The Cavendon Luck

  “I will indeed,” Charlotte said, getting to her feet. “Please let me know about the canning machine. And when I come back to get it, I shall look again at the cameo brooches, Mrs. Johnson. You have beautiful things.”

  “Thank you, Lady Mowbray, thank you very much.”

  “I must pay you for the cameo necklace,” Charlotte said, walking over to the counter. Opening her bag she took out her personal checkbook.

  * * *

  Later, on the way back to Cavendon, Charlotte wondered what to do. Should she keep this knowledge a secret? Or tell both women? She was floundering, on the horns of a dilemma.

  That evening, during dinner, it occurred to Charlotte that perhaps she ought to talk to Cecily about this unexpected situation. It was rather a momentous discovery. There was no doubt in her mind that Margaret Johnson was Great-Aunt Gwendolyn’s daughter. There was the physical resemblance to Diedre Ingham, and those Swann eyes they all had. Then the box of clothes and the christening robe, the hospital in Leeds, the mention of two dead solicitors. There was too much evidence now. And yet she felt the decision about telling the two women was difficult to make by herself, without advice.

  Cecily knew about the mysterious entry in the record book made so many years ago by Mark Swann. She had shown it to Cecily around the time she married Charles, just to prove something about the strong attraction the men and women of the two families had had for each other over the years.

  Mark Swann had been Walter’s father and Cecily’s grandfather. He was also the father of Margaret Johnson. Mingled blood. Swann and Ingham. History had repeated itself so many times.

  What was the best thing to do? Charlotte did not know. She would sleep on it. I’ll decide tomorrow, she thought. And she prayed to God for guidance.

  Thirty

  Hanson was in his element, which made him happy. He sat at his desk in his comfortable chair in his office downstairs, a few steps along from the kitchen.

  Spread out in front of him were the different lists for the weekend activities. He glanced at the calendar which stood next to the carriage clock. Today was Saturday, August 20 … the summer was almost over.

  By next month the leaves would be changing, and knowing the Yorkshire weather the way he did, he expected chill in the air by September.

  Leaning back in his chair, Hanson thought about the conversation the earl had started with him yesterday, one which had taken him mightily by surprise.

  Lord Mowbray had asked him if he would forgo his retirement at the end of the year and stay on at Cavendon as head butler. Taken aback though he was, Hanson had replied in the affirmative at once. “It will be my pleasure, your lordship,” he had answered swiftly, afraid the earl might change his mind suddenly. He had then asked politely the reason behind this request.

  His lordship had explained that war was inevitable. He said he supported Winston Churchill, who constantly shouted that appeasement wouldn’t work, that Germany would invade the rest of Europe, and also had its sights set on Britain.

  “All the young men will be called up, Hanson,” his lordship had continued. “That’s the way it always is. We lose the flower of our youth to war, because only young men are able to fight. The village will be made up of women, as will Cavendon Hall. I’m going to need you, Hanson, we all are.” His face was grave, his voice low. They both had Guy in their minds, the earl’s charismatic first son. Could war really be coming again for their boys and men?

  And that was the end of that, Hanson now told himself, shaking his head, his thoughts focusing on Gordon Lane, who would not be eligible to fight. Neither would Eric Swann, who, with his sister Laura, ran the London house of Miles and Cecily. So there would be a few men in the employment of the Inghams, but, in Hanson’s opinion, women were just as good, if not sometimes better.

  He smiled to himself, thinking of the last nine years and how Cecily Swann had led the four daughters of the earl in the battle to save Cavendon. She had been a great leader, a born commander, in his opinion. The four sisters had been as hardworking, diligent, and focused as she had. The men had helped, but it was really their achievement, he thought, as he looked down at the lists in front of him.

  The earl had selected the wine for the dinner tonight and on Sunday; the countess had written out the menus for both dinners, and for lunch today and tomorrow. Lady Charlotte usually left the planning of the afternoon tea menus to Cook and himself, and he understood it was a compliment of sorts. She had enough sense to trust them.

