The Cavendon Luck

  When they finally arrived at Cavendon Hall, the chauffeur dropped her off at the office annex. When she went inside, Cecily found an envelope on her desk, and opened it quickly. It was a note from Charlotte with only a few words on it. We’re all set. 4 p.m. today. C.

  She pushed the note into her bag when the door suddenly opened and Miles came in, smiling broadly at the sight of her.

  After bending over and kissing her cheek, he asked, “How did it go? Was Dottie impressed with the main factory?”

  “She was, and I’ve asked her to try and think of a name for the clothing line.”

  “You know what?” Miles said, sitting down on the edge of her desk. “I like Cecily Swann Ready. And I think it would look elegant on a label if the word ‘Ready’ was underneath your name. Just visualize that. Go on, close your eyes like you always do, and see the label in your mind’s eye.”

  She did as he suggested, and in a second exclaimed, “Miles, you’re right. And the word ‘Ready,’ with the capital R, should be in gold thread, indicating it’s a special garment.”

  He nodded, and then said, “The word ‘special’ might also work. Anyway, we’ve time to play around with it.”

  “Yes, we do.” Leaning back in her chair, gazing up at him, she felt her love for him flooding through her. He was hers, her better half, her husband. She marveled that she could think that and say it. Because it was true now. How lucky they had been that life had worked for them, not against them, as it once had.

  “You’re staring at me with such intensity, Ceci, what’s going on in that brainy little head of yours?”

  She stood up, and drew close to him, put her hands on his shoulders, continuing to gaze unwaveringly into his blue eyes. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, and very passionately. He kissed her back, putting his arms around her. And they clung to each other for the longest moment.

  Finally breaking apart, Miles laughed softly, and then gave her a speculative look when he saw the expression on her face. She had a glow about her. “What is it, darling?”

  Bringing her face up to his, she whispered, “Let’s make a baby. I want another child with you.”

  Again putting his arms around her, he held her close to him. “But you were so relieved when you discovered you weren’t pregnant recently. Why this change of mind?”

  “I want to feel part of you growing inside me. I love you so much. And we always said we’d have four children.”

  He stroked her hair, his love brimming over. “I know. And now a war is coming. You said you didn’t want to bear a child, bring a new life into a war.”

  “I know. Suddenly I feel differently. And I’m not going to let the Nazis frighten me…” She sighed. “I’m totally defiant.”

  He held her away, and looked at her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “We’ve been lucky, you and I, Ceci. Many times blessed, and I have a grateful heart … for all that we have together. But I agree with you, let’s have another baby.” Then he added, with a wicked glint in his eyes, “And you know what they say. Practice makes perfect.”

  Cecily was so happy she hugged him tightly. When she finally let him go, she whispered, “It’s a deal, and we don’t have to shake hands. My word is my bond.”

  “As is mine. Come on, we’d better go to lunch with Papa and Charlotte.”

  Walking across the stable yard, hand in hand with him, she suddenly asked, “Have you heard from Harry? How was this weekend with Paloma?”

  “He did phone. He told me he’s going to stay on in London for a few days, if that was all right. I said I could manage. As a matter of fact, he sounded … euphoric. I think that’s the best word to use.”

  “Aha! That is good news. Let’s hope he’s found his soul mate.”

  “Those are few and far between, Mrs. Ingham, and hard to find. I can only add that I’m thankful I have mine right next to me.”

  Thirty-three

  If she was surprised to see the famous designer Cecily Swann walking into her shop, Margaret Howell Johnson did not display this.

  Gliding forward in her usual sedate way, she greeted both women cordially and, after being introduced to Cecily, said, “It is a privilege to meet you, Miss Swann. You are tremendously talented and I have been a great fan of yours for years.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” Cecily replied, trying not to stare too hard. In a sense, she didn’t have to, because the resemblance to Diedre was quite striking, and she was tall like Diedre and Great-Aunt Gwen.

  “You said you wanted to speak to me about something important, your ladyship, so I think it’s a good idea to go into my office.”

