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Cavendon Hall
Barbara Taylor Bradford


A sweeping saga set around the aristocratic Ingham family of Cavendon Hall and the Swanns who serve them, set on the eve of World War 1.Two entwined families: the aristocratic Inghams and the Swanns who serve themOne stately home: Cavendon Hall, a grand imposing house nestled in the beautiful Yorkshire DalesA society beauty: Lady Daphne Ingham is the most beautiful of the Earl’s daugthers. Being presented at Court and then a glittering marriage is her destiny.But in the summer of 1913, a devastating event changes her future forever, and puts the House of Ingham at risk. Life as the families of Cavendon Hall know it – Royal Ascot, supper dances, grouse season feasts – is about to alter beyond recognition as the storm clouds of war gather.






















Copyright (#ulink_7308568b-14ef-5ab9-9660-436beb6f6777)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2014

Cover photographs © Ilena Simeonova/Trevillion Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (interior)

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007503209

Ebook Edition © November 2014 ISBN: 9780007503193

Version: 2017-10-25




Dedication (#ulink_0a1f30e5-3264-572d-851b-96a6a4574d0c)


For Bob, with all my love always


CONTENTS

Cover (#u0dff62b7-9ea6-5021-9412-fe9177ce2a8f)

Title Page (#ufed80d9b-051a-59b5-929c-c7128497f74c)

Copyright (#ud1abadc6-6b6b-5cef-ad07-6a5010f67b76)

Dedication (#ue1b9c7a0-9118-586a-9503-0074ee9bb312)

Characters (#u941f499f-ba92-5e9e-adf9-6d7960d96510)

Part One: The Beautiful Girls of Cavendon May 1913 (#u834c54ac-c255-5f04-8d9a-ddd11a6dbe42)

Chapter One (#u9ddf1373-536f-522d-a378-148fb3072c10)

Chapter Two (#ub47893b8-44d2-5e90-9bf2-5a75bf6df63b)

Chapter Three (#u469da4e0-4ce6-58cc-8e17-61f0a77fbc1d)

Chapter Four (#u56c2ce00-76a3-56df-8bb7-a8d64de435c1)

Chapter Five (#u16344cf3-e381-50c0-90ca-ee5f9d1e841e)

Chapter Six (#u7a3ea310-efec-5729-891b-e80b92a08f09)

Chapter Seven (#ua53cdaed-efbe-5a7b-a5e9-d7d01f726e9e)

Chapter Eight (#u29968edc-0121-5b49-aec3-284c64f7680f)

Chapter Nine (#u0356c42a-475d-5f97-8c6a-75e01070d2da)

Chapter Ten (#u1be98356-f127-52c0-b9c7-2d2e5389efff)

Chapter Eleven (#ude0c8006-a989-5c06-8758-e3414ae132cb)

Chapter Twelve (#uba61e471-7351-5058-8835-6c847ac93895)

Chapter Thirteen (#u70b1a97d-291e-57d5-966d-01e1a348a231)

Chapter Fourteen (#ub40bc7e7-5cdd-50a4-835b-81eef3b345d3)

Part Two: The Last Summer July–September 1913 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three: Frost on Glass January 1914–January 1915 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four: River of Blood May 1916–November 1918 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Five: A Matter of Choice September 1920 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)





CHARACTERS (#ulink_701c5391-9e19-5232-bbdb-2871437690b9)

ABOVE THE STAIRS

THE INGHAMS IN 1913


Charles Ingham, 6th Earl of Mowbray, aged 44. Owner and custodian of Cavendon Hall. Referred to as Lord Mowbray.

Felicity Ingham, his wife, the Countess of Mowbray, aged 43. An heiress in her own right through her late father, an industrialist. Addressed as Lady Mowbray.




THEIR CHILDREN


Guy Ingham, the heir to the earldom, aged 22. Attending Oxford University. He has the title of the Honourable Guy Ingham.

Miles Ingham, the second son, aged 14, attending Eton College. He is known as the Honourable Miles Ingham.

Lady Diedre Ingham, eldest daughter, aged 20, living at home.

Lady Daphne Ingham, second daughter, aged 17, living at home.

Lady DeLacy Ingham, third daughter, aged 12, living at home.

Lady Dulcie Ingham, fourth daughter, aged 5, the baby of the family, in care of the nanny.

The four girls are referred to affectionately as the four Dees by the staff.




OTHER INGHAMS


Lady Lavinia Ingham Lawson, married sister of the Earl, aged 40. She lives at Skelldale House, on the estate, when in Yorkshire. She is mostly in London. She is married to John Edward Lawson, known as Jack. He is a business tycoon.

Lady Vanessa Ingham, the spinster sister of the Earl, aged 34, who has her own private suite of rooms at Cavendon, which she uses when in Yorkshire. She spends most of her time in London.

Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon, the widowed aunt of the Earl, aged 72, who resides at Little Skell Manor on the estate. She was married to the late Paul Baildon.

The Honourable Hugo Ingham Stanton, first cousin of the Earl, aged 32. He is the nephew of Lady Gwendolyn, the sister of his late mother, Lady Evelyne Ingham Stanton. He has been living abroad for years. His father was the late Ian Stanton, a racehorse breeder and owner.




BETWEEN STAIRS

THE SECOND FAMILY: THE SWANNS


The Swann family has been in service to the Ingham family for over one hundred and sixty years. Consequently, their lives have been intertwined in many different ways. Generations of Swanns have lived in Little Skell village, adjoining Cavendon Park, and still do. The present-day Swanns are as devoted and loyal to the Inghams as their forebears were, and would defend any member of the family with their lives. The Inghams trust them implicitly, and vice versa.




THE SWANNS IN 1913


Walter Swann, valet to the Earl, aged 35. Head of the Swann family.

Alice Swann, his wife, aged 32. A clever seamstress who takes care of the Countess’s clothes and makes outfits and frocks for the daughters.

Harry, son, aged 15. An apprentice landscape gardener at Cavendon Hall.

Cecily, daughter, aged 12, who is allowed to attend lessons at Cavendon Hall with DeLacy.




OTHER SWANNS


Percy, younger brother of Walter, aged 32. Head gamekeeper at Cavendon.

Edna, wife of Percy, aged 33. Does occasional work at Cavendon.

Joe, their son, aged 12. Works at Cavendon as a junior woodsman.

Bill, first cousin of Walter, aged 27. Head landscape gardener at Cavendon. He is unmarried.

Ted, first cousin of Walter, aged 38. Head of interior maintenance and carpentry at Cavendon. Widowed.

Paul, son of Ted, aged 14, apprenticed to his father as a designer.

Eric, brother of Ted, first cousin of Walter, aged 33. Butler at the London house of Lord Mowbray. Single.

Laura, sister of Ted, first cousin of Walter, aged 26. Housekeeper at the London house of Lord Mowbray. Single.

Charlotte, aunt of Walter and Percy, aged 45. Retired from service at Cavendon. Charlotte is the matriarch of the Swann family. She is treated with great respect by everyone, and with a certain deference by the Inghams. Charlotte was the secretary and personal assistant to David Ingham, the 5th Earl, until his death. There was some speculation about the true nature of their relationship.

Dorothy Pinkerton, née Swann, cousin of Charlotte and the Swanns. She lives in London and is married to Howard Pinkerton, a Scotland Yard detective.




CHARACTERS BELOW STAIRS


Mr Henry Hanson, Butler

Mrs Agnes Thwaites, Housekeeper

Mrs Nell Jackson, Cook

Miss Olive Wilson, Lady’s maid to the Countess

Mr Malcolm Smith, Head footman

Mr Gordon Lane, Second footman

Miss Elsie Roland, Head housemaid

Miss Mary Ince, Second housemaid

Miss Peggy Swift, Third housemaid

Miss Polly Wren, Kitchen maid

Mr Stanley Gregg, Chauffeur




OTHER EMPLOYEES


Miss Maureen Carlton, the nanny, usually addressed as Nanny or Nan.

Miss Audrey Payne, the governess, usually addressed as Miss Payne. The governess is not at Cavendon in the summer. The children are not in school.




THE OUTDOOR WORKERS


A great stately home such as Cavendon Hall, with thousands of acres of land, and a huge grouse moor, employs many local people. This is its purpose for being, as well as providing a private home for a great family. It offers employment to the local villagers, and also land for local tenant farmers. The villages surrounding Cavendon were built by various earls of Mowbray to provide housing for their workers; churches and schools were also built, as well as post offices and small shops at later dates. The villages around Cavendon are Little Skell, Mowbray and High Clough.

There are a great number of outside workers: a head gamekeeper and five additional gamekeepers; beaters and flankers who work when the grouse season starts. Other outdoor workers include woodsmen, who take care of the surrounding woods for shooting in the lowlands at certain times of the year. The gardens are cared for by a head landscape gardener, and five other gardeners working under him.

The grouse season starts in August, on the Glorious Twelfth, as it is called. It finishes in December. The partridge season begins in September. Duck and wild fowl are shot at this time. Pheasant shooting starts on 1 November and goes on until December. The men who come to shoot at Cavendon are usually aristocrats, and always referred to as the Guns, i.e., the men using the gun.




PART ONE (#ulink_ee1f84c1-4cc0-586c-bba8-66bc3c22ffe4)

The Beautiful Girls of Cavendon May 1913 (#ulink_ee1f84c1-4cc0-586c-bba8-66bc3c22ffe4)


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 Tennyson




ONE (#ulink_6a780ea7-d324-53b8-9e75-d0c8a53ce4d5)


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 towards 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 1st 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 manmade ornamental lake, and there were 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 one hundred and sixty years, generations of them, ever since the days of the 1st Earl in the eighteenth century. The two families were closely intertwined and bound together; 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 towards 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 tried 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, 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 towards the dry-stone wall.

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

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 she was no longer in sight.

Cecily shook her head, baffled by the gypsy’s odd behaviour, 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 her best friends.

The dirt path through the fields led directly from Little Skell village to the back yard 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 door-knob, 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 favourite; 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-grey 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 (#ulink_e5cbee10-0c76-5574-a1fa-088c293e6316)


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 colours. A series of tall windows faced the long terrace that 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 6th 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 towards 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 upwards, 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 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 that 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 utterly loyal: 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; 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.

When he glanced at the signature, Charles was taken aback. The letter had been written by his first cousin, Hugo Ingham Stanton. He hadn’t heard from Hugo since he had left Cavendon at sixteen, although Hugo’s father had told Charles his son had fared well in the world. He had often wondered about what had become of Hugo. No doubt he was about to find out now.

April 26th, 1913

Zurich

My dear Charles,

I am sure that you will be surprised to receive this letter from me after all these years. However, because I left Cavendon in the most peculiar circumstances, and at such odds with my mother, I decided it would be better if I cut all contact with the family at that time. Hence my long silence.

I continued to see my father until the day he died. No one else wrote to me in New York, and I therefore did not have the heart to put pen to paper. And so years have passed without contact.

I will not bore you with a long résumé of my life for the past sixteen years. Suffice it to say that I did well, and I was particularly lucky that Father sent me to his friend, Benjamin Silver. I became an apprentice in Mr Silver’s real-estate company in New York. He was a good man, and brilliant. He taught me everything there was to learn about the real-estate business, and, I might add, he taught me well.

I acquired invaluable knowledge, and, much to my own surprise, I was a success. When I was twenty-two I married Mr Silver’s daughter, Loretta. We had a very happy union for nine years, but sadly there were no children. Always fragile in health, Loretta died here in Zurich a year ago, much to my sorrow and distress. For the past year, since her passing, I have continued to live in Zurich. However, loneliness has finally overtaken me, and I have a longing to come back to the country of my birth. And so I have now made the decision to return to England.

I wish to reside in Yorkshire on a permanent basis. For this reason I would like to pay you a visit, and sincerely hope that you will receive me cordially at Cavendon. There are many things I wish to discuss with you, and most especially the property I own in Yorkshire.

I am planning to travel to London in June, where I shall take up residence at Claridge’s Hotel. Hopefully I can visit you in July, on a date that is convenient to you.

I look forward to hearing from you in the not-too-distant future. With all good wishes to you and Felicity.

Sincerely, your Cousin,

Hugo

Charles leaned back in the chair, still holding the letter in his hand. Finally, he placed it on the desk, and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of Little Skell Manor, the house which had belonged to Hugo’s mother, and which he now owned. No doubt Hugo wanted to take possession of it, which was his legal right.

A small groan escaped him, and Charles opened his eyes and sat up in the chair. No use turning away from the worries flooding through him. The house was Hugo’s property. The problem was that their aunt, Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon, resided there, and at seventy-two years old she would dig her feet in if Hugo endeavoured to turf her out.

The mere thought of his aunt and Hugo doing battle sent an icy chill running through Charles, and his mind began to race as he sought a solution to this difficult situation.

Finally he rose, walked over to the French doors opposite his desk, and stood looking out at the terrace, wishing Felicity were here. He needed somebody to talk to about this problem. Right away.

Then he saw her, hurrying down the steps, making for the wide gravel path that led to Skelldale House. Charlotte Swann. The very person who could help him. Of course she could.

Without giving it another thought, Charles stepped out onto the terrace. ‘Charlotte!’ he called. ‘Charlotte! Come back!’

On hearing her name, Charlotte instantly turned around, her face filling with a smile when she saw him. ‘Hello,’ she responded, lifting her hand in a wave. As she did this she began to walk back up the terrace steps. ‘Whatever is it?’ she asked when she came to a stop in front of him. Staring up into his face, she said, ‘You look very upset … is something wrong?’

‘Probably,’ he replied. ‘Could you spare me a few minutes? I need to show you something, and to discuss a family matter. If you have time, if it’s not inconvenient now. I could—’

‘Oh Charlie, come on, don’t be silly. Of course it’s not inconvenient. I was only going to Skelldale House to get a frock for Lavinia. She wants me to send it to London for her.’

‘That’s a relief. I’m afraid I have a bit of a dilemma.’ Taking her arm, he led her into the library, continuing, ‘What I mean is, something has happened that might become a dilemma. Or even a battle royal.’




THREE (#ulink_d396fbba-90f3-5b10-89c7-ae4b0071d187)


When they were alone together, there was an easy familiarity between Charles Ingham and Charlotte Swann.

This unselfconscious acceptance of each other sprang from their childhood friendship, and a deeply ingrained loyalty that had remained intact over the years.

Charlotte had grown up with Charles and his two younger sisters, Lavinia and Vanessa, and had been educated with them by the governess who was in charge of the schoolroom at Cavendon Hall at that time.

This was one of the privileges bestowed on the Swanns over a hundred years earlier, by the 3rd Earl of Mowbray: A Swann girl was invited to join the Ingham children for daily lessons. The 3rd Earl, a kind and charitable man, respected the Swanns, appreciated their dedication and loyalty to the Inghams through the generations, and it was his way of rewarding them. The custom had continued up to this very day, and it was now Cecily Swann who went to the schoolroom with DeLacy Ingham for their lessons with Miss Audrey Payne, the governess.

When they were little, Charlotte and Charles had enjoyed irking his sisters by calling each other Charlie, chortling at the confusion this created. They had been inseparable until he had gone off to Eton. Nevertheless, their loyalty and concern for each other had lasted over the years, albeit in a slightly different way. They didn’t mingle or socialize once Charles had gone to Oxford, and, in fact, they lived in entirely different worlds. When they were with his family, or other people, they addressed each other formally, and were respectful.