  Charlotte Swann, great-aunt of Cecily Swann, now the Countess of Mowbray, wife of the sixth earl. Cecily Swann, the wife of Miles Ingham, heir to the earldom, daughter-in-law of the sixth earl, and the future countess. Their son, David Swann Ingham, heir in waiting who would succeed his father as the Eighth Earl of Mowbray one day. Walter Swann, valet to the earl, father of a future Countess of Mowbray, father-in-law and grandfather to future Earls of Mowbray.

  A lot of Swanns about these days. Hanson smiled. He was overjoyed the Swanns were coming into their own. They deserved it. He had always had a lot of time for them; they were the mainstay of the great family they had been interlocked with for over a century and a half. Loyalty binds them, that was the truth.

  The small carriage clock struck six, and Hanson stood up, left his office, headed in the direction of the kitchen with the menus in his hand.

  Susie Jackson, who had been the cook for some years now, was already frying bacon. His nose twitched and his mouth watered, as he said, “Good morning, Susie. Thank you for putting the menus on my desk last night. Here they are.” He placed them on the Welsh dresser.

  She swung around, smiling, and said, “Oh good morning, Mr. Hanson. How about a bacon buttie? Or would you prefer bacon and eggs? Which do you fancy?”

  “The bacon sandwich, please. And a nice cup of your strong builders’ tea. That’s the best way to start the day.”

  Hanson sat down at the kitchen table, knowing that in about forty minutes the young maids would appear, along with the footmen. Breakfast for the family was served at nine in the dining room.

  Everyone had arrived last night, except for Lady Daphne, Mr. Hugo, and Mr. Charlie. They would be driving up from London this afternoon.

  As she turned the bacon in the frying pan, Cook said, “Her ladyship seemed a bit off last evening, rather absentminded.”

  “I thought of it as preoccupation,” Hanson answered, and got up, went and closed the kitchen door. “It struck me that she might be a bit worried about something, to be honest.”

  “I hope it’s not his lordship’s health that troubles her.”

  Hanson stared at Susie, and exclaimed, “But he’s in good health! I had a long chat with him yesterday, and he was in tiptop condition. On the mark about politics, planning for the future when war comes.” He shook his head and added somewhat vehemently, “No, no. It’s not Lord Mowbray that’s worrying her; it’s something else.”

  “Whatever it is, Lady Charlotte will deal with it,” Susie remarked. “She’s a strong, resilient woman.” Her admiration for Charlotte echoed in her voice.

  “Yes she is, thank God.”

  Cook put down the bacon butties for Hanson and herself on two plates, poured large mugs of tea, added milk and sugar, then carried the tray to the table.

  “Here you are, Mr. Hanson,” she said, placing the bacon sandwich in front of him. “Enjoy.”

  * * *

  “I once showed you a notation in one of the old record books,” Charlotte said. “Do you remember it, Cecily?”

  “Of course I do. It was strange, a little mysterious, the way it was written. It spoke of a relationship between a Swann and an Ingham. And a baby born dead.”

  Charlotte leaned across the table in the gazebo in Cavendon Park, and said in a low voice, “That couple was very much in love. They had another child. Some years later. It lived.”

  “What?” Cecily gasped, staring at her. She was obviously thunderstruck. “How do you know this?”

&n
bsp; “I found out. Or rather, I should say the mother of the child told me,” Charlotte murmured. Reaching out, she took hold of Cecily’s hand and held on to it. “I know this might come as a shock, but the mother of the child was Great-Aunt Gwendolyn.”

  Cecily was even more stunned, and she simply gaped at Charlotte, unable to speak, endeavoring to digest this information. Finally, she managed to say, “Have you just found this out?”

  “No, Cecily. It was years ago. Around the time of Dulcie’s marriage with James. Great-Aunt Gwen confided in me, and she made me promise to keep her secret. And I have. Until today.”

  “Why are you telling me now? You’ve broken your promise to Great-Aunt Gwendolyn. So things have changed. What’s happened?” Cecily gazed fixedly at Charlotte, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something’s occurred, I just know it. You’d never break your oath to an Ingham.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t.” Charlotte sat back in the chair and fell silent, her thoughts whirling around in her head. At last she said, “Well, of course you’re right, you’re very quick, Cecily. Quite by accident I met someone. Someone I’m fairly certain is the child Lady Gwendolyn had to give up fifty years ago.”