  “It is, Mrs. Johnson,” Charlotte answered. “Thank you.”

  Margaret Johnson’s office was large with a bay window facing the Parade. The Georgian desk stood in the bay, looking out into the room, and there was a seating arrangement composed of a sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace. Lovely paintings hung on the walls; the office looked more like a sitting room than a place of work, and was tastefully decorated.

  Once they were seated, Mrs. Johnson said, “I suppose you want to speak about the person who will come to Cavendon to show your WI ladies how to handle the canning machine. It will be Iris Dowling, who’s the treasurer of the Harrogate WI. She’s very skilled with the machine, and very helpful. You will like her. I’m sure.”

  “Thank you for telling me. We’re ready to welcome her any time this week, whenever it is convenient for her,” Charlotte answered. “Perhaps on Friday.”

  “Are you going to take the canning machine with you today, Lady Mowbray?”

  “If that’s all right, yes. I have the car and driver today, and he can help us.”

  Mrs. Johnson nodded, looked from Charlotte to Cecily, suddenly at a loss for words. She couldn’t help wondering what this was all about.

  Highly sensitive to other people, Charlotte noticed the bewilderment in Margaret Johnson’s eyes at once, and she said, “There is something else I must discuss. The other day, you spoke about your childhood. You also told me about your adoption. Later, because of the details you gave me, I realized that I knew your birth mother.”

  Instantly, shock registered on Mrs. Johnson’s face, and her voice rose an octave when she repeated, “My birth mother?”

  Charlotte nodded. “You have a look of her, and of someone else who is related to her.”

  Stunned though she was, Margaret Johnson exclaimed, “Then she’s still alive? Is she?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied.

  “And you’re sure of this, Lady Mowbray?”

  “I am positive.”

  Cecily cut in swiftly, “I have just met you today, Mrs. Johnson, but I do see the resemblance her ladyship is referring to. She has told me your story, and it certainly fits in with what Lady Mowbray also told me about the woman in question.”

  Margaret Howell Johnson was obviously still thunderstruck, and she sat staring at Charlotte and Cecily, without speaking. Many different emotions were flaring in her: shock, surprise, curiosity, and also a kind of fear.

  It suddenly occurred to Charlotte that Margaret might wonder why Cecily had accompanied her and she leaned forward slightly. “I asked Cecily to come with me, because she also knows the woman I believe to be your birth mother. She has just verified that she agrees with me with her words to you.” Charlotte glanced at Cecily and raised a brow.

  “I have had the same reaction as you, yes,” Cecily asserted.

  There was a short silence. None of them spoke.

  Cecily became aware that the only sounds were the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the ringing of a telephone in another room. She sat back in the chair, understanding that Margaret was endeavoring to come to terms with Charlotte’s announcement. It was news that anyone would be floored by, especially at the age of fifty.

  Charlotte finally broke the silence. In a soft, warm voice she asked, “Would you like to meet your mother, Mrs. Johnson?”

 
“M-m-meet my mother?” she stammered, suddenly starting to tremble. “Of course I want to meet her! I’ve always longed for that. To see her, to have her arms around me, to love her, to know she loved me. I’ve always felt that something was missing in my life … and it was her—” The flow of words stopped abruptly as tears rolled down Margaret’s cheeks, and she began to sob.

  Cecily took out a handkerchief, went and sat next to her on the sofa. After pressing the hanky into her trembling hands, Cecily said, “Lady Mowbray had to ask you that first, before she could mention this to your mother. You see, we know she will want to meet you. We didn’t want her to be disappointed if you refused.”

  Margaret’s head came up with a jerk, and she frowned, gaping at Cecily. “Why wouldn’t I want to see the woman I’ve thought about all my life?” she asked in a choked and trembling voice.

  “Some might not,” Cecily murmured gently.

  After drying her eyes, Margaret answered, “Yes, I suppose some might be angry. But I’m not. Will you tell her about me? Will you arrange a meeting, Lady Mowbray? Please.” Tears welled up again, and Margaret patted her eyes, tried again to gain control of her roiling emotions.