But it existed still, that childhood bond, and they were both aware of their closeness, although it was never referred to. He had never forgotten how she had mothered him, looked out for him when they were small. She was only one year older than he was, but it was Charlotte who took charge of them all.

She had comforted him and his sisters when their mother had suddenly and unexpectedly died of a heart attack; commiserated with them when, two years later, their father had remarried. The new Countess was the Honourable Harriette Storm, and they all detested her. The woman was snobbish, brash and bossy, and had a mean streak. She had trapped the grief-stricken Earl, who was lonely and lost, with her unique beauty, which Charlotte loved to point out was only skin deep, after all.

They had enjoyed playing tricks on her, the worse the better, and it was Charlotte who had come up with a variety of names for her: Bad Weather, Hurricane Harriette and Rainy Day, to name just three of them. The names made them laugh, had helped them to move on from the rather childish pranks they played. Eventually they simply poked fun at her behind her back.

The marriage had been abysmal for the Earl, who had retreated behind a carapace of his own making. And it had not lasted long. Hateful Harriette soon returned to London. It was there that she died, not long after her departure from Cavendon. Her liver failed because it had been totally destroyed by the huge quantities of alcohol she had consumed since her debutante days.

Charles suddenly thought of the recent past as he stood watching Charlotte straightening the horse painting by George Stubbs, remembering how often she had done this when she had worked for his father.

With a laugh, he said, ‘I just did the same thing a short while ago. That painting’s constantly slipping, but then I don’t need to tell you that.’

Charlotte swung around. ‘It’s been re-hung numerous times, as you well know. I’ll ask Mr Hanson for an old wine cork again, and fix it properly.’

‘How can a wine cork do that?’ he asked, puzzled.

Walking over to join him, she explained, ‘I cut a slice of the cork off and wedge it between the wall and the bottom of the frame. A bit of cork always holds the painting steady. I’ve been doing it for years.’

Charles merely nodded, thinking of all the bits of cork he had been picking up and throwing away for years. Now he knew what they had been for.

Motioning to the chair on the other side of the desk, he said, ‘Please sit down, Charlotte, I need your advice.’

She did as he asked, and glanced at him as he sat down himself, thinking that he was looking well. He was forty-four, but he didn’t look it. Charles was athletic, as his father had been, and kept himself in shape. Like most of the Ingham men, he was tall, attractive, had their clear blue eyes, a fair complexion and light brown hair. Wherever he went in the world, she was certain nobody would mistake him for being anything but an Englishman. And an English gentleman at that. He was refined looking, had a classy air about him, and handled himself with a certain decorum.

Leaning across the desk, Charles handed Charlotte the letter from Hugo. ‘I received this in the morning post and, I have to admit, it genuinely startled me.’

She took the letter from him, wondering who had sent it. Charlotte had a quick mind, was intelligent and astute. And having worked as the 5th Earl’s personal assistant for years, there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Cavendon, and everybody associated with it. She was not at all surprised when she saw Hugo’s signature; she had long harboured the thought that this particular young man would show up at Cavendon one day.

After reading the letter quickly, she said, ‘You think he’s coming back to claim Little Skell Manor, don’t you?’

‘Of course. What else?’

Charlotte nodded in agreement, and then frowned, and pursed her lips. ‘But surely Cavendon is full of unhappy memories for him?’

‘I would think that’s so; on the other hand, as you’ve seen, Hugo says in his letter that he wishes to discuss the property he owns here, and also informs me that he plans to live in Yorkshire permanently.’

‘At Little Skell Manor. And perhaps he doesn’t care that he will have to turn an old lady out of the house she has lived in for donkey’s years, long before his parents died, in fact.’

‘Quite frankly, I don’t know. I haven’t laid eyes on him for sixteen years. Since he was sixteen, actually. However, he must be fully aware that our aunt still lives there.’ Charles threw her a questioning look, raising a brow.

‘It’s quite easy to check on this well-known family, even long-distance,’ Charlotte asserted. Sitting back in the chair, she was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I remember Hugo. He was a nice boy. But he might well have changed, in view of what happened to him here. He was treated badly. You must recall how angry your father was when his sister sent Hugo off to America.’

‘I do,’ Charles replied. ‘My father thought it was ridiculous. He didn’t believe Hugo caused Peter’s death. Peter had always been a risk-taker, foolhardy. To go out on the lake here, in a little boat, late at night when he was drunk, was totally irresponsible. My father always said Hugo tried to rescue his brother, to save him, and then got blamed for his death.’

‘We mustn’t forget that Peter was Lady Evelyne’s favourite. Your aunt never paid much attention to Hugo. It was sad. A tragic affair, really.’

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. ‘You know how much I trust your judgement. So tell me this – what am I going to do? There will be an unholy row, a scandal, if Hugo does take back the manor. Which of course he can, legally. What happens to Aunt Gwendolyn? Where would she live? With us here in the East Wing? That’s the only solution I can come up with.’

Charlotte shook her head vehemently. ‘No, no, that’s not a solution! It would be very crowded with you and Felicity, and six children, and your sister Vanessa. Then there’s the nanny, the governess, and all the staff. It would be like … well … a hotel. At least to Lady Gwendolyn it would. She’s an old lady, set in her ways, independent, used to running everything. By that I mean her own household, with her own staff. And she’s fond of her privacy.’

‘Possibly you’re right,’ Charles muttered. ‘She’d be aghast.’

Charlotte went on, ‘Your aunt would feel like … a guest here, an intrusion. And I believe she would resent being bundled in here with you, with all due respect, Charles. In fact, she’ll put up a real fight, I fear, because she’ll be most unhappy to leave her house.’

‘It isn’t hers,’ Charles said softly. ‘Pity her sister Evelyne never changed her will. My aunt will have to move. There’s no way around that.’ He sat back in the chair, a gloomy expression settling on his face. ‘I do wish Cousin Hugo wasn’t planning to come back and live here. What a blasted nuisance this is.’

‘I don’t want to make matters worse,’ Charlotte began, ‘but there’s another thing. Don’t—’

‘What are you getting at?’ he interrupted swiftly, alarm surfacing. He sat up straighter in the chair.

‘We know Lady Gwendolyn will be put out, but don’t you think Hugo’s presence on the estate is going to upset some other people as well? There are still those who think Hugo was responsible for Peter’s death, and—’

‘That’s because they don’t know the facts,’ he cut in sharply. ‘Or they won’t accept them.’

Charlotte remained silent, her mind racing.

Getting up from the chair, Charles walked over to the fireplace, stood with his back to it, imagining worrying scenarios. He still thought the only way to deal with this matter easily and in a kindly way was to invite his aunt to live with them. Perhaps Felicity could talk to her. His wife had a rather persuasive manner and much charm.

Charlotte stood up, and joined him near the fireplace. As she approached him she couldn’t help thinking how much he resembled his father in certain ways. He had inherited some of his father’s mannerisms, often sounded like him.

Instantly her mind turned to David Ingham, the 5th Earl of Mowbray. She had worked for him for twenty years, until he had died. Eight years ago now. As those happy days, still so vivid, came into her mind, she thought of the South Wing at Cavendon. It was there they had worked, alongside Mr Harris, the accountant, Mr Nelson, the estate manager, and Maude Greene, the secretary.

‘The South Wing, that’s where Lady Gwendolyn could live!’ Charlotte blurted out as she came to a stop next to Charles.

‘Those rooms Father used as offices? Where you worked?’ he asked, and then a wide smile spread across his face. ‘Charlotte, you’re a genius. Of course she could live there. And very comfortably.’

Charlotte nodded, and hurried on, her enthusiasm growing. ‘Your father put in several bathrooms and a small kitchen, if you remember. When you built the office annexe in the stable block, all of the office furniture was moved over there. The sofas, chairs and drawing-room furniture came down from the attics and into the South Wing.’

‘Exactly. And I know the South Wing is constantly well maintained by Hanson and Mrs Thwaites. Every wing of Cavendon is kept in perfect condition, as you’re aware.’

‘If Lady Gwendolyn agreed, she would have a self-contained flat, in a sense, and total privacy,’ Charlotte pointed out.

‘That’s true, and I would be happy to make as many changes as she wished.’ Taking hold of her arm, he continued, ‘Let’s go and look at those rooms in the South Wing, shall we? You do have time, don’t you?’

‘I do, and that’s a good idea, Charles,’ she responded. ‘Because you have no alternative but to invite Hugo Stanton to visit Cavendon. And I think you must be prepared for the worst. He might well want to take possession of Little Skell Manor immediately.’

His chest tightened at her words, but he knew she was right.

As they moved through the various rooms in the South Wing, and especially those that his father had used as offices, Charles thought of the relationship between his father and Charlotte.

Had there been one?

She had come to work for him when she was a young girl, seventeen, and she had been at the 5th Earl’s side at all times, had travelled with him, and been his close companion as well as his personal assistant. It was Charlotte who had been with his father when he died.

Charles was aware there had been speculation about their relationship, but never any real gossip. No one knew anything. Perhaps this was due to total discretion on his father’s part and Charlotte’s … that there was not a whiff of a scandal about them.

He glanced across at Charlotte. They were in the lavender room, and she was explaining to him that his aunt might like to have it as her bedroom. He was only half listening.

A raft of brilliant spring sunshine was slanting into the room, was turning her russet hair into a burnished helmet around her face. As always, she was pale, and her light greyish-blue eyes appeared enormous. For the first time in years, Charles saw her objectively. And he realized what a beautiful woman she was; she looked half her true age.

Thrown into her company every day for twenty years, how could his father have ever resisted her? Charles Ingham was now positive they had been involved with each other. And on every level.

It was an assumption on his part. There was no evidence. Yet at this moment it had suddenly become patently obvious to him. Charles had grown up with his father and Charlotte, and knew them better than anyone, even better than his wife Felicity, and he certainly knew her very well indeed. And he had had insight into them, had been aware of their flaws and their attributes, dreams and desires; and so he believed, deep in his soul, that it was more than likely they had been lovers.

Charles turned away, realizing he had been staring so hard she had become aware of his penetrating scrutiny. Moving quickly, saying something about the small kitchen, he hurried out of the lavender room into the corridor.

And why does all this matter now? he asked himself. His father was dead. And if Charlotte had made him happy, and eased his burdens, then he was glad. Charles hoped they had loved each other.

But what about Charlotte? How did she feel these days? Did she miss his father? Surely she must. All of a sudden he was filled with concern for her. He wanted to ask her how she felt. But he didn’t dare. It would be an unforgivable intrusion on her privacy, and he had no desire to embarrass her.




FOUR (#ulink_3aaa17c5-5ada-5faf-bff1-6292e6b2049e)


The evening gown lay on a white sheet, on the floor of Lady DeLacy Ingham’s bedroom. DeLacy was the twelve-year-old daughter of the Earl and Countess, and Cecily’s best friend. This morning she was excited, because she had been allowed to help Cecily with the dresses. These had been brought down from the large cedar storage closet in the attics. Some were hanging in the sewing room, awaiting Alice’s inspection; two others were here.

The gown that held their attention was a shimmering column of green, blue and turquoise crystal beads, and to the two young girls kneeling next to it, the dress was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

‘Daphne’s going to look lovely in it,’ DeLacy said, staring across at Cecily. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Cecily nodded. ‘My mother wants me to seek out flaws in the dress, such as broken beads, broken threads, any little problems. She needs to know how many repairs it needs.’

‘So that’s what we’ll do,’ DeLacy asserted. ‘Shall I start here? On the neckline and the sleeves?’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Cecily answered. ‘I’ll examine the hem, which my mother says usually gets damaged by men. By their shoes, I mean. They all step on the hem when they’re dancing.’

DeLacy nodded. ‘Clumsy. That’s what they are,’ she shot back, always quick to speak her mind. She was staring down at the dress, and exclaimed, ‘Look, Ceci, how it shimmers when I touch it.’ She shook the gown lightly. ‘It’s like the sea, like waves, the way it moves. It will match Daphne’s eyes, won’t it? Oh, I do hope she meets a duke’s son when she’s wearing it.’

‘Yes,’ Cecily muttered absently, her head bent as she concentrated on the hemline of the beaded gown. It had been designed and made in Paris by a famous designer, and the Countess had only worn it a few times. Then it had been carefully stored, wrapped in white cotton and placed in a large box. The gown was to be given to Daphne, to wear at one of the special summer parties, once it had been fitted to suit her figure.

‘There’s hardly any damage,’ Cecily announced a few minutes later. ‘How are the sleeves and the neckline?’

‘Almost perfect,’ DeLacy replied. ‘There aren’t many beads missing.’

‘Mam will be pleased.’ Cecily stood up. ‘Let’s put the gown back on the bed.’

She and DeLacy took the beaded evening dress, each of them holding one end, and lifted it carefully onto DeLacy’s bed. ‘Gosh, it’s really heavy,’ she said as they put it back in place.

‘That’s the reason beaded dresses are kept in boxes or drawers,’ Cecily explained. ‘If a beaded gown is put on a hanger, the beads will eventually weigh it down, and that makes the dress longer. It gets out of shape.’

DeLacy nodded, always interested in the things Cecily told her, especially about frocks. She knew a lot about clothes, and DeLacy learned from her all the time.

Cecily straightened the beaded dress and covered it with a long piece of cotton, then walked across the room to look out of the window. She was hoping to see her mother coming from the village. There was no sign of her yet.

DeLacy remained near the bed, now staring down at the other summer evening gown, a froth of white tulle, taffeta and handmade lace. ‘I think I like this one the most,’ she said to Cecily without turning around. ‘This is a real ball gown.’

‘I know. Mam told me your mother wore it only once, and it’s been kept in a cotton bag in the cedar closet for ages. That’s why the white is still white. It hasn’t turned.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘White turns colour. It can become creamy, yellowed, or faded. But the ball gown has been well protected, and it’s as good as new.’

On an impulse, DeLacy reached down, picked up the gown and moved away from the bed. Holding the gown close to her body, she began to dance around the room, whirling and twirling, humming to herself, imagining herself waltzing in a ballroom. The skirt of the gown flared out as she moved.

Cecily couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was totally speechless, gaping at DeLacy as she continued to swirl and jump with the delicate ball gown in her arms. Cecily was in shock, unable to do anything. She was afraid to grab DeLacy in case the gown was damaged in the process, and so she just stood there cringing, worried about the lace and the tulle. It truly was a ball gown, full-skirted like a crinoline, and it would easily rip if it caught on the furniture.

Finding her voice at last, Cecily exclaimed, ‘Please stop, DeLacy! The fabric could get damaged. It’s so delicate. Please, please put the dress back on the bed!’

Now Cecily took a step forward, moving closer to her friend, who immediately danced away, putting herself out of reach. She continued to clutch the dress to her body. ‘I won’t hurt it, Ceci,’ DeLacy said, still whirling around the room. ‘I promise I won’t.’

‘Stop! You must stop!’ Cecily cried desperately, her voice rising. She was on the verge of tears.

DeLacy Ingham paid no attention to Cecily Swann.

She was enjoying herself too much, dancing around the bedroom, lost in a world of her own for a moment or two. And then it happened. The accident.

Cecily saw it start as if in slow motion, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

DeLacy’s foot got caught in the hemline of the gown. She wobbled. Then lost her balance. And reached out to steady herself. She grabbed the edge of the desk, still holding the gown. But as she did so, she knocked over the inkpot. It rolled across the desk towards her. She stepped back but she was not fast enough. The bright blue ink splashed onto the front of the skirt of the white lace ball gown.

