Hanson remembered now how she had answered in a low voice, “If we have to, we will.”

  He himself had jumped in, and exclaimed, “It will never come to that; surely not, Lady Daphne.” And he had flashed her a warning signal with his eyes.

  Understanding him immediately, she had smiled at her brother, and murmured, “However, things are improving. Hugo has sold some of our Wall Street investments, and we have a good cash flow again.” She had then turned to Hanson, and said, “Let’s continue our little tour of the house, go up to the attics, and Miles can view the rare antiques stored there.”

  Yes, she was clever, Lady Daphne, and Miles had been soothed because of her calmness and positive attitude.

  “About the Sunday luncheon,” Susie said, rousing Hanson from his reverie.

  He nodded, and replied at once. “Buffet style, as we decided, Cook. We always served the food that way when we had the summer cotillions. Lovely evenings they were. Well, not to digress. Lady Daphne’s menu is a good guideline for you, but you can add other dishes if you wish. Perhaps cold poached salmon, asparagus, and smoked salmon; dishes like that.”

  They went on talking for a few moments, and then finally Hanson left the kitchen, made his way to the wine cellar to select the champagne for tomorrow’s dinner. Definitely Dom Pérignon.

  Eight

  The light knocking made Diedre sit up straighter at the desk. She called, “Come in,” and looked at the door expectantly.

  It was Dulcie who appeared in the entrance to her bedroom, and for a second Diedre was astonished by her appearance. The girl bore a strong resemblance to Daphne when she was eighteen, was actually her spitting image. All blond and golden and blue-eyed … well, they all had blue eyes, of course. But here was the most gorgeous girl she had ever seen, except for her sister Daphne at the same age.

  Smiling hugely, Diedre got up and walked across the room toward her. When she came to a stop, she put her arms around Dulcie, and gave her a big bear hug, held her close for a moment, then stepped away.

  Dulcie was astonished by this gesture from her sister, who had scared the life out of her when she was a child.

  Diedre smiled at her once again, adding, “I haven’t seen you for almost two years, and you’ve become a true beauty, Dulcie. You look so much like Daphne when she was your age, it’s quite startling.”

  Even more taken a
back, Dulcie could only nod. After a split second, she found her voice. Peering at her eldest sister, she said, “What happened to you, Diedre? You were always the mean sister, saying very nasty things to me. Unkind things. Have you been taking nice pills?”

  Diedre stared at her, and then began to laugh. “You seem to have taken a leaf out of Great-Aunt Gwendolyn’s book—”

  “No, yours!” Dulcie shot back swiftly, cutting her off. “Definitely yours … there’s nothing quite like learning at the knee of the master, is there?”

  “Too true,” Diedre replied, laughter still echoing in her voice. Years ago she would have taken umbrage at Dulcie’s attitude and comments. But not now. The death of her lover had changed her, given her a different approach to life. She was much kinder, and nicer. Intense grief had taught her a lot about people, and about herself. Death had softened her; loss had taught her compassion.

  Now Diedre said, “I must have been really mean to you when you were little. I was, wasn’t I?”

  “I’ll say!” Dulcie answered sharply, walking into the bedroom, and sitting down in a chair near the oriel window. “I couldn’t do right for doing wrong, as far as you were concerned. You were nasty, said some really rotten things. You called me a little madame, for one thing.”

  Diedre shook her head, shocked to hear this. “How terrible, so awful of me actually. I must have been going through some strange stage myself.”

  “I doubt it, because you were always like that. Truly mean. At least to me. But in a way, you toughened me up, and that’s served me well,” Dulcie replied in her normal blunt manner. “However, there was no reason for you to be so cruel. I was only five. Just a little girl,” she finished in a sharp tone.

  “I’m so very sorry, Dulcie,” Diedre said, her voice filled with sincerity as she sat down at her desk and looked across at her sister. “I can’t bear the thought I treated you badly. That I was mean, unkind. Will you accept my apology? Can we be friends?”