  “Yes, of course I will,” Charlotte reassured her.

  “Thank you,” Margaret managed to say, and wiped her eyes again. She sat back, trying to breathe normally, her mind racing, full of questions. Suddenly she asked, “Does she live in Harrogate?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Charlotte replied.

  “Where then?”

  “Another part of Yorkshire. I’ll take you to see her later this week, whenever you wish.”

  “Tomorrow? Could we go tomorrow?”

  “It might have to be Wednesday, Mrs. Johnson. I must prepare her…” Charlotte paused, hesitated, looked across at Cecily, who nodded that she should continue.

  Charlotte explained, “You see she’s quite old, much older than you probably think. My news will be as big a shock to her as it was to you, I can assure you of that.”

  Margaret Johnson frowned, looked perplexed. “What do you mean by ‘quite old’? She was a young woman, wasn’t she? A young woman from the gentry, who couldn’t marry my father?”

  “No, she wasn’t. She was a widow. And she wasn’t from the gentry, she is from the aristocracy. And she was almost forty-eight when you were conceived.”

  Stunned once again, Mrs. Johnson began to shake her head, obviously in disbelief. “That can’t be, it can’t be.”

  Cecily said, “This is the truth, Mrs. Johnson. Your birth mother never expected to become pregnant at that age. But she did. And she wanted to keep you, please, please believe that.”

  “I do believe it,” Margaret Johnson murmured. “Somehow, deep inside, I’ve always known that.”

  “I must be very discreet, Mrs. Johnson, in view of her great age. Let me tell her about you, and then when I come to pick you up on Wednesday, I promise I will tell you who she is.”

  “I understand,” Margaret Howell Johnson said, still finding it hard to come to terms with this astonishing news.

  * * *

  Diedre was still at the office on Monday evening, studying a map of Europe, which she had spread out on top of her desk. She had a red pen in her hand, and she was searching for Aachen on the map. When she found it she circled the name in red ink. As her eyes moved on to Paris, her telephone rang and she picked it up immediately, glancing at her watch as she did. It was seven o’clock.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “It’s me,” Tony said, his voice normal for the first time in several days.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At the British embassy, saying good-bye to my desk.”

  “So, you’re all set finally?”

  “I am. Scooting. Tomorrow.”

  “Earlier, then?”

  “That’s right, Daffy Dilly. Thanks to Monsieur D. What a wonder he is. Calming.” Tony chuckled. “Good at defrosting.”

  “So all’s well that ends well?” Diedre asked, also laughing for once.

  “So far, yes. I’ll be glad when I’m having tea with the clochards.”

  “You’ll call me from there?”

  “I will. So long, Daffy Dilly.”

  “I can’t wait,” Diedre answered, and hung up without saying good-bye. She felt a certain sense of relief that Tony, Dubé, and the Steinbrenners were now departing on Tuesday, because the papers had come in early from Valiant. The little group would leave Germany tomorrow morning, taking the nine o’clock Berlin–Paris train from the Schlesischer Bahnhof. They would travel through the heart of Germany, cross over into Belgium at Aachen, go on to France, and arrive in Paris at six-thirty on Wednesday morning. She knew one thing for sure: The trains in Germany always ran on time.

  It was a long overnight trip, but the only really worrisome part was crossing the border. At Aachen there were a multitude of border guards, border police, and always Gestapo hovering. But then the secret police were everywhere these days. It was normal.

  Her eyes went back to the map. She circled Paris, and then drew a long line which cut through from Berlin to Aachen, from Aachen to Liège, and ended in the City of Light.

  As she sat back in her chair, her thoughts ran on. Tony would deal with the British embassy visa division in Paris on Wednesday, and with a little luck the Steinbrenners would take the boat train to London thereafter. Unless they stayed the night in Paris to rest. That was a possibility … the Steinbrenners might need it. Saturday, she decided. I’ll aim for a Saturday arrival in London.