Cecily gasped out loud, her eyes widening. Horrified at what had just happened, and frightened at the thought of the consequences, she was unable to move.

DeLacy looked down at the ink, her face stricken. When she glanced across at Cecily her eyes filled with tears.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ Cecily said, her voice trembling. ‘Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you pay attention?’

DeLacy had no answer for her. She stood there holding the dress, tears rolling down her face.




FIVE (#ulink_9e9b68a3-95de-530d-80ad-1bb3ea6b82f5)


‘DeLacy! What on earth’s happened?’ Daphne exclaimed from the threshold of the room, and hurried forward, making straight for her sister.

DeLacy did not answer, quaking inside, knowing how upset Daphne would be when she saw the ruined ball gown. It had been chosen for her to wear at the summer ball their parents gave at Cavendon every year. Tears brimmed, and she swallowed hard, pushing back her fear. She knew she was in trouble. How stupid she had been to play around with this fragile gown.

‘Why are you clutching the ball gown like that? My goodness, is that ink? How did ink get on the lace?’ Daphne’s normally soft voice had risen an octave or two, and she was startled, her face suddenly turning pale.

When DeLacy remained silent, looking more frightened than ever, Daphne turned, her gaze resting on Cecily. ‘What on earth were you doing? How did this happen?’

Cecily, fiercely loyal to her best friend, cleared her throat nervously, not knowing how to answer Daphne without lying. That she could not do; nor did she wish to explain the series of events that had taken place.

Her mind raced as she wondered what to say. Unexpectedly, she did not have to do that, since her mother was now entering the room.

Cecily began to shake inside. She was well aware how angry her mother would be, and she would be blamed. She had been in charge.

Alice walked over to join Daphne and DeLacy. When she spotted the ball gown in DeLacy’s arms she came to an abrupt halt, a dismayed expression crossing her face. Nonetheless, Alice was self-contained, and she said in a steady voice, ‘That’s ruined! It’s of no use to anyone now.’ Glancing at her daughter, she raised a brow. ‘Well, what do you have to say? Can you please explain how this unique ball gown got so damaged?’

Unable to speak, her mouth dry, Cecily shook her head; she retreated, moving away, backing up against the window.

Alice was not to be deterred, and went on, ‘I gave you a task, Cecily. You were instructed to inspect the frocks and the ball gown, which had been taken out of the cedar closet in the attic. I asked you to look after them. They were in your care. However, it is obvious you didn’t look after this one, did you?’

Cecily blinked back the incipient tears. She shook her head, and in a whisper, she said, ‘It was an accident, Mam.’ She was still protecting DeLacy when she added, ‘I’m sorry I let you down.’

Alice simply nodded, holding her annoyance in check. She was usually polite, particularly when she was in the presence of the Inghams. Then it struck her that it was DeLacy who was responsible for this disaster. Before she could direct a question at her, DeLacy stepped forward, drew closer to Alice.

Taking a deep breath, she said in a quavering voice, ‘Don’t blame Ceci, Mrs Alice! Please don’t do that. She’s innocent. It’s my fault, I’m to blame. I picked up the dress, waltzed around the room with it. Then I tripped, lost my balance and knocked over the inkpot …’ She paused, shook her head, and began to weep, adding through her tears, ‘I was silly.’

Alice went over to her. ‘Thank you for telling me, Lady DeLacy, and please, let me take the gown from you. You’re crushing it. Please give it to me, m’lady.’

DeLacy did so, releasing it from her clutches at last. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Alice. Very sorry,’ she said again.

Alice carried the ball gown over to the bed and laid it down, examining the stains, fully aware how difficult it was to remove ink – virtually impossible, in fact.

At seventeen, Daphne Ingham was a rather unusual girl. She was not only staggeringly beautiful but a kind, thoughtful and compassionate young woman with a tender heart. She stepped over to her sister and put an arm around her. Gently, she said, ‘I understand what happened, Lacy darling, it was an accident, as Ceci said. Mama will understand. These things do happen sometimes, and we all know you didn’t intend to do any harm.’

On hearing these words, and aware of Daphne’s sweet nature, DeLacy clung to her and began to sob. Daphne held her closer, soothing her, not wishing her little sister to be so upset – and over a dress, of all things.

Surprisingly, Lady Daphne Ingham was not particularly vain. She only paid attention to clothes because it had been drilled into her to do so because of her station in life. Also, she knew that her father could easily afford to buy a new dress for her.

After a moment, Daphne drew away. ‘Come on, stop crying, DeLacy. Tears won’t do any good.’ Looking over at Alice, she then said, ‘Can the lace and the underskirts be cleaned, Mrs Swann?’

Alice shook her head vigorously. ‘I don’t believe so, m’lady. Well, not successfully. I suppose I could try using lemon juice, salt, white vinegar …’ She broke off. ‘No, no, they won’t do any good. Ink is awful, you know, it’s like a dye. And talking of ink, it’s all over the desk, m’lady, and on the carpet. Shall I go and find Mrs Thwaites? Ask her to send up one of the maids?’

‘That’s all right. I’ll ring for Peggy, Mrs Swann. She’ll clean up the ink. None of us should go near it. We don’t want it on our hands, not when there are other frocks around.’

‘You’re right, Lady Daphne. I was—’

‘Mam,’ Cecily interrupted. ‘I can make the ball gown right. I can, Mam.’ Cecily turned around, stared intently at her mother, suddenly feeling confident. Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m sure I can save it. And Lady Daphne can wear it to the summer ball after all.’

‘You’ll never get that ink off, Ceci,’ Alice answered, her tone softer, now that she knew her daughter had, in fact, not been responsible for the ruination of the gown.

‘Mam, please, come here, and you too, DeLacy. And you as well, please, Lady Daphne. I want to explain what I can do.’

The three of them immediately joined her, stood looking down at the white lace ball gown stretched across the bottom of the bed.

Cecily said, ‘I’m going to cut away the front part of the white lace skirt from the waist to the hemline. I’ll shape it. Make it a panel that starts out narrow at the waist and widens as it goes down to the floor. I’ll do the same with the white taffeta underskirt, and the tulle. If the second layer of tulle has ink on it, I’ll cut that off too.’

‘And then what?’ Alice asked, gazing at her in bafflement.

‘I’ll replace the panels of lace, taffeta and tulle. It’ll be hard to find white lace to match the ball gown. You might have to go to London.’

In spite of her initial scepticism, Alice suddenly understood exactly what Cecily meant to do. She also realized that her daughter might have the solution. ‘It sounds like a good plan, Cecily, very clever. Unfortunately, you’re right about the lace, it will be difficult to match. I probably will have to go up to London. To Harrods.’

Alice now paused, shook her head. ‘There are several other things we must consider. First, a panel of lace that’s different from the rest of the overskirt would be extremely noticeable. Secondly, there would be seams down the front. They’d be obvious.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ Cecily answered swiftly. ‘I can hide the seams with narrow ribbon lace, and sew the ribbon lace around the waist as a finishing touch.’ She bit her lip, before adding, ‘Or we can make a new skirt out of new lace.’

‘I understand,’ Alice said. ‘But the new lace wouldn’t match the bodice. And don’t even think of trying to remake the bodice, Cecily, that would be far too difficult for both of us.’

‘We don’t have to touch the bodice, Mam.’

‘I think Cecily is right, Mrs Swann,’ Daphne said. ‘Her ideas are brilliant.’ She gave Cecily a huge smile. ‘I believe you will be a dress designer yourself one day, like Lucile of Hanover Square.’

‘Perhaps,’ Alice said quietly. ‘I’ve always known Cecily had talent, a flair with clothes. And such a good eye.’ Alice suddenly smiled for the first time since entering the room.

Pragmatic by nature, and wishing to continue talking about the ball gown, Cecily now said, ‘The lace will cost a lot, won’t it?’

She had addressed Alice, but before her mother could answer, Daphne said, ‘Oh you mustn’t worry about that, Ceci. I am quite certain you will be able to rescue the gown, and I know Papa will be happy to pay for the lace, and the other fabrics you require.’

Alice carried the ball gown over to Cecily, and gave it to her. She said, ‘We’ll go up to the sewing room now and put this on the mannequin, so that we can examine the stains properly. I’ll bring the beaded gown. It’s heavy.’ Glancing across at Daphne, she said, ‘Will you join us, Your Ladyship? I think you should try on both of the dresses, so we can see how they fit.’

‘I’ll be happy to, I’ll just go to my room and change into a dressing gown.’ Turning to her sister, Daphne added, ‘I shall ring for Peggy, and once she arrives to clean up the ink, you can join us in the sewing room. She can, can’t she, Mrs Alice?’

‘Of course she can, m’lady,’ Alice replied with a friendly smile, and then she and her daughter left DeLacy’s bedroom.

Cecily was relieved her mother was no longer angry with her. How foolish she had been, not trying harder to stop DeLacy, and DeLacy had been irresponsible, dancing around with the gown, the way she had. They should both have known better. After all, they were grown up.

‘I think I’d better get the platform out,’ Alice announced, walking over to the huge storage cupboard in the sewing room, opening the door. ‘It’ll make it easier for me to see the hemline when Lady Daphne stands on it.’

‘I’ll help, Mam.’

Alice shook her head. ‘I have it, love, don’t worry.’ She now upended the square white box she had pulled out, and pushed it across the room to the cheval mirror. Several years ago, Walter Swann had attached two small wheels on one side of the platform so that it would be easy for his wife to move around.

At this moment, the door flew open and Lady Daphne came in wearing a blue silk dressing gown; DeLacy was immediately behind her older sister, creeping in, stealthily, almost as if she did not want to be noticed.

Cecily’s eyes flew to her friend, and she nodded.

DeLacy offered a smile in return, but it was a wan smile at that. The girl looked shamefaced, subdued, and even a little cowed.

Cecily said encouragingly, ‘Let’s go and sit over there, Lacy, on the chairs near the wall.’

DeLacy inclined her head, followed her friend, but remained silent.

‘Here I am, Mrs Swann,’ Daphne said. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

‘No problem, my lady. If you’ll just slip behind the screen, I’ll bring the beaded gown, help you get into it.’

Cecily felt sorry for DeLacy, and she reached out, took hold of her hand, squeezed it. ‘Mam’s not angry any more,’ she whispered. ‘Cheer up.’

DeLacy swivelled her head, looked at Cecily, and blinked back sudden tears. ‘Are you sure?’ she whispered. ‘She was furious with me. I could tell.’

‘It’s fine, everything’s settled down.’

Within seconds Daphne was standing on the wooden platform in front of the cheval mirror; even she, who so lacked an interest in clothes, was impressed with the way she looked.

The blue, green and turquoise crystal beads, covering the entire dress, shimmered if she made the slightest movement. It was eye-catching, and Daphne knew how well it suited her. Smiling at Alice, her bright blue eyes sparkling, she exclaimed, ‘It undulates; it’s unique.’ She turned slowly on the platform, viewing herself from every angle, obviously taken with the long, slender column of beads and the magical effect they produced.

Alice was happy. The gown fitted this slender beauty as if it had been specially made for her, and also Daphne was finally showing an interest in clothes. Alice also realized how right the Countess had been to choose this particular dress from the collection of her evening gowns and other apparel stored in the cedar closets. It was … wonderful on Daphne. No other word to describe it, but then it was a piece of haute couture from Paris. It had been made for the Countess at Maison Callot, the famous fashion house run by the three talented Callot sisters, who designed stylish clothes for society women.

‘The dress is most becoming on you, Lady Daphne,’ Alice smiled, and went to stand in front of her. Very slowly, she walked around the platform, studying the dress, nodding to herself at times.

‘The hemline dips in a few places; nothing to worry about, m’lady. That often happens with beaded gowns, it’s the weight of the beads. I’ll just put in a few pins where I need to adjust it. It’s a perfect fit, Lady Daphne.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Alice.’

Cecily said, ‘There aren’t many beads missing, Mam.’

Alice swung her head, smiled at her daughter and went on with her work.

Cecily sat back in the chair, watching her mother, always learning from her. Alice was now kneeling on the floor with a small pincushion attached to her left wrist. Every so often she put a pin or two in the hem, marking the exact spot for attention later.

Pins had a language of their own, Cecily was aware of that. It was a language her mother was going to teach her soon. She had made a promise, and her mam always kept her promises.

When Daphne finally got off the platform and walked towards the screen in a corner of the room, Alice beckoned to Cecily, and the two of them took the bouffant white ball gown off the mannequin. Alice followed Daphne, carrying the gown. She was certain this would fit her too. It had been made at the same time as the beaded column.

Daphne emerged a few seconds later, looking so beautiful, so ethereal, in the froth of white lace and tulle, that Cecily caught her breath in surprise. Then she exclaimed, ‘You look like a fairy-tale princess!’

Daphne walked forward, smiling. She swirled around, the skirts billowing out, and then swirled again, and nobody even noticed the ink stains, so entrancing was she.

‘The perfect bride for the son of a duke,’ DeLacy blurted out, and then shrank back in the chair when they all stared at her.

The phantom duke not yet found, Alice thought, and therefore no son to marry. But there will be one soon enough, I’ve no doubt. After all, she’s only seventeen and not quite ready for marriage yet. Still a child in so many ways. And such a beauty. But all of the four Dees are lovely, and so is my Cecily. Yes, they’re the beautiful girls of Cavendon, none to match them anywhere.

Alice stood there smiling, admiring them, and thinking what a lovely summer it was going to be for everyone – the suppers, the dances, the big ball, and the weekend house parties … a happy, festive time.

Although she did not know it, Alice was wrong. The summer would be a season of the most devastating trouble, which would shake the House of Ingham to its core.




SIX (#ulink_de6a5eb3-26fc-51ce-80c8-6ebb002c8633)


‘It’s extremely quiet in here, Mrs Jackson,’ the butler remarked from the doorway of the kitchen, surveying Cook’s domain.

‘Did yer think we’d all died and gone ter heaven then?’ Nell Jackson asked with a laugh. ‘I just sat down ter catch me breath before I start on the main course. Can’t cook it yet, though, not till the last minute. Dover sole is a delicate fish, doesn’t need much time in the pan.’

Mr Hanson nodded and went on. ‘I’ve no doubt the hustle and bustle will start up again very shortly.’

‘It will. Right now everyone’s off doing their duties upstairs, but they’ll soon be scurrying back down here, bringing their bustle with them. As for Polly, I sent her ter bed, Mr Hanson. She’s got a sore throat and a headache. It’s better she’s confined ter her room until she feels better. I don’t want her spreading germs, if she does have a cold.’

‘Good thinking on your part, Mrs Jackson. Lord Mowbray is a stickler about illness. He doesn’t like the staff working if they’re under the weather. For their sakes as well as ours. You’ll be able to manage all right. It’s only three for lunch, with the Countess and Lady Diedre in Harrogate today.’

‘It’s not a problem, Mr Hanson,’ Mrs Jackson reassured him. ‘Elsie and Mary will help me ter put the food on the serving platters, and Malcolm and Gordon will handle lunch upstairs with ease.’

‘And I shall be serving the wine, and supervising them as usual,’ he reminded her with a kindly smile. Then he nodded and walked on down the corridor, heading for his office. The room was one of his favourites in this great house, which he loved for its beauty, heritage and spirit of the past; he looked after it as if it were his own. Nothing was ever too much trouble.

Hanson had occupied the office for some years now, and it had acquired a degree of comfort over time, resembling a gentleman’s study in its overall style. Henry had arrived at Cavendon Hall in 1888, twenty-five years ago now, when he had been twenty-six. From the first day, Geoffrey Swann, the butler at that time, had favoured him; he had spotted something special in him. Geoffrey Swann had called it ‘a potential for excellence’.