  “Why are you telling me?” Cecily asked, her eyes still riveted on Charlotte.

  “Because I don’t know what to do. I need your advice, Cecily. I can’t go to anyone else, only to a Swann.” She smiled faintly, and added, “And we are also both Inghams now.”

  Cecily nodded. “You have my loyalty, just as I know I have yours. So tell me the whole story.”

  Charlotte did, beginning with the gift of the swan brooch years ago to yesterday morning when Margaret Howell Johnson had told her that she was adopted, and Charlotte had been convinced of her identity. Charlotte did not leave out one detail, wanting Cecily to have the full picture.

  When she had finished her tale, she leaned closer to Cecily and asked, “So do I tell each woman? And which one first? Or do I let sleeping dogs lie, as your mother would insist?”

  “I don’t know,” Cecily answered. “But what a story it is, and how weird that you of all people would discover this.” There was a pause, and Cecily then asked, “Does she really look like Diedre?”

  “There is a very good likeness, yes, although Margaret is not quite as beautiful as Diedre, nor as blond, nor as chic.”

  “Nobody’s as chic as Diedre,” Cecily remarked, and then said, “Let’s weigh the odds. If you tell Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, I’m fairly certain she’ll want to meet the daughter she has thought about for the last fifty years. But she’ll be awfully upset if Margaret doesn’t want to meet her, don’t you think?” Cecily raised a dark brow, and thought to ask, “What about your eyes? Hasn’t Margaret noticed they’re the same peculiar color as hers?”

  “No. I don’t think people go around staring at the eyes of others. However, I believe you’re correct. I can’t say a word to Great-Aunt Gwendolyn until I’ve ascertained what Margaret feels about meeting her mother.”

  “There’s another thing,” Cecily warned. “You must not tell Margaret who her mother really is, not until you know what her feelings are. She mustn’t have Great-Aunt Gwen’s identity. No way.”

  “I agree with you again.” A long sigh escaped, and Charlotte said, “And what about Margaret talking to others? Saying Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon is her long-lost birth mother, that she had an affair with Mark Swann. You know it would be a local scandal of no mean proportions, even now in this day and age.”

  “And his lordship abhors scandals, Aunt Charlotte.” Cecily sat pondering and suddenly exclaimed, “There would have to be an oath of loyalty taken … loyalty binds me … after all, if Margaret really is whom you believe she is, she’s a Swann. And her father was my grandfather.”

  “But why would she take the oath? She hasn’t been brought up like we have … loyalty to the Inghams is bred in the bone with us. It’s second nature.”

  “What is she like as a person? I know you’ve only just met her, but you’re shrewd. Think, Aunt Charlotte. Is she a decent woman? Would she protect the honor of a very old lady? Does she have honor and integrity? A kind heart?”

  Charlotte sat shaking her head. “I just don’t know, Ceci. How could I? She seems like a nice woman, and certainly she’s got a genteel air about her, and I did notice her manners. They’re impeccable.”

  “You make her sound nice, but we don’t really know people, do we? Not even those we love … there’s always a little part we don’t get to see. A hidden part in everyone.”

  “You amaze me, Cecily,” Charlotte responded, studying her intently. “Because I’ve only just discovered that in the last few years, and I’m seventy years old.”

  “Would you like me to come with you when you go to Harrogate for the canning machine? I’m going to be in Yorkshire all week. I could make an assessment of her for you. What do you think?”

  “I’m relieved, Ceci. Thank you. I would appreciate it if you meet Margaret before I say a word to her about Great-Aunt Gwen.” Charlotte looked at her watch. “I think we’d better go up to the house. It’s almost time for lunch.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Diedre was walking through the grand entrance hall when she noticed Hanson standing on the staircase, peering at some of the portraits of her ancestors which lined the long side wall.

  “Is there something wrong with the paintings, Hanson?” she asked, walking over to the staircase.