  Reaching for the phone, deciding to inform Cecily, she suddenly hesitated, put the receiver back in the cradle. Always wary, and cautious, she unexpectedly changed her mind. Not until they were on the train to London would she feel truly secure about the Steinbrenners. Only then would she tell Cecily that they were on their way to Greta. Fingers crossed.

  Thirty-four

  Ever since she was a small child, Cecily had been brought up to understand the rules. The Inghams came first, and then the Swanns and their entire family. Everything else was secondary. Now, early on Tuesday morning, walking up to the office annex, she thought of the Inghams or, more precisely, of Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon, the family matriarch, affectionately known as Great-Aunt Gwen.

  Cecily had always known that she was an unusual woman, unique, in fact, and as Miles often said, “They threw the mold away after they’d made her.” And he was right. She was a mixture of things: independent, strong, highly intelligent, tolerant, loving, and compassionate. Also, these traits aside, she was outspoken, had a clarity of speech that left no one in any doubt about what she meant. And she told everything the way it was, as she saw it anyway.

  For all these reasons, Cecily believed that Great-Aunt Gwendolyn would react appropriately when Charlotte told her about Margaret Howell Johnson. In other words, she would want to see the daughter she had given away at birth, and she would be happy about it. Of course there would be tears, but they would be tears of joy … and surprise, perhaps. It was bound to be a bit of a shock.

  Yesterday, on the way back from Harrogate, Aunt Charlotte had worried aloud about Great-Aunt Gwen and her nervousness about Gwen’s reaction to the news.

  Fortunately, Cecily had managed to convince Charlotte they should go together to see Great-Aunt Gwen, thus giving each other support.

  “But then she’ll know I’ve broken my vow to keep her secret a secret,” Charlotte had protested. Cecily had to explain that this didn’t matter. “She’ll understand that you did not want to make decisions about the matter alone, and, anyway, I’m a Swann, and took the oath, and she’ll be perfectly comfortable with that.”

  Eventually, Charlotte had accepted this, and had agreed with Cecily that they should tell Great-Aunt Gwen about her daughter immediately, adding, “Let’s not forget how old she is. I always think I’ll be awakened one morning by Mrs. Jasper, to be told she expired in her sleep.”

  This had been said in a light tone; Charlotte had
half smiled, and Cecily herself had laughed out loud. “That’s the way I want to go when I’m an old woman … in my sleep,” she had said.

  Last night, after dinner, they’d had a moment to talk quietly, and had made the decision to visit Lady Gwendolyn this morning.

  After unlocking the door of the annex, Cecily went inside, turned on all of the lights, and hurried into her own office.

  The contracts for the sale of the five factories were on top of her desk, and she looked at these once again, studied a couple of added clauses; she initialed these, then signed each contract.

  The deal was closed, and that made her feel comfortable; they were a safety net if war came. When it comes, she muttered to herself, dreading it.

  And then she thought of Greta. Her heart ached for her. The poor woman lived on the edge at the moment, frustrated, anxious, and troubled, because she could do nothing to change the family situation. And I can’t either, Cecily reminded herself. But maybe something good will happen through Diedre’s contacts in Berlin. Fingers crossed.

  Whenever she thought of their few days there, the admiral she had met with Diedre sprang into her mind. She was riddled with curiosity about how her sister-in-law knew him, but hadn’t dared to ask too many questions. Diedre had repeated what the admiral had said, that she knew his family through Maxine Lowe, but had not elaborated further on that. Curious though, that obvious friendship with a German officer in the High Command.

  Pushing aside these thoughts, Cecily took out the latest sketches she had done for the ready-made line, and studied them. She liked the clean-lined suits and dresses; they had a certain austerity to them which would suit the hard times which were coming. They could all be enlivened by fake jewels, such as brooches and ear clips, as well as her silk flower pins and colorful silk scarves. The dark colors worked with the tailored styles, deep burgundy, dark red, deep blue, royal purple, gray, and black …

  Her telephone rang and she picked it up at once. “Hello?”

  “It’s Harry, Ceci,” her brother said, sounding bright and cheerful. “I hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”