The renowned butler had propelled Hanson up through the hierarchy with ease, teaching him the ropes all the way. Starting as a junior footman in the pecking order, he rose to footman, eventually became the senior footman, and was finally named assistant butler under the direction of Geoffrey Swann. He had been an essential part of the household for ten years when, to everyone’s shock, Geoffrey Swann suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in 1898.

The 5th Earl had immediately asked Hanson if he would take over as butler. He had agreed at once, and never looked back. He ran Cavendon Hall with enormous efficiency, care, skill and a huge sense of responsibility. Geoffrey Swann had been an extraordinary mentor, had turned Hanson into a well-trained major-domo who had become as renowned as Swann before him in aristocratic circles.

Sitting down at his desk, Hanson picked up the menus for lunch and dinner, which Mrs Jackson had given him earlier, and glanced at them. In a short while, he must go to the wine cellar and choose the wines. Perhaps a Pouilly Fuissé for the fish and a Pomerol for the spring lamb that had been selected for dinner.

Leaning back in the chair, Hanson let his thoughts meander to other matters for a moment or two, and then he made a decision and got up. Leaving his office, he walked in the direction of the housekeeper’s sitting room.

Her door was ajar and, after knocking on it, he pushed it open and looked inside. ‘It’s Hanson, Mrs Thwaites. Do you have a moment?’

‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in.’

Closing the door behind him, Hanson said, ‘I wanted a word with you … about Peggy Swift. I was wondering how she was working out? Is she satisfactory?’ he asked, getting straight to the point as he usually did. ‘Is she going to fit in here?’

Agnes Thwaites did not reply immediately, and he couldn’t help wondering why. He was about to ask her if she was unhappy with the new maid, when she finally spoke.

‘I can’t fault her work, Mr Hanson. I really can’t. She’s quick and she’s efficient. Still, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on … something about her doesn’t sit well with me.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head.

‘So I’ve noticed,’ Hanson replied pithily. ‘She did work at Ellsford Manor, and you did get an excellent reference, but then the manor is hardly Cavendon. It’s not a stately home.’

‘Oh, yes, I understand that,’ she answered, suppressing a smile. It was well known that Hanson believed Cavendon was better than any other house in the land, including Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and Sandringham, all royal residences. ‘I have noticed there is a certain coolness between Peggy and the other maids. I’m not clear why,’ Mrs Thwaites added.

‘Has Mrs Jackson told you what she thinks of Peggy?’ he asked, a brow lifting.

‘Well, naturally Mrs Jackson is pleased with her efficiency, her quickness. It might be that Peggy is just not suitable for this house.’

‘You’d better keep a sharp eye on her, since the maids are in your care, as the footmen are in mine. And I will as well, as I think two pairs of eyes see much more than one.’

Hanson left the sitting room and walked back to his office. He sat at the desk for a moment or two, thinking about the situation in general. They were still missing a third footman, and if they had to let Peggy Swift go, they would be short of a maid. This problem would have to be rectified by the summer, since His Lordship and the Countess had planned a number of events, and there would be weekend guests. Sighing under his breath, Hanson reached down, unlocked the bottom drawer, took out his keys and went to the wine cellar.

A short while later, he was returning to his office, carrying two bottles of wine, when he ran into Walter Swann, husband of Alice, father of Cecily, and valet to Lord Mowbray.

‘There you are, Mr Hanson,’ Walter exclaimed in his usual cheerful voice, smiling hugely. ‘I was just coming along to tell you that His Lordship will make sure lunch finishes early today. He knows Alice and Cecily are joining us in the servants’ hall, and he doesn’t want us to be eating “in the middle of the afternoon”, was the way he put it. He wanted you to know.’

‘Very considerate, I must say,’ Hanson replied, glad to have this bit of pleasant news.

‘I’ll go and tell Cook, and then I must get back upstairs. I’ve a lot of jobs to do for Lord Mowbray today,’ Walter explained.

‘I’ll see you later, Walter. I’m looking forward to having lunch with Alice and your girl. Everyone loves Cecily.’

Walter grinned and hurried towards the kitchen, where he hovered in the entrance, obviously explaining matters to Mrs Jackson.

Once he was back in his office, Hanson placed the two bottles on the small table near the window, and went again to his desk. He dropped the bunch of keys into the bottom drawer, glancing at the clock as he sat down in the chair. It was ten minutes to twelve, and he had a moment or two before he needed to go upstairs to check on things. He looked down at the list he had made earlier, noting that the most pressing item on it was the silver vault. He must check it, tomorrow at the latest. The footmen had their work cut out for them – a lot of important silver had to be cleaned for the parties coming up in the summer.

Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts settled on Walter. How smart he always looked in his tailored black jacket and pinstriped grey trousers. He smiled inwardly, thinking of the two footmen, Malcolm and Gordon, who had such high opinions of their looks. Vain they were.

But those two couldn’t hold a candle to Walter Swann. At thirty-five he was in his prime – good looking, intelligent and hard working. And also the most trustworthy man Henry Hanson knew. Walter brought a smile to work, not his troubles, and he was well mannered and thoughtful, had a nice disposition. Few can beat him, Hanson decided, and fell down into his memories.

He had known Walter Swann since he was a boy … ten years old. And he had watched him grow into the man he was today. Hanson had only seen him upset when something truly sorrowful had happened: when his father, then his uncle Geoffrey, and then the 5th Earl had died. And on King Edward VII’s passing. That had affected Walter very much: he was a true patriot; loved his King and Country.

The day of the King’s funeral came rushing back to Henry Hanson. It might have been yesterday, so clear was it in his mind. He and Walter had accompanied the family to London in May of 1910, to open up the Mayfair house for the summer season.

The sudden death of the King had shocked everyone; when Hanson had asked the Earl if he and Walter could have the morning off to go out into the streets to watch the funeral procession leaving Westminster Hall, the Earl had been kind, had accommodated them.

Three years ago now, 20 May: that had been the day of the King’s funeral after his lying-in-state. Hanson and Walter had never seen so many people jammed together in the streets of London: hundreds of thousands of sorrowing, silent people, the everyday people of England, mourning their ‘Bertie’, the playboy Prince who had turned out to be a good King and father of the nation. There had been more mourners for him than for his mother, Queen Victoria.

Hanson knew he would never forget the sight of the cortège and he believed Walter felt the same – the gun carriage rumbling along, the King’s charger, boots and stirrups reversed, and a Scottish Highlander in a swinging kilt, leading the King’s wire-haired terrier behind his master’s coffin. He and Walter had both choked up at the sight of that little dog in the procession, heading for Paddington Station and the train to Windsor, where the King would be buried. Later they had found out that the King’s little white dog was called Caesar. They had wept for their King that day, and shared their grief and become even closer friends.

There was a knock on the door, and Hanson instantly roused himself. ‘Come in,’ he called and rose, moved across the room. He touched the bottle of white wine. It was still very cold from being in the wine cellar. He must take it upstairs to the pantry in readiness for lunch.

Mrs Thwaites was standing in the doorway, and he beckoned her to enter when she looked at him questioningly. As she closed the door and walked towards him he saw that her expression was serious.

She paused for a moment as she reached his desk and then said, ‘Instinct told me there was something about Peggy that was off, and now I know what it is that bothers me. She’s the type of young woman who’s bold, encourages men … you know what I mean.’

Hanson was startled by this statement and frowned, staring at her. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

‘I saw her just now. Or rather them. Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane. They were sort of … wedged together in your little pantry near the dining room. She was canoodling with him. I was coming through the back hall upstairs and I made a noise so they knew someone was approaching. Then I went the other way. They didn’t see me. Instinctively, I feel that Peggy Swift spells trouble, Mr Hanson.’

Hanson didn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, ‘There’s always a bit of that going on, Mrs Thwaites. Flirting. They’re young.’

‘I know, and you’re right. But this seemed a little bit more than just flirting. Also, they were upstairs, where the Earl and Countess and the young ladies could easily have seen them.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head, continuing to look concerned. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

‘You did the right thing. And we can’t have any carrying-on of that sort in this house. It cannot be touched by gossip or scandal. Let us keep this to ourselves. Better in the long run, avoids needless talk that could be damaging to the family.’

‘I won’t say a word, Mr Hanson. You can trust me on that.’




SEVEN (#ulink_0f1e4701-f2b0-5713-b4ad-2adee0ff7ed4)


Daphne sat at the dressing table, staring at her reflection in the antique Georgian mirror. And she saw herself quite differently. For the first time in her life she decided she was beautiful, as her father was always proclaiming.

Unexpectedly, she now had a different image of herself, and it was all due to the two evening gowns she had just tried on.

She had been taken aback by the way she looked in the blue-and-green beaded dress, that slender column glittering with sea colours, and also in the white ball gown. Even though this was stained with ink, it had, nonetheless, made her feel happy, buoyant, full of life, whilst the long, narrow dress of shimmering beads had given her a feeling of elegance and sophistication she had never known before.

Leaning forward, she studied her face with new interest, and saw a different girl. A girl a duke’s son might find as lovely as her father did.

She thought he might have someone picked out for her, even though he had never actually said so. But he was determined to arrange a brilliant match for her, and she was certain he would do so. Her father was clever, and he knew everyone that mattered in society. After all, he was one of the premier earls of England.

A little spurt of excitement and anticipation brought a pink flush to her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled with joy. The idea of one day being a duchess thrilled her. She could hardly wait.

Next year, when she was eighteen, she would come out, be presented at court in the presence of King George and Queen Mary, along with other debutantes. Her parents would give a coming out ball for her, and there would be balls given for other debutantes by their parents, and she would go to them all. And after the season was over, there was no reason why she couldn’t become engaged to whichever duke’s son her father had selected.

A little sigh escaped, and she sat with her right elbow on the dressing table, her hand propping up her head. A faraway look spread itself across her soft, innocent face as she let herself float along with her romantic imaginings. Her mind was filled with marvellous dreams of falling in love, having a sweetheart, a true love of her own. A brilliant marriage. A home of her own. And children one day.

A sudden loud thumping on the door brought her out of her reverie, and she swung around on the stool as the door burst open.

A small but determined little girl with a flushed red face came storming in, heading straight for her. It was quite apparent the child was angry, and having a tantrum.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Daphne asked, going to her five-year-old sister, Dulcie, who was usually all sweetness and smiles.

‘I don’t like this frock! Nanny says I have to wear it. I won’t! I won’t! It’s not for a special occasion!’ she shouted, and stood there glaring at Daphne, her hands on her hips, looking indignant.

Daphne swallowed the laughter bubbling in her throat, and endeavoured to keep a straight face. In stark contrast to her own lack of interest in her clothes, her baby sister had been concerned with hers from the moment she could express an opinion. Diedre, their eldest sister, called Dulcie ‘a little madam’, and in the most disparaging tone, and avoided her as far as she could.

‘And what is the special occasion?’ Daphne asked in a loving voice, crouching down so that her face was level with her sister’s.

‘I’m having lunch with Papa,’ Dulcie announced in an important tone. ‘In the dining room.’

‘Oh isn’t that lovely, darling. I am too, and so is DeLacy.’

Dulcie gaped at her, a frown knotting her blonde brows. ‘Nanny said I was having lunch with Papa. She didn’t say you were, and DeLacy.’

‘Well, we will be there. But I do have to agree with you about the dress,’ Daphne now said quickly, wanting to placate the angry child. ‘It simply isn’t appropriate, not for lunch with Papa. You’re absolutely right. Let’s go and find something more suitable, shall we?’

Instantly the stormy expression fled, and a bright smile flooded Dulcie’s face. ‘I knew I was right,’ she exclaimed, and took hold of Daphne’s hand, her normal happy demeanour in place.

Together the two sisters went down the corridor to the stairs leading up to the nursery floor. At one moment, Daphne leaned down, and said softly, ‘You must be grown up about this. Just tell Nanny you do like this dress, but that it’s not quite nice enough for the special lunch. And you can say I agree with you.’

‘I will.’

‘You must say it sweetly; you mustn’t be rude, or angry,’ Daphne cautioned, as they mounted the stairs together.

‘I’m not angry, not now,’ Dulcie said, looking up at her adored Daphne, her favourite sister. She liked DeLacy, and they were good friends, but she was wary of Diedre. Her eldest sister constantly looked and sounded annoyed with her, and this puzzled and worried the child.

Nanny was waiting in the doorway of the nursery, and exclaimed, ‘I was just coming to look for you, Dulcie!’

Dulcie was silent.

Daphne said swiftly, not wanting the nanny to scold: ‘I think we’ve solved the problem.’ She smiled warmly, then gave the nanny a knowing look, and added, ‘It’s not often Dulcie has lunch with Papa, and it’s, well, rather a special occasion for her. And I do think she could wear a more appropriate dress. Something perhaps a little smarter. I’m sure you agree?’

‘Of course, Lady Daphne, whatever you think is best.’ The nanny opened the door wider, and they all went into the nursery sitting room.

Dulcie explained, in an earnest tone, her expression solemn, ‘I do like this frock, Nanny, but I really want to wear the blue one with the white collar. Can I?’

‘Of course, you can, Dulcie. Let’s go and look at it, and won’t you join us, Lady Daphne?’

‘I certainly will.’

Dulcie was already halfway across the floor, making for her bedroom. ‘Come on, Daphne, come and look at my best frock. Mrs Alice made it for me.’

As she followed the little girl, Daphne smiled to herself. She had long ago learned that the best way to handle her rather stubborn and independent youngest sister was to immediately agree with her, and then negotiate.

‘Oh there you are, Hanson,’ Lord Mowbray said, walking into the dining room. ‘I was just about to ring for you. Dulcie is joining us for lunch today, a special treat for the child. So would you please add another place setting?’

Hanson inclined his head. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He excused himself and hurried into the adjoining pantry.

The Earl swung on his heels and returned to the library, where he sat down at his desk and perused the list of guests he and Felicity were planning to invite to the annual summer ball in July. He added a few more names, and then sat back, pondering, wondering who had been left out, who they might have forgotten.

It was at this moment that he saw a pair of bright blue eyes staring at him. They were just visible above the edge of the huge partners’ desk. Then a moment later the whole face appeared, and he knew Dulcie was standing on her tiptoes.

She said, ‘I am here, Papa.’

‘So I see,’ he responded, laughing. ‘So come along, Dulcie, let me have a look at you.’

She did as he asked and he swung around in his chair and held out his hands to her. ‘You look very lovely this morning.’

‘Thank you, Papa. Mrs Alice made this frock for me. It’s new. It’s my favourite.’

‘I can see why,’ Charles answered, pulling her to him, bringing her closer. She truly was the most lovely child, with her almost violet eyes, and mass of blonde curls. Her pretty little face was still plump with baby fat, and she reminded him of a Botticelli angel. But one with a will of iron, he reminded himself. None of his other daughters was as stubborn.

Dulcie leaned against his knee, and looked up into his face. ‘Can I have a horse?’

Her request startled him. ‘Why a horse? Isn’t a horse a bit large for you, darling?’

‘No, I’m growing up fast, Nanny says.’

‘I agree, but you’re still not quite ready.’

‘But I can ride, Papa.’

‘I know, and you’ve enjoyed your little Shetland pony. I have an idea. I shall buy you a new pony. A better pony. Just until you can handle a horse better, when you’re a bit older.’