  “No, Lady Diedre, they’re all in good condition. I was examining the frames. Some are very old. I think I will have to have the paintings well wrapped before they go into the storage crates.” As he spoke, he walked down the stairs to join her.

  “How are they being stored, just out of curiosity?” Diedre asked.

  “Ted Swann is making wooden crates, which the paintings will be slipped into. But I think the frames need some sort of padding around them. For protection. The gold leaf easily chips.”

  “You think of everything, Hanson, and I agree with you. Mrs. Miles told me you have prepared the cellars here, and that we can go down there to live when the Nazis start bombing us.”

  “They will invade us, won’t they, Lady Diedre?” Hanson trusted Diedre’s judgment, and also, she worked at the War Office.

  “Mr. Churchill thinks they will, and I tend to agree with him … I follow the leader, so to speak. His lordship is also a great supporter of Mr. Churchill, as you know, Hanson. Papa thinks he ought to be prime minister.”

  “Well said, Lady Diedre. I agree with his lordship.”

  “By the way, Hanson, I’m so happy you’ve agreed not to retire at the end of the year. Papa told me this morning that you’re staying on. It’s great news. Whatever would we do without you?”

  Hanson beamed at her. “I feel the same. Well, what I mean, my lady, is what would I do without this family? I’ve been here at Cavendon most of my life … I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, and I would miss you all…” He let out a sigh. “I would miss my work, that I would.”

  “I want to thank you for telling my son so much about our family history and the house, Hanson,” Diedre said, sincerity ringing in her voice.

  “It’s my pleasure, Lady Diedre.”

  “Do you know where Mrs. Miles is? I’ve been looking for her all over.”

  “I think she went to the office annex to do some work. At least, that’s what she said to me about ten minutes ago.”

  “I shall go over there. Thank you, Hanson.”

  He smiled and inclined his head. And he thought about this generation of Inghams and prayed they could get through what lay ahead.

  * * *

  Diedre found Cecily in her small office in the annex next to the stables. Her sister-in-law glanced up as she came in, and smiled warmly.

  Smiling back, Diedre said, “I’d like to talk to you for a moment or two, Ceci. Is there anyone here other than you?”

  “No. Harry doesn’t work on Saturdays, and Miles is with the children.” She
frowned. “You have a very solemn look on your face, Diedre. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”

  Diedre sat down opposite Cecily. “No. I have to explain something to you, though. And you cannot repeat what I’m now going to say. Not to anyone. Not even Miles.”

  Cecily nodded, a questioning look on her face.

  In a low voice, Diedre said, “I’ve heard from another contact of mine that there might be a way to get the Steinbrenners out of Berlin after all. Moves are being made. I don’t know anything more than that. And Greta cannot know in case the plan doesn’t work. She would be devastated if it failed. Which it well might. I have to warn you of that.”

  Cecily nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Diedre, obviously I’ll keep it to myself. But knowing something is in the works helps a bit, perks me up. I’ve been rather downhearted, to tell you the truth. Greta is somewhat troubled and naturally it affects me, makes me sad.”

  “Yes, I noticed that at dinner last night. You were quiet, seemed worried. That’s why I’m telling you about the sudden new development. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  “Fingers crossed, legs crossed, and everything else crossed,” Cecily replied. There was a moment’s hesitation before she asked sotto voce, “When is it supposed to happen?”

  “I don’t know … I’ll tell you, when and if I do acquire that information.”

  Thirty-one

  What was it about her?

  What was it that drew him to her like a magnet?

  That she was good-looking was a given. Her coloring was dramatic, so vivid it was quite startling at first: glossy black hair, pale ivory complexion, and eyes of such a deep blue they were almost violet.

  And she had inherited her famous father’s finely sculpted, classical features that made him so photogenic and had turned him into a matinee idol and international film star.

  However, Harry knew it was more than just her looks, the physical attraction she held for him. Paloma Glendenning had something else that would entice any man to her side. Part of this was her lovely personality, so warm and outgoing. There was nothing phony about her; she was natural, without tricks and artifice.