Dulcie flushed with happiness at this suggestion and nodded. ‘Thank you, Papa! What shall I call my new pony?’

‘I’m sure you will think of the right name. In the meantime, we must join your sisters for lunch – and, by the way, let’s keep the new pony a secret, shall we?’

‘Oh yes. It’s our secret, Papa.’

She clung to his hand as they went out of the library together. I do spoil her, Charles thought. But I just can’t help it. She’s the most adorable child. As they crossed the vast hall together, hand in hand, Daphne and DeLacy were hurrying down the grand staircase.

Both girls ran to greet him, and then DeLacy bent down, kissed her little sister on the cheek. ‘I like your dress, Dulcie,’ she murmured, smoothing a loving hand over the child’s golden curls.

Dulcie smiled back and opened her mouth to speak, and then immediately closed it. The news about the new pony was a secret, her papa had said, and she must keep it.




EIGHT (#ulink_8bf96cba-7631-53d6-af0e-e763fe06345c)


After the special lunch, as Dulcie called it, the five-year-old was taken back to the nursery by DeLacy. Their father went off to the library to finish his correspondence, and Daphne, with nothing to do, decided to walk over to Havers Lodge.

The Tudor manor house was on the other side of the bluebell woods, and was the home of the Torbett family, old friends of the Inghams. Daphne and her sisters had grown up with the three Torbett sons, Richard, Alexander, and Julian. It was nineteen-year-old Julian who was Daphne’s favourite; they had been childhood friends, and were still close.

Crossing the small stone bridge over the stream, she glanced up at the sky. It was a lovely cerulean blue, and cloudless, filled with glittering sunlight. This pleased her. The weather in Yorkshire was unpredictable, and it could so easily rain. Fortunately, the dark clouds that usually heralded heavy downpours were absent.

There was a breeze, a nip in the air, despite the brightness of the sunshine, and she was glad she had put on a hat, as well as a jacket over her grey wool skirt and matching silk blouse. She snuggled down into the jacket, slipped her hands in her pockets, walking at a steady pace.

Julian wasn’t expecting her this afternoon, but he would be at the manor house. He always practised dressage on Saturdays. He was a fine equestrian, loved horses, and aimed to join a cavalry regiment in the British Army. In fact, his heart had been set on it since he was a young boy. He would be going to Sandhurst at the end of the summer, and he was thrilled he had been accepted by this famous military academy. He had once told her that he aimed to be a general, and she had no doubt he would be in years to come.

Daphne wanted to tell Julian that her father had given her permission, over lunch today, to invite Madge Courtney to the summer ball at Cavendon. The Torbetts always came, and were naturally invited again this year. Her father had now thought it only proper and correct to include Madge. She and Julian were unofficially engaged, and when he graduated from Sandhurst, several years from now, they would be married.

Off in the distance in the long meadow, Daphne saw the gypsy girl, Genevra. She was waving; Daphne waved back, then veered to the left, walking into the bluebell woods, which she loved.

They were filled with old oaks and sycamores and many other species, magnificent tall trees reaching to the sky. There were stretches of bright green grass and mossy mounds beneath them and bushes that were bright with berries in the winter, others which flowered only in the spring.

A stream trickled through one side of the woods. Rushes and weeds grew there, and when she was a child she had parted them, peered into the clear parts of the water, seen tadpoles and tiddlers swimming. And sometimes frogs had jumped out and surprised her and her sisters.

Occasionally Daphne had seen a heron standing in the stream, a tall and elegant bird that seemed oddly out of place. She looked for it now, but it was not there. Scatterings of flowers could be found around the stream, and in amongst the roots and foliage. And of course there were the bluebells, great swathes now starting to bloom under the trees; they made her catch her breath in delight.

All kinds of small animals made their homes in the woods – down holes, in tree trunks, under bushes. Little furry creatures such as voles and dormice, the common field mouse and squirrels … She had never been afraid of them, loved them all. But most precious to her were the birds, especially the goldfinch. She had learned a lot about nature from Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, who had grown up at Cavendon, and it was she who had told her that a flock of goldfinch was called a ‘charm’. The little birds made tinkling calls that were bell-like and pretty. Her great-aunt told her they actually sang in harmony, and she believed her.

Once, her mother had called the tops of the tall trees a ‘shady canopy’ where their branches interlocked, and she had used that phrase ever since. Bits of blue sky were visible today, and long shafts of sunlight filtered through that lovely leafy canopy above her.

Their land was beautiful and she knew how lucky they were to live on it. Just to the left of these woods were the moors that stretched endlessly along the rim of the horizon. Implacable and daunting in winter, they were lovely in the late summer when the heather bloomed, a sea of purple stretching almost to the coast.

But as a family they had usually spent most of their time in the woods, where they had picnics in the summer. ‘Because of the shade, you know,’ Great-Aunt Gwendolyn would explain to their guests. She was a genuine stoic, the way she cheerfully trudged along with them, determined never to miss the woodland feasts or any of their other activities. And the ball was her favourite event – one she would not miss for the world, she would say, explaining she had never failed to attend since being a young woman. ‘I was always the belle of the ball, you know,’ she would add.

Daphne’s thoughts settled on the summer ball. For a split second, she thought of the ink stains, and the image of herself in the gown was spoiled. Then, almost in an instant, it was gone, obliterated. She was absolutely confident Cecily would make the gown as good as new, and she would wear it after all.

Over lunch, DeLacy had told their father about the terrible accident with the ink, which had been her fault. He had been understanding, and he had not chastised DeLacy. Although he had said she should have known better than to play around with a valuable gown.

The one thing he had focused on was the way Cecily had behaved, how she had been willing to take the blame to protect DeLacy. ‘She is a true Swann, instantly ready to stand in front of an Ingham. Remember our motto, DeLacy, Loyalty binds me. It is their motto as well. The Inghams and the Swanns are linked forever.’

It is true, Daphne thought. It always has been thus and it always will be. And then she stared ahead as the trees thinned, and she found herself crossing the road and walking onto Torbett land.

Daphne approached Havers Lodge from the back of the house, and she couldn’t help thinking how glorious it looked today. Its pale, pinkish bricks were warm and welcoming in the sunlight. The Elizabethan architecture was splendid, and there were many windows and little turrets, as there always were in traditional Tudor houses. And some privet hedges were cut in topiary designs.

The long stretch of manicured lawn was intersected by a path of huge limestone paving stones, which led up to the terrace. Once she reached this, she turned the corner on the right, and walked towards the front door. It was made of heavy oak, banded in iron.

She had only dropped the iron knocker once when the door opened. Williams, the Torbetts’ butler, was standing there, and he smiled when he saw her.

‘Lady Daphne! Good afternoon. Will you come in, please, m’lady.’

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you. Good afternoon, Williams.’

After he had closed the door, he said, ‘Shall I tell Mrs Torbett you are here? Forgive me, but is she expecting you, my lady?’

‘No, she’s not, Williams. I stopped by to see Mr Julian. If you would be so kind as to let him know I’m here.’

‘Oh dear! He’s gone out, Lady Daphne. He didn’t say how long he’d be. But he didn’t go riding. I saw him walking.’

Daphne gave the butler a warm smile. ‘Just tell him I was here, Williams. And please ask him to come over to Cavendon in the next few days. It’s nothing important, just an invitation I want to extend.’

‘I will, m’lady.’ The butler walked her to the door, and saw her out, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Going to marry a duke’s son, she was. At least, that was what he had heard.




NINE (#ulink_d826d5ea-6bac-52ea-84cf-d8b278bb84ba)


Daphne had been walking along the woodland path for only a few minutes when she heard a strange rustling sound. Looking around, she saw nothing unusual, so simply shrugged and went on at her usual pace. Squirrels playing, she thought, and then came to a sudden stop when she saw the heron at the edge of the stream, standing high on its tall legs in the shallow water. It was such an elegant bird.

A smile of delight flitted across her face. This was such an odd place for it to visit. She couldn’t help wondering why it kept coming back, but then perhaps it liked the stream and the woodland setting. Maybe it feels at home—

This thought was cut off when something hard struck her back, just between her shoulder blades. She pitched forward, hitting her head against a log as she fell to the ground. She lay still for a moment, stunned and overcome by dizziness. Realizing she had been attacked by someone, she endeavoured to stand up; she managed to get onto her knees, was about to scramble to her feet, but instead she was pinned to the ground from behind, and with brute force.

She struggled to free herself but the weight on top of her was too much; suddenly she was turned over, roughly, and laid on her back.

Daphne stared up at her attacker, the man who was pinning her down with such strength. He had wrapped a dark-grey scarf around his head and face, and all she could see were his eyes. They were hard, cruel, and because of the scarf she had no idea who he was. And she was terrified.

Understanding that she had no chance of escaping him, she began to shake, apprehension overwhelming her. In one last valiant effort, she pushed at him hard, but it was impossible to throw him off.

When he brought his hand close to her neck, she cringed and held herself still. She thought he was going to strangle her. Instead he ripped the front of her blouse, bent over her; he found her breasts, began to fondle and then pinch one of them harder and harder. He hurt her, and she screamed. This he immediately stopped by putting his hand over her mouth. With the other he lifted her skirt.

Rigid with fear, knowing there was no escaping him, understanding his intentions, Daphne snapped her eyes shut and prayed to God he would not kill her when he was finished with her.

He raped her.

The wild, rampaging man forced himself on her. He was hurting her; pain flowed through her, and she felt as though her insides were being ripped apart. She knew that to scream again would be useless, and gritted her teeth, turned her head to one side, straining away from him. There was nothing else she could do … except to shut it out.

All of a sudden the man began to move against her very quickly, shuddering and gasping. With a long groan he finally stopped moving, fell against her, all of his weight on her. And his body went limp.

In that instant Daphne seized the moment. She reached up, grabbed at the scarf around his face, tugged at it hard. When it came away, and she saw his face, she gaped at him in astonishment, horror and disbelief.

The man who had just raped her was Richard Torbett, Julian’s older brother. Still stunned by the violent attack, aghast that someone she knew had done this to her, she was unable to speak.

As for Torbett, he was infuriated that his identity had been revealed. Bright colour flooded his face as anger took hold of him.

He leaned down, brought his head close to hers. Against her ear, he hissed, ‘Speak of this to anyone and they will be killed. Your baby sister and your mother. I know men who’ll do the job for a few pounds. Not one word. Understand?’

Shock and genuine fear rendered Daphne speechless. She could only nod.

He pushed himself to his feet, stood looking down at her. ‘Remember, keep your mouth shut.’

Daphne closed her eyes. She heard him rustling through the bushes, obviously not wanting to be seen on the path. She felt as though her whole body had been bludgeoned. And so she lay very still, trying to breathe normally, hoping to get her strength back, wondering if she would be able to walk. She wasn’t even sure she could get up. Tears seeped from underneath her eyelids and trickled down her cheeks, as she continued to lay there dazed, unable to focus, hurting all over. He would not return, of that she was certain. He had taken what he wanted.

Daphne felt a gentle finger on her face, smoothing away the tears, and then a voice was saying her name. ‘Lady Daphne, Lady Daphne.’

She opened her eyes and saw the gypsy girl kneeling next to her, looking concerned.

‘Genevra,’ Daphne said, attempting to sit up.

The girl offered her hand, and helped Daphne into a sitting position. She said, ‘Come on … let’s go, m’lady. Dark clouds. Mebbe rain.’

With a bit of effort, Daphne managed to get to her feet, and immediately straightened her clothes, pulling her jacket around her torn blouse. Genevra handed Daphne her hat, which had fallen off in the struggle, and she put it on her head. Then she limped back to Cavendon, helped by Genevra all the way. When they came to the end of the woods, Genevra stopped, and gave Daphne a penetrating look. She said, ‘Yer fell down, my lady.’

Daphne stared at her, puzzled. She frowned at the gypsy girl.

Genevra said again, ‘Yer fell down, Lady Daphne. That’s wot ’appened ter yer.’

Daphne nodded. ‘I fell down,’ she repeated, and realized immediately that Genevra had witnessed the attack on her. She shrivelled inside at the thought, a shocked look on her face.

The Romany nodded, swung around and pointed towards Cavendon on the hill. ‘Go, Lady Daphne, go on! There yer’ll be safe.’ She smiled, raced off, heading for the long meadow.

Daphne watched her go, feeling grateful to her. I didn’t even thank her for helping me home, she chastised herself, annoyed at her thoughtlessness. On the other hand, she was still reeling from what had occurred, her horrific violation, stunned that she had been attacked by one of her own kind, an aristocrat, no less, who had known her all her life.




TEN (#ulink_05a2b0d6-b3d2-5038-8e03-a4e4d0faa9f2)


Genevra had been right. It began to rain. Daphne felt the first drops on her forehead as she arrived at Cavendon. Avoiding both the kitchen and the front doors, having no desire to run into anyone, she slipped into the house through the conservatory. Only she and her mother used this room, and her mother was in Harrogate today.

Once she was inside the house, Daphne experienced an enormous sense of relief. She also wondered how she had managed to climb the hill. Walking the final stretch on her own had been difficult. It struck her that she would never even have made it through the woods, if not for the gypsy girl’s help. Genevra had supported her, held her upright all the way.

Crossing the terracotta-tiled floor of the conservatory, Daphne went up the back staircase. Half way, she had to sit down on a step for a moment. Her back hurt, and she was sore and bruised. What she needed was a hot bath to ease her aching body. She must also calm herself, take control of her swimming and troubled senses, come to grips with what had happened. She was filled with fear, as well as horror-struck by what had been done to her with such force and cruelty.

Taking a few deep breaths, she finally rose and continued up the narrow staircase. When she finally stepped out into the bedroom corridor, she found herself standing in front of DeLacy and Cecily. Both girls had their arms full of summer frocks, and Alice was immediately behind them.

‘Daphne!’ DeLacy cried, when she saw her sister. ‘Whatever’s happened? You look as if you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards!’

Cecily was also gaping at Daphne, looking startled, but she did not utter a word.

Filled with dismay, her heart sinking, Daphne remained silent. She had been taken by surprise, and was flustered, rooted to the spot. Cringing inside, she shrank closer to the wall.

It was Alice Swann who immediately took charge. She had noticed Daphne’s dishevelled appearance at once, knew something was terribly amiss, and was alarmed by Daphne’s stricken expression.

Turning to the girls, she said, ‘Please take the frocks upstairs to the sewing room.’ She smiled at DeLacy, ‘And why don’t you try on a few of them, m’lady? You and Cecily can decide which ones you like the best. I will join you shortly.’

They did as she suggested, knowing it was best not to say anything, and they did not linger a moment longer.

Daphne had begun to edge towards her bedroom; Alice hurried over to her. Putting her hand underneath Daphne’s elbow, she gently guided her inside.

After closing the door behind them, Alice stood there, not only wondering what had happened to Daphne, but also seeking a diplomatic way to approach the matter.

Although Daphne was trying to disguise the fact, Alice noticed that her blouse was torn and the jacket sleeve ripped at the shoulder.

It was Daphne who spoke first. In a shaking voice, she whispered, ‘Something happened …’ She was unable to continue, turned around, and collapsed on a chair, her entire body shaking.

An exceedingly observant woman, Alice took in everything: Daphne’s dazed and troubled state, the bleakness in her blue eyes, the trembling mouth, the aura of fear surrounding her. It was obvious she was in shock, and Alice could not help anticipating the worst.

Her eyes swept over the Earl’s daughter. Her clothes were in a mess, not only torn, but there were grass stains and dirty marks on the skirt, mud on the jacket, and, as she peered closer, she thought she spotted blood on the skirt. Her chest tightened in apprehension.

Walking across the floor, she said softly, ‘Something bad happened, didn’t it, Lady Daphne?’ When Daphne did not answer, Alice said, ‘Am I correct, my lady?’

Daphne could not speak. She attempted to hold herself still, but the shaking would not stop. She wanted to confide in Mrs Alice, just for the relief of it, but she did not dare tell her the truth. Not after Richard Torbett’s terrifying threat to have Dulcie and her mother killed. The mere thought of this brought tears to Daphne’s eyes, and she started sobbing as if her heart would break.

Alice ran to her, knelt down at her feet and took hold of her hands. ‘Lady Daphne, I am here to help you. Don’t be afraid to cry. Let it all out. Tears help to release the tension.’ She reached into her jacket pocket and gave Daphne a clean white handkerchief. Alice waited quietly, kneeling next to the young woman, wanting to give her support, and a measure of comfort if that were possible.

At one moment, Alice rose and went to the door, locking it to ensure their privacy. Then she returned to Daphne’s side. Slowly the sobbing abated. Daphne wiped her eyes again, and finally sat up straighter. She looked at Alice, explained, ‘I fell down, Mrs Alice, and I—’

‘Don’t say anything else, my lady!’ Alice interrupted. Drawing closer, she added, ‘I don’t need to know anything. Nothing at all.’ In a lower tone, she whispered, ‘Tell no one. No one at all. Understand?’

Daphne looked at her intently. ‘Yes.’

Alice said, ‘Do not trust anyone in this house. Not ever.’

On hearing these words, Daphne was puzzled, and also a little frightened.

Observing her reaction, and wanting to allay any fears, Alice reached out, took her hand. ‘Only your parents. You can trust them. Naturally. And you can trust me. And Walter and Cecily. We are Swanns. We will always protect you.’

Daphne nodded her understanding, a look of relief entering her eyes.

‘Our ancestors made a blood oath over one hundred and sixty years ago. It has never been broken. Please say the motto, Lady Daphne.’ As she spoke Alice stretched out her right arm and made a fist.

Daphne placed her right hand on Alice’s fist, and said in French, ‘Loyaulté me lie.’

Repeating the motto in English, Alice said, ‘Loyalty binds me,’ and she put her left hand on top of Daphne’s, and the young woman did the same. ‘We are bound together into eternity,’ they said in unison.

After a few moments of silence, Alice broke their grip, and stood up. She said quietly, ‘I think you must get undressed, and then take a hot bath, m’lady. A good soak will bring ease to your body. Shall I help you?’

‘No, no, thank you, Mrs Alice. I can manage,’ Daphne said hurriedly.

Understanding that she wanted privacy, Alice nodded. ‘Please give me your hat, Lady Daphne.’

Daphne did so, and rose, limping towards the bathroom, her mind racing, filled with all manner of thoughts, not the least being Alice’s comments about not trusting anyone except her parents and the Swanns.

Alice explained, ‘I’m going to take those clothes home with me later. I will clean and mend them, and no one will be any the wiser.’

Daphne paused, turned around and stared at her, ‘But—’

‘No buts, my lady. We can’t have one of the maids finding them, now can we?’

Daphne simply nodded, realizing Mrs Alice was right.

Alice said, ‘I shall go up to the sewing room and satisfy the curiosity of DeLacy and Cecily, put their busy little minds at rest. By the way, where did you fall, Lady Daphne? In the woods?’

‘Yes,’ Daphne replied, swallowing hard.

‘I shall lock the door behind me, m’lady. You don’t need anyone walking in on you unexpectedly. I’ll only be a few minutes.’

‘Is Daphne all right?’ DeLacy asked as soon as Alice walked into the sewing room.

‘Oh yes, she’s perfectly fine,’ Alice answered, smiling. She added, ‘You look lovely in that rose-coloured chiffon, Lady DeLacy. I think this one will work beautifully for you, for the spring supper dance later this month. Don’t you agree, Cecily?’

‘I do, Mother, it is a wonderful colour for DeLacy, and a change from blue.’ Cecily began to laugh. ‘Everyone in this family wants to wear blue.’ She glanced at DeLacy, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Lacy, but it is the truth.’

‘Oh, I know. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn says we’re all stick-in-the-muds, and unimaginative. She thinks we should all wear purple – the royal colour. She even wonders aloud why we want clothes to match our eyes.’

Alice also had to laugh. ‘She’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.’

DeLacy swirled, the chiffon evening dress flaring out around her legs. She said, as she turned again, ‘I suppose Daphne must have fallen in the woods. I know she was going to see Julian at Havers Lodge … to tell him he could invite his fiancée to the big ball. She must have been hurrying back because of the thunder clouds, and then tripped.’

‘That’s exactly what happened,’ Alice agreed, her mind instantly focused on the Torbetts. She knew the Earl and the Countess had never been too happy about Lady Daphne’s friendship with Julian, when they were younger. They were afraid the two of them might become too attached to each other. Fortunately, that hadn’t happened, because of Julian’s intentions to have a military career, and Daphne’s lack of interest in him romantically.

They had only ever been platonic friends. This was also because Daphne’s head was filled with dreams of a duke’s son and a brilliant marriage, planted there at a very young age by her father.

To Alice’s way of thinking, there was something odd about the Torbett family. They tended to put on airs and graces, but they weren’t as wealthy as they liked the world to believe. Hanson had always told Walter that they were pretentious, jumped-up nothings.

On the other hand, Hanson was a bit of a snob and tended to dismiss anybody without a title. However, his damning statements had seemed to stick with her.

Going over to the rack of dresses, Alice looked at all of them with her beady eye; they were perfect for DeLacy, she decided, and also Daphne, as well. She took a honey-coloured taffeta ball gown over to DeLacy. ‘I think this would be lovely …’

There was a knock on the door, and when Alice called, ‘Come in,’ it was Walter who poked his head into the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you, ladies, but His Lordship would like DeLacy to go down for afternoon tea. Lady Gwendolyn has just walked over, and they are waiting in the drawing room.’

Alice nodded, and exclaimed, ‘Tea, of course! You’d better hurry along, DeLacy.’ And I’d better go and look in on Daphne, Alice thought, as she gave the honey-coloured gown to Cecily, then hurried out to join her husband.

In the corridor, Alice took hold of Walter’s arm, ‘Has the Countess returned from Harrogate yet?’

‘No, she won’t be back for another hour or so.’

‘I’ll see you at home tonight,’ Alice said, and went down the stairs to the bedroom floor. Walter followed her, and squeezed her arm affectionately, before they went in different directions. DeLacy was already halfway down the main staircase, on her way to tea.

Alice unlocked the door to Daphne’s bedroom, went inside, and quickly locked it behind her. Daphne was nowhere in sight. Alice noticed the small pile of clothes folded up on a chair. She went to examine them. The blouse was badly ripped; Alice thought she could mend it. As for the jacket, the back was smeared with green streaks from the grass, and splotches of mud. The skirt was in the worst condition, with dirty patches, grass and bloodstains. She could clean them successfully. She had good products and special methods.

Carefully, Alice folded them up again, and finally picked up the underskirt. There was blood on it, and some other damp patches. Alice bent her head and sniffed, and then turned away, grimacing. Her worst fears had been confirmed. A man had attacked Lady Daphne out in the woods, no two ways about it. That male smell clung to the underskirt. Carefully, she folded it and put it under the pile, shaking her head.

Alice sat down heavily in the chair. She felt as if a lump of lead was lodged in her chest. Her mind floundered for a moment, and her heart went out to Daphne, so sweet, so lovely. Whoever had done such a thing to a seventeen-year-old innocent girl should suffer the severest punishment. She wondered then if any of the woodsmen or gardeners had seen anything; several Swanns worked on the outside at Cavendon. Walter would have to ask them if they had noticed anything untoward this afternoon.

A moment later the bathroom door opened and Lady Daphne came out in her robe. She smiled at Alice, but then the smile instantly faltered. ‘I hoped I hadn’t bruised my face, but there’s a mark, here, on the cheekbone,’ Daphne said anxiously, touching her face. ‘How will I explain it to Mama and Papa, Mrs Alice?’

Alice hurried across the room, peered at her face. ‘It’s not so bad, Lady Daphne. I think it can be covered up with a few touches of powder and rouge. And you fell, remember, and if you fell forward then you would easily hit your face on a rock, a tree trunk or roots. You’ll explain it that way. What about the rest of you, m’lady?’

‘Just bruises, nothing broken. Did you see DeLacy and Cecily?’

‘Yes, they were in the sewing room. I told them you’d tripped and fallen. DeLacy assumed it was in the woods, because she said you’d gone to Havers Lodge to see Julian Torbett this afternoon.’

‘That’s true. I went to tell him his fiancée could come to the big ball. Obviously DeLacy heard me telling Father after lunch that I was going there.’

‘By the way, DeLacy has gone down to tea to join your great-aunt and your father. Walter brought a message from His Lordship. What about you? Do you want to join them, m’lady?’

Daphne shook her head. ‘I think I should rest. I’m hoping I’ll be able to go down for dinner later, but for now …’ Her voice trailed off.

Alice nodded, ‘Yes, stay and have a rest. I’d get into bed if I were you, m’lady. If it’s all right with you, I will tell Walter to inform your father that you’re resting after trying on dresses most of the day. I’ll say you’re a bit tired.’

Daphne inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Mrs Alice. I’d appreciate that. And thank you … for everything.’




ELEVEN (#ulink_abb6e033-d27d-5aa7-9887-1efc33bf92b1)


Lady Gwendolyn Ingham Baildon stood in the centre of the great entrance foyer at Cavendon Hall, glancing around, a beatific smile on her face. She had been in London for the past week, and this was her first visit since her return to Yorkshire two days ago.

To her, Cavendon was the most sublime place. There was nowhere else like it, and only here did she experience a feeling of euphoria, a sense of genuine happiness and contentment. So many memories, so many emotions were wrapped up in this house; her entire life had been spent here.

The smile lingered as her eyes rested on the oil paintings of her ancestors, which lined the wall above the grand curving staircase. Looking down at her were her parents. Her beautiful mother, Florence, wife of Marmaduke, the 4th Earl, her father. Next to her father was a striking portrait of her brother, David, the handsomest of men. He had been the 5th Earl, and next to him was a lovely oil painting of his wife, Constance, who had died far too young. She sighed to herself. Her own husband, Paul Baildon, had died young; she had been a widow for a very long time.

Turning away, Lady Gwendolyn walked across the hall in the direction of the small, yellow sitting room, where afternoon tea had been served for years.

Gwendolyn had been born in this house seventy-two years ago, and brought up here with David and their sister Evelyne. She knew every nook, cranny, corner and secret hiding place. In fact, there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Cavendon and the Ingham family. Well, that was not exactly true. She was ignorant about any number of things, as was her nephew Charles.

A small, amused smile struck her face fleetingly. Only the Swanns knew everything, and what they knew had been passed down from one generation to the next. There were notebooks filled with endless records, so she had been told once, and this information had come from the best source – a Swann, no less.

Ah well, Gwendolyn said under her breath, what would we have done without the Swanns? And they’re on our side, thank God, stand sentinel beside us. She would trust a Swann with her life if she had to.

Her nephew was the only occupant of the yellow sitting room, and he jumped up, came towards her once he saw her appear in the doorway.

After kissing her cheek, he said, ‘It’s lovely to see you back at Cavendon, Aunt Gwendolyn.’

‘Thank you, Charles, I feel the same.’ She glanced around. ‘Am I the first?’

‘Yes, actually, you are. I’m afraid our ranks are a bit diminished today. Felicity is still in Harrogate, visiting Anne, and Diedre accompanied her. But DeLacy will be joining us.’

At that moment Hanson glided into the room and, after greeting Lady Gwendolyn, he addressed the Earl. ‘Do you wish tea to be served immediately, m’lord?’

‘Yes, Hanson, thank you. But perhaps you could send a message to Lady DeLacy to come down.’

‘I took the liberty of doing that a short while ago, my lord.’

Charles nodded. ‘Thank you, Hanson. Very astute of you. I’m afraid punctuality is not her strong suit.’

As Hanson left the room, Gwendolyn said, ‘Isn’t Daphne joining us as well, Charles?’

‘I don’t think so. Apparently she has been busy with dress fittings for most of the day, and feels tired. She has asked to be excused.’

‘Sorry I’m late, Papa!’ DeLacy cried as she came racing into the room, a bright smile on her face. She ran over to her great-aunt, kissed her on the cheek, and then went to kiss her father.

‘You are coming to the supper dances and the big ball, aren’t you, Great-Aunt Gwendolyn?’ DeLacy asked, a moment later, sitting down next to her. ‘It’s never the same when you’re not present.’

‘How nice of you to say so, Lacy, and of course I plan to come, my dear. I’ve always thought the entertaining we do at Cavendon at that time of year, in the summer months, was the best, the most fun.’ Leaning slightly closer, she said in a low voice, ‘Please do try to avoid sky blue this season, darling. The obvious is rather boring, you know?’

DeLacy stared at her, saw the amusement flickering in the deep-blue eyes, and began to giggle. ‘I will certainly do that,’ she answered, still laughing, and then glanced at the door as the two footmen came in, both pushing laden tea trolleys, followed closely by Hanson, as always present to make sure nothing was amiss or went wrong.

As they went through the ritual of afternoon tea, Charles silently debated whether or not to tell his aunt that Hugo was about to make a visit. In the end, he decided he must do so. He preferred not to spring it on her at the last minute. But he would certainly avoid mentioning anything about property and Little Skell Manor.

After DeLacy insisted he try a piece of the Victoria sponge, Charles tasted it, and then put it down. Looking across at his aunt, he said, ‘I had a letter from Switzerland today. And you’ll never guess who it was from.’

Lady Gwendolyn threw him a puzzled look. ‘No, I’m afraid I won’t … I don’t know anyone who lives in Switzerland.’

A smile touched his mouth, and was gone. ‘It was from Hugo Stanton,’ he said in a level voice, wondering how she would react to this news.

‘Goodness gracious me!’ Lady Gwendolyn exclaimed. ‘Hugo Stanton, of all people, and after these many years of silence.’ She frowned, and peered at Charles. ‘I thought he was sent to live in America?’ A brow lifted.

‘He was—’

‘Quite the wrong move in my considered opinion,’ Lady Gwendolyn cut in. ‘Very rash.’

‘He was rather successful there, apparently, according to his letter, Aunt. He did well in business, and married well. However, sadly his wife died last year. From what I gather, they had been living in Zurich for several years.’

‘I see,’ Lady Gwendolyn observed noncommittally, and took a sip of her tea.

Charles continued, ‘In any event, Hugo wrote to tell me he has to come to London on business, and he asked me if he could come here for a visit. I suppose he was wondering if he would be made to feel welcome.’

There was a short silence, then Lady Gwendolyn said, ‘Of course he would be welcome as far as I’m concerned. I always liked Hugo, and I never believed for one moment that he had anything to do with his brother’s death. Stuff and nonsense that was.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘When is he coming?’ she asked.

‘Oh in the summer. I thought perhaps June or July. I’ll suggest that when I reply.’

‘And I shall look forward to seeing him again,’ Lady Gwendolyn announced with a warm smile.

Charles nodded, and decided to say nothing further. Why bring up Little Skell Manor or property, and who owned what at this stage? ‘And so shall I,’ Charles agreed amiably, and took a bite of his cake. ‘He will always be welcome at Cavendon.’

A few minutes later, DeLacy cried, ‘Mama! Diedre! You’re back early, and just in time for tea.’

The Earl glanced at the door, appearing to be as startled as DeLacy had sounded. He immediately rose, and walked across the floor to greet his wife and eldest daughter.

As he escorted them into the room, he asked Felicity, ‘I hope you had a lovely visit with Anne, my dear.’

‘Yes, we did,’ Felicity answered softly, trying to keep her voice steady, her expression neutral, not wishing to display any of her flaring emotions.

Diedre said, ‘Hello, Great-Aunt Gwendolyn,’ and went to kiss her.

Felicity followed suit, and touched DeLacy lightly on her shoulder as she passed by. Then she took a seat in a chair opposite them.

Hanson, as usual ever ready, appeared with a footman in tow, who proceeded to pour tea for the Countess and Diedre. And the ritual of afternoon tea began all over again.

Moving slightly on the sofa, Lady Gwendolyn focused on her niece-in-law, thinking once again that she looked slightly on edge. Felicity’s face was taut, and she was instantly aware of the sorrowful look in her light green eyes. Something’s wrong, Gwendolyn thought. Terribly wrong. I’m looking at a troubled woman, beleaguered by worries. What’s going on with her? She appears to be more nervous than ever.




TWELVE (#ulink_a81292f2-add5-54a6-8a60-7c8fe2054013)


Diedre Ingham, the eldest daughter of the Earl, had a great affinity for Lady Gwendolyn, and they had always been good friends since she was a little girl. They were cut from the same cloth, had similar characteristics, both being practical, down-to-earth and well organized. They also had a look of each other, and were of similar build.

Although Diedre did not have the alluring beauty of Daphne, nor the shining prettiness of DeLacy, she was still a good-looking young woman, with even features and those lovely blue eyes that were the Ingham trademark.

Tall, like her great-aunt, she had inherited Lady Gwendolyn’s elegance and style, and had her taste for strictly tailored clothes and understated jewellery, costly but not flashy or vulgar.

It was their down-to-earth natures that had bound them together over the years. They saw eye-to-eye on most things, and whenever Diedre had a problem, or a decision to make, it was to Lady Gwendolyn that she went.

At this moment, Diedre wished she could talk to her great-aunt, but that was not possible. She could hardly interrupt afternoon tea, and lead her away to a quiet corner.

Perhaps later she could walk back with her to Little Skell Manor, and talk to her then. Earlier today a great difficulty had arisen unexpectedly. Their aunt, Anne Sedgewick, was dying; Diedre needed someone to confide in, and to ask for advice. Intelligent, and blessed with common sense, she was, nonetheless, only twenty, and sometimes wisdom from the older woman helped her to see things more clearly.

Suddenly, Diedre sat up straighter in the chair, and paid attention. From the sound of his voice, her father was speaking about something important; she pulled herself out of her reverie to listen to him.

‘And so, Felicity, my dear, I can’t tell you how surprised I was to receive this letter from Hugo, after his silence all these years. The crux of it is this. He will be visiting London shortly, and he asked if he could come to Cavendon to see us.’

Diedre, observing her mother, saw how her face instantly brightened, and there was a sudden flash of pleasure in her eyes. ‘How wonderful that you’ve heard from him at last, Charles,’ Felicity said, her voice warm. ‘I’ve spent quite a few years worrying about little Hugo, on and off, and wondering how he had fared, hoping he was all right. Such a tragedy … being sent away.’

‘Wasn’t it in disgrace?’ Diedre ventured, looking at her father.

Before he could answer, Lady Gwendolyn said in a stern voice, ‘He was not at fault in any way, and my sister was wrong in her ridiculous attitude. And I told her so, and in no uncertain terms. It made no difference, but I’ve always regretted not being more forceful with her, or more persuasive.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Felicity remarked. ‘Aunt Evelyne had made up her mind that he had not helped his brother, and there was no changing her opinion. She was an extraordinarily stubborn woman, and needed a scapegoat, by the way.’

‘Didn’t his brother die in the lake … drown?’ DeLacy began, and stopped abruptly when she saw the warning look on Diedre’s face.

Charles said, ‘Enough of the past. We are now in the present, looking towards the future, and the future is very bright for us. And for Hugo. He has done well in the world and, although his wife died a year ago, I think he will bravely march on. He is an Ingham, after all, and we do that. We don’t crumble and give in. Also, he’s only thirty-two. He has his life ahead of him.’

‘Quite so,’ Lady Gwendolyn agreed in a firm voice.

‘When is he coming?’ Felicity asked softly, staring at her husband.

‘That’s really up to me, or rather to us, darling. He plans to visit London within the next few weeks. So I am going to suggest he comes here in July.’

Felicity simply nodded.

Lady Gwendolyn announced, ‘I believe a weekend visit would be most appropriate, Charles.’ She glanced at Felicity. ‘Don’t you agree, my dear?’

‘That would be nice,’ Felicity nodded, leaning back in the chair, tired after the long and difficult day in Harrogate.

Charles beamed at them. ‘That settles the matter. I shall write to him after I’ve had a chance to consider the engagements we have in the next few weeks, to ascertain which is the best weekend for him to come.’

‘Oh Papa, please invite him here when there’s a supper dance. You know there’s always a shortage of men at these dances, and some of us have to partner each other.’

Always indulgent with her, Charles couldn’t help laughing at her eagerness for male dancing partners. ‘Now, now, DeLacy, you’re only twelve, you know,’ he answered. But he could not keep the amusement out of his voice, nor did he ever chastise her when she was cheeky or forward. He just didn’t have the heart, and she was his favourite; he rather liked her cheekiness.

Lady Gwendolyn was also amused, and it showed on her face when she stood up. ‘Thank you, Charles and Felicity, I must go back to the manor, to rest. London was rather hectic, you know.’

‘May I walk back with you, Great-Aunt Gwendolyn?’ Diedre asked, also standing.

‘Of course, my dear. I would enjoy the company.’

‘May I come, too?’ DeLacy jumped to her feet, and looked at Diedre pleadingly.

On the verge of refusing this request, Diedre instantly changed her mind. ‘You can come with us, if you wish.’ DeLacy might as well know the truth, the way things are, Diedre thought, as they trooped out of the yellow sitting room together. She’s old enough to know how hard life can be, and what we are facing: the imminent death of our mother’s sister; a bereavement in the family, which will make Mama more upset than ever.

Once they were alone, Felicity went and sat on the sofa with Charles; leaning closer to him she said, ‘I have bad news … Anne is dying.’

A look of astonishment crossed his face, and his brows drew together in a frown. ‘How can that be? You told me she was better! That she had said she was all right. You went to have a celebratory lunch with her today.’

‘That’s what I thought it was. She told me on Friday that she had seen her doctors, that they had given her the results of the last tests. And then she added she was all right. The problem is, she didn’t mean it the way I took it.’

‘How did she mean it?’

‘That she was all right, because at last she knew what the outcome of her illness was going to be, and how long she has to live.’

Charles cringed at these words. He took hold of his wife’s hand, held it tightly. His expression was one of compassion. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry, Felicity. For Anne and for you, darling.’ He gazed at her intently, took in the beauty of her delicately wrought face, surrounded by a halo of red-gold hair, and looked deeply into her light green eyes, and he felt himself choke up with emotion. He knew how much this bad news would affect her.

Felicity edged even closer to him. He put his arms around her and held her against him, fighting back the tears. His sister-in-law, Anne Sedgewick, was a woman of intelligence, kindness and humour. And an extraordinary artist. Her glorious, still-life oil paintings had become collectors’ items over the years, and she was now famous for her work. This aside, she was a lovely woman, and one of great depth, whom he cared about enormously. He wanted to ask how long she had, but he didn’t dare. His nerve had left him.

Felicity drew away from him, and looked up into his face. She said, ‘I’m so sorry I put it so bluntly, Charles. I just didn’t know how to break the news to you, since you believed we were celebrating her recovery at lunch today … I felt I just had to say it, and without any frills.’ Tears flooded her eyes, and she began to weep.

Bending over her, Charles held her close once more, and wept himself. And so wrapped up were they in their pain and grief, neither of them saw Hanson silently gliding away, shooing the two footmen ahead of him, using his discretion as he inevitably did.

Upstairs at Cavendon, in her darkened room, Daphne lay curled up in a ball in her bed. Sorrowing and bereft, she had cried until she had no tears left in her. And finally she had slept, exhausted from the assault on her body and on her senses.

Now that she was awake, her mind was racing with all kinds of worried thoughts, and raw anxiety had surfaced. She had no idea how to deal with the situation she found herself in. She could not confide in anyone, because of Richard Torbett’s threat. Also, Mrs Alice had told her to tell no one, to trust no one, except her parents and the Swanns. She did not have the nerve to tell her parents, and she felt sure Mrs Alice already knew what had happened. She had guessed when she saw the stained clothes, and took them away.

Right from the start of the attack in the bluebell woods, Daphne believed the man was going to murder her, after he had raped her. He had not killed her. But he had taken her life. And left her with nothing of value. Her virginity had been destroyed and so had her chance of becoming the wife of the son of a duke. Or wife of anybody, for that matter.

Her future was meaningless now … there was nothing left for her. There was only bleakness in store. And loneliness.




THIRTEEN (#ulink_df7f3d3e-54f4-5917-99f6-029e57aef32b)


Harry Swann, Cecily’s fifteen-year-old brother, had her full attention, and she was listening to him closely, impressed by his knowledge.

‘And so,’ he said, ‘it was Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, who put Edward Plantagenet on the throne of England, and when he was very young. Only eighteen. Imagine that!’ he ended in an excited voice.

‘You certainly learned your history well, Harry,’ Cecily responded, giving her much-adored brother a warm smile. ‘No wonder you were top of your class when you were at school.’

Harry grinned at her. ‘The Earl of Warwick lived at Middleham Castle. We once went there, if you remember, with Aunt Charlotte. Do you think we could go up there again sometime? Would she take us? It’s such an historic place. And history is my hobby.’

‘It’s not very far away. We can ask her tomorrow when we go to tea. Perhaps she’ll go with us in the summer.’

Harry nodded, bent his fair head, ate his baked apple in silence, savouring it. Ever since childhood, it had been his favourite dessert. The two of them were in the kitchen of their home, finishing supper.

Sitting back in her chair, watching him, Cecily couldn’t help thinking that he looked older than his age, perhaps because of the intelligence in those light grey eyes, and his serious nature. And also his build. Like his father, he was tall; certainly there was no mistaking that Harry was a Swann. Not only because of his looks, but his bearing, his self-confidence, and his natural charm as well.

Cecily was aware that he had always been diligent, and he was quick, clever, and articulate. She knew he would go far in life, given the opportunity. Aunt Charlotte had told her the same thing: they were in agreement about his abilities and his talent as a landscape gardener, working with his cousin Bill at Cavendon.

Suddenly, he glanced up at her, asked, ‘When is Miles coming home from Eton? For the summer, I mean.’

‘I don’t know, but it’ll be soon. By the end of the month.’

‘I hope we can all go fishing one weekend. What do you think, Ceci?’

‘Yes, we’ll go fishing, and bird watching, and we’ll have picnics in the woods. DeLacy will come with us.’

‘We always have fun together,’ Harry said.

‘Now then, how are you both doing?’ Alice asked, sounding as cheerful as usual when she came hurrying into the kitchen. But her heart was heavy with worry about Daphne, and she felt unsettled, at odds with herself. She could not get the girl’s predicament out of her mind.

‘We’ve enjoyed our supper, Mam. Haven’t we, Ceci? The cottage pie was nice, and thanks for my baked apple.’

Alice stood looking at them, filled with sudden joy. They were her adored children. She knew they were special, each in their own way, at least to her and Walter. They would have good lives. She smiled at them, picked up their empty plates and carried them to the sink. As she began to run the tap water she thought once more of Lady Daphne, and sadness flooded through her. She simply couldn’t bear to think of her pain.

‘We’ll help you, Mam!’ Cecily jumped up and so did Harry, and the three of them washed and dried the dishes together. They chatted to their mother about what they would do the next day with Walter. Their father had tomorrow off, as he did every other Sunday. This was a privilege given to any Swann who was the Earl’s valet.

Much later that evening, when Walter had returned from Cavendon to Little Skell village, he and Alice went to see Charlotte. She lived across the street from them, and it was a late-night ritual they often enjoyed. They would have coffee and cognac as they chatted about the goings-on at Cavendon, and catching up with each other in general. They were close, and bonded to each other.

Although it was May, it was a cool evening. Charlotte had a fire blazing in the parlour; the coffee and brandy were ready for them on the sideboard, and she was waiting with a smile on her face.

Once they were settled in front of the fire in the cosy room, sipping their coffee, Charlotte said, ‘I have a bit of news. Something unexpected, and it upset the Earl this morning. I happened to be going down the terrace steps, when he saw me, and came out of the library to speak to me about it.’

‘What kind of upsetting news?’ Walter asked, eyeing her keenly, as always concerned about anything affecting Cavendon.

‘You’re not going to believe this, but Hugo Stanton’s coming back here to see the Earl.’

‘That’s a turn-up for the books!’ Walter exclaimed. ‘What’s prompted him to come home? He was packed off without so much as a goodbye.’

‘I always liked Hugo, and he didn’t kill his brother,’ Alice interjected, sounding defensive.

Walter burst out laughing. ‘No one ever said that he did, Alice.’

‘But they thought it,’ she shot back swiftly. ‘It was never even a possibility. Just his mother talking nonsense.’

‘Why was His Lordship so upset?’ Walter asked, focusing on his aunt.

‘Because he thinks Hugo wants Little Skell Manor, which is his by rights, and that he’ll turf Lady Gwendolyn out.’

‘Hugo wouldn’t do that,’ Alice protested. ‘He’s not that kind of person.’

Charlotte gave Alice an odd look, puzzlement surfacing.

Walter explained. ‘Don’t you remember, Aunt Charlotte? Alice’s father worked for the Stantons.’

‘How silly of me. I’d forgotten for a moment. Of course your father was a trainer, wasn’t he? He looked after the Stanton yard near Ripon, helped Major Gaunt train their racehorses. That’s right, isn’t it?’

Alice nodded. ‘Yes, and Hugo wouldn’t turf her out. His aunt was always on his side.’

‘If he does, Lady Gwendolyn can move into the South Wing. It’s like a self-contained flat, and large. She would be comfortable there. I explained this to Charles,’ Charlotte told them.

‘Good thinking on your part.’ Walter took a sip of coffee. ‘Anyway, it might not come to that.’

Alice said, ‘No, I’m sure it won’t.’

‘I have a bit of news too,’ Walter now put in. ‘But it’s rather sad I’m afraid. Mrs Sedgewick has not recovered from cancer, after all. She’s dying …’ Walter paused, looking sorrowful. ‘His Lordship told me tonight. The Countess is devastated, she thought her sister was better, and that they would be having a celebration luncheon today, believing her to have years ahead of her. Seemingly, that’s not so.’

‘How terrible for Her Ladyship. She must be suffering. She and her sister are very close.’ Charlotte reached for her glass of cognac, took a swallow. She was filled with sympathy for Felicity Ingham.

Alice murmured, ‘What an unfortunate mistake to make.’

The three of them sat in silence for a short while, sipping their cognac, lost in their own thoughts. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire, the ticking of the clock, and the rustling of the trees outside. They were wise enough to understand that the unexpected frequently happened, and inevitably it was unfair. Life had a way of making its own rules, dealing its own cards, and the cards were rarely lucky.

It was Alice who finally roused herself, knowing that she would have to inform her husband and Charlotte about Daphne’s terrible ordeal. After a moment, settling herself, she said in as steady a voice as she could muster, ‘I’m afraid I have the worst news of all …’ Alice glanced at her husband, and then Charlotte, who was the matriarch of the Swann family. Barely audible, she whispered, ‘Lady Daphne was attacked this afternoon.’

‘What?’ Charlotte exclaimed, her voice rising. She sounded shocked, and gaped at Alice. ‘Attacked? What do you mean by that?’

‘Someone attacked her. Physically.’

‘I hope you don’t mean what I think you do, Alice?’ Walter gave his wife a penetrating look, frowning at her.

Alice glanced from one to the other. She saw that Charlotte was aghast, a stricken expression on her face, and Walter had disbelief in his eyes, and she knew he was filled with apprehension. It showed in the tautness of his face, the way he held his body so rigidly.

Swallowing, her mouth dry with anxiety, Alice said slowly, carefully, ‘When Lady Daphne came back to the house this afternoon I ran into her. She was dishevelled. Once I got Cecily and DeLacy out of the way, I ushered her into her bedroom. She told me something had happened. I asked her if it was something bad, and she didn’t answer me. Later she said she’d fallen.’

‘But are you certain she was assaulted?’ Walter probed, finding this hard to believe.

‘I am positive.’

Charlotte asked quietly, ‘Are you telling us she was raped?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Oh my God!’ Charlotte was horrified, and a look of fear spread across her face. She sat there unable to speak, utterly shaken.

Walter was also shocked into silence for a moment, as the words sank in, and then he cried, ‘Who would dare to go near Lady Daphne? Touch her? In God’s name who? Where did this happen, Alice? Did she tell you?’ His voice sounded harsh in the quiet room.

Alice shook her head. ‘No. However, later, when I explained to DeLacy and Cecily that Daphne had had a bad fall – remember Daphne was dishevelled, so I had to tell them something, DeLacy said that it must have been in the woods. She added that Daphne had gone to see Julian Torbett after lunch, and that she always went to Havers Lodge through the bluebell woods.’

‘Our land! She was raped on our land!’ Walter cried angrily. ‘By God, whoever did this I’ll beat the living daylights out of him.’

Charlotte was as white as bleached bone, and she spoke in a low, worried voice. ‘You are very sure of this, aren’t you, Alice? She did tell you she was raped?’

‘No, she didn’t, Charlotte. When she confirmed that something bad had happened to her, I silenced her at once. I said I didn’t need to know any more. And that she must not tell a living soul about it. I also warned her to trust only her parents, and us, the Swanns.’

‘She’s ruined,’ Walter lamented in a sorrowing, almost mournful voice. ‘Her life is over. Gone, just like that, in a flash.’

Alice said quietly, ‘Although she didn’t confide in me, I know it’s true, because of her clothes. Her jacket and blouse were torn, and there were stains on the jacket and skirt.’ Alice paused, gave Charlotte a meaningful look, then added, ‘Her underskirt was stained as well.’

‘Where are those clothes?’ Charlotte asked, concerned.

‘I brought them home, washed and cleaned them earlier this evening. I will repair them, they’ll be as good as new.’

‘Wise move,’ Charlotte answered, and sat back in the chair, her mind racing. She was thinking of Felicity and Charles Ingham, and of all their plans for Daphne, and the anguish they would suffer if they ever got to know about this.

A sudden thought struck Charlotte and she took a deep breath. ‘She’s not necessarily ruined, not as long as nobody knows about the rape but us. Because there are ways of concealing the loss of virginity … we’ll have to go to the old medical books, Alice.’

‘You have them all, don’t you?’ Alice asked, sitting up alertly.

‘Yes. They are locked up with the record books covering generations of our history … the history of the Inghams and the Swanns and their intertwined lives.’

Walter turned to his wife. ‘Are you positive she won’t tell anyone, Alice? Sometimes a young woman has a need to unburden herself.’

‘Who can be sure of what anyone will do?’ Alice replied. ‘On the other hand, I’ve known Lady Daphne all of her life, and she’s a loner, not one given to confessions about anything. And who would she confide in? Not Diedre, there’s a certain distance between them. And, frankly, she would think DeLacy is too young. She won’t talk, I just know this. Don’t ask me how, but I do.’

‘We Swanns must close ranks, and do all we can to keep her safe in every way,’ Charlotte announced in a strong voice. ‘Walter, talk to our other Swanns, those who work outside, and let’s throw a ring of protection around her.’

‘It’s done,’ Walter said at once. ‘I’ll see our lads tomorrow, and the woodsmen. I’ll tell them to be on the lookout for trespassers. I’ll talk about poachers, suggest we’ve spotted one, and I’ll tell the Earl the same thing.’

Charlotte leaned forward. ‘We can’t have anyone wondering why Lady Daphne has to be protected, therefore rumours of poachers on our land is the best reason to give. Use it.’

Alice said, ‘Lady Daphne was distraught, still in shock when I helped her this afternoon. She was … dazed and fearful, the poor girl. I tried to do everything I could to comfort her, Charlotte.’

‘Keep on doing that, Alice. Stay close to her.’ Charlotte stood up, went and brought the bottle of cognac to the fireside, poured the golden liquid into their glasses. ‘We’re going to make everything right. Expunge that rape … make her whole again. As best we can. And she will marry the son of a duke if we have anything to do with it.’

‘That’s the right way to think,’ Walter asserted. ‘And don’t forget, the Swanns always win.’

Alice said a silent prayer, hoping that this would be the result, that they would save Daphne’s future. The problem was, she wasn’t sure they could.




FOURTEEN (#ulink_e0ec824e-ee94-58c0-a519-9b7020dbe6fe)


Daphne sat at her dressing table, studying her face in the mirror. The bruise had finally faded away. It had only been a scrape really; powder and rouge had done the trick. No one had noticed it except Dulcie, who had prattled on about it but had fortunately been ignored. Everyone else was concentrating on other things.

Her aunt had been given only six months to live at the most, and so her mother and father had been preoccupied with this tragic news all week. They had also been concerned about the upcoming arrival of Hugo Stanton, her father’s cousin, and making plans for his weekend visit in July.

And so they had not paid much attention to their four daughters these past few days, much to her relief. They had not noticed the bruise; she had not mentioned her fall in the woods. Neither had DeLacy. She had asked her younger sister not to bring it up, and DeLacy had agreed to keep silent.

So, all in all, she had managed to get through the week without any explanations. But it had not been easy for her. Her body had begun to heal, the bruises and scratches calming down, but her mind was extremely busy.

It was virtually impossible for her to expunge that violent physical attack from her mind. The angry face of Richard Torbett, when she had pulled off his disguise, and his deadly threat to have her mother and Dulcie killed, were engraved on her brain.

When Mrs Alice had returned her clothes in perfect condition, and put them away in her wardrobe, she had thanked her, but made no reference to them. And neither had Mrs Alice. Instead she had said in a low voice, ‘I understand that there are poachers on our land, so don’t be surprised if you see more woodsmen around than usual. They’re keeping their eyes open for trespassers.’

Daphne had nodded, and later wondered about this comment. Yet she fully understood that no Swann would ever discuss an Ingham with someone else. Her secret was safe, there was no question about that. Still, it had occurred to her that the woodsmen were out and about because of her, without any of them knowing it. The Swanns were making sure she was protected. That was the way they worked. In clever ways. Secret ways.

Smoothing her hand across her hair, Daphne then dabbed a bit of powder on her cheeks, and adjusted the jabot of her white blouse.

Last week, when Madge Courtney and Julian Torbett had come to call, she had passed on her father’s invitation to Madge to come to the summer ball. And she had agreed to go riding with them this morning. It was Saturday morning, and she was dreading it all of a sudden. Julian was nothing at all like his dangerous older brother, who was known to be a reprobate and a gambler. But, nonetheless, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable, even though Julian was her childhood friend. Being near him made her think of the rapist.

Madge was joining them, and she had asked DeLacy to come along as well. Her sister was delighted to be invited to go riding with this older group, and had accepted with alacrity and pleasure.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and DeLacy, her face full of smiles, came in, asking, ‘Are you ready, Daphne? Everyone’s waiting for you.’

Daphne reached for her elegant lady’s bowler hat; looking in the mirror, smoothing her hand over her bun, she perched the bowler on top of her head. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ she answered, and stood. Picking up her gloves, she pulled them on, and continued, ‘I don’t feel like riding today, but I didn’t want to disappoint Julian and Madge.’

‘You don’t want to disappoint Papa, either,’ DeLacy exclaimed.

‘Papa! Is he joining us?’ The thought of her father being with them cheered her up enormously, brought a smile to her bright blue eyes.

‘Yes, he is. He told me a good gallop would do him good, that he needed to clear his head. Mama is not going to Harrogate today, and she invited Julian and Madge to join us for lunch, after our ride.’

‘That’s nice,’ Daphne nodded, attempting as they walked downstairs together to shut out the vivid image of Richard Torbett’s angry, snarling face.

The Earl, Julian and Madge were waiting outside, standing next to their horses and chatting amiably. Daphne and DeLacy went over to join them; after greeting her father, Daphne stepped over to welcome Julian and his fiancée.

Madge Courtney was a striking redhead, good looking, forceful in her manner, and taller than Julian; she had a friendly personality, was outgoing, and good company.

Daphne had always thought they looked odd together. Julian, of medium height, fair of colouring and with soft features, appeared to be much younger than her. Yet they were the same age; Julian was introspective, less flamboyant.

Julian hugged her, as always gentle and loving with her, and told her she looked beautiful. ‘So elegant, Daphne, in your dark blue riding habit. An unusual colour. And I love the bowler. That’s a snappy touch.’

‘Thank you, Julian,’ she answered graciously, and said to Madge, ‘I’m so glad you can come back for lunch with us.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Madge answered, and then turned to DeLacy to speak to her.

A few minutes later, they were all mounted. DeLacy was riding Dreamer, a horse she had long favoured, whilst Daphne was on Greensleeves, a beautiful roan, which she had owned for several years, a gift from her father.

Within minutes they were trotting out of the stable block, heading for the long stretch of fields where they would be able to enjoy their gallop, racing each other, and giving their horses a good run.

As they swept across the open fields, Daphne began to feel better. Her father was right, fresh air cleared the head. Blowing the cobwebs away was a grand idea, she decided, and settled into her saddle, handling her horse with her usual skill and finesse.

Once they came to the end of the fields, exhilarated by the race, they slowed down, and wheeled their horses to the left. They headed along one of the wide bridle paths that ran along the right side of the bluebell woods, slowly progressing back to Cavendon.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and mild, with a blue sky, and no hint of rain for once. Daphne blocked out the image of her assault in the woods last week. These were their woods, and she would not avoid them, even if she had to grit her teeth to forget her ordeal. But she would put it behind her. It wouldn’t happen again, she was certain of that. Their land would now be patrolled regularly by their own men, thanks to the Swanns.

As she trotted along the path behind DeLacy, enjoying the shade created by the overhanging branches of the trees, Daphne noticed that her lovely heron was back. It was standing in the pool of water in the middle of the woods, and it brought a brief smile to her face. It had found a home, she decided.

Unexpectedly, she caught sight of Walter’s brother, Percy, who was head gamekeeper at Cavendon. She saw her father beckoning him over, and Percy started to run. Then he stood talking to the Earl for a few moments before he hurried off.

Suddenly, in the distance, there was the sound of gunfire. Shots rang out, startling them all, especially the horses. Greensleeves snorted and reared up on her hind legs, tossed her head, frightened by the sudden noise. Daphne tightened the reins, tried to calm her, to gain control of her. Somehow she managed it. And then she saw, much to her horror, that Julian’s horse had not only panicked but bolted.

It was galloping down the bridle path, hell for leather, obviously totally spooked by the rifle fire. And then she filled with fear as she saw Julian thrown off his horse. He landed heavily, hit a large boulder, rolled over onto his back, and lay still.

Daphne noticed that the other horses were in the same state of great agitation, pawing, tossing their heads, and rearing up. DeLacy was still struggling with Dreamer, trying to calm her. But finally her father had his stallion Blackstar under control, much to Daphne’s relief.

Julian’s horse ran on, galloping down the bridle path, still a terrified animal.

DeLacy and Daphne galloped forward. As they drew closer to Julian they reined in their horses, and jumped to the ground. Their father was running towards Julian, where he lay unmoving on the ground. He was obviously badly hurt.

Only Madge remained on her horse, frozen by shock and fear, and unable to move a muscle. She had lost all colour, her eyes wide with horror.

Glancing around, DeLacy asked no one in particular, ‘Where did those shots come from?’ And then she went to join her father, who was kneeling next to Julian.

The Earl shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, DeLacy. But we never have guns out at this time of year.’ He felt Julian’s pulse. It was faint but it was there. The young man was deathly white, and Charles noticed that the gash on his forehead was deep, bloody. His eyes were closed; blood was splattered on his fair hair. He was still, very still indeed, hardly breathing. Charles was filled with fear for the young man. The fall had been bad, awkward, and his legs were skewed, looked as if they were broken.

Percy Swann was suddenly back with them, panting from running hard. ‘Our lads weren’t shooting, m’lord. None of our men have guns out here. I’m not sure where those shots came from, m’lord.’

‘Torbett land,’ Daphne interjected, certainty ringing in her voice. Half turning, she pointed behind her. ‘Definitely back there.’ She couldn’t help thinking it was Richard Torbett, up to his tricks. Then she looked down at Julian, and was struck by his total inertness, his extreme pallor. She was afraid for him. She knew he was in a bad way. Her chest tightened, and anxiety flared in her as she wondered if he would recover. She doubted it. He looked so … damaged. He lay there like a broken doll.

The Earl said, ‘I don’t think we should move Mr Julian, Swann. Or carry him away. It could be dangerous to do so. He’s lying in a funny way. His neck could be broken, or his spine. If I remember correctly, don’t we have some sort of makeshift stretcher at Cavendon?’

‘We do, Lord Mowbray. It was made for Sir Redvers Andrews, when he had a heart attack on the grouse moor last August. And it’s still there in the cellars, as far as I know. I can get it, m’lord, and be back in a few minutes with some of the woodsmen.’

‘Thank you, Swann. Have Hanson make a phone call to Dr Shawcross. He should tell the doctor we need an ambulance. Mr Torbett will have to be taken to hospital. Harrogate’s the nearest.’

‘Right-o, m’lord,’ Percy answered, and began to move away.

Daphne said, ‘Papa, Swann should take my horse, it’s faster riding than running, surely.’

‘Good idea, Daphne. Take Her Ladyship’s horse, Swann,’ the Earl said.

DeLacy was kneeling on the ground next to her father, and she now asked in a concerned tone, ‘Do you think Julian is going to die, Papa?’ She thought he might actually be dead already, but didn’t dare say that out loud.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea. I pray to God not. He took a terrible, very hard fall. He must have damaged his spine, and he must have a bad head injury. Look at all the blood on the grass. He’s certainly unconscious.’

‘I know,’ DeLacy said. As her sister spoke, Daphne walked back to Madge. She knew she must offer some sort of comfort to the young woman, who was still sitting on her horse, as if frozen in place. She was like a statue. Her face was the colour of chalk, and looked unnatural. It was stark against her vivid auburn hair.




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