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‘It will, but we must convince Miles to accept the idea. He might not want to do it.’
‘There are the papers I found to prove my point,’ Charlotte reminded Cecily. ‘I know they were overlooked by the Fifth Earl, because I worked with him, and obviously the Sixth Earl did the same thing. Now the Seventh Earl can put it all straight.’
Cecily wasn’t so sure. She knew her husband would loathe the idea – especially as his sisters believed the houses had been given to them. And it was going to seem, once again, that the Swanns were meddling with the Ingham ways.
She stood up wearily and excused herself.
TWO (#ubfa72f98-2818-56d8-8e80-be087e6c7d93)
In moments of sorrow, or when she was troubled, Cecily went to a special place at Cavendon to be alone and calm herself.
It was no longer the rose garden, which she had used as a sanctuary for years, although she did still visit it occasionally. These days she usually went down to DeLacy’s grave, where she would sit and talk to her dearest friend. DeLacy Ingham had been tragically killed in the war, when the South Street house had been struck by a flying bomb, and Cecily continued to miss her childhood companion, the missing sister of the ‘Four Dees’, as they’d been known.
Leaving the house, Cecily walked to the cemetery, located across the park near the woods. When she arrived she saw at once that someone else had been there before her. The vase on the grave was filled with late-blooming pink roses.
Instantly, she choked up, touched that another member of the family had also recently felt the need to visit DeLacy. That was the way she always thought of these visits – going to see DeLacy, never going to DeLacy’s grave. Because she couldn’t bear that thought. Cecily sat down on the grass and leaned against the headstone. In her mind’s eye she could see her friend as clearly as if she were standing there, could hear the lilting voice telling her something special, their laughter echoing in the air …
She missed Lacy so much it was a physical pain, an ache inside, a terrible longing for someone she had loved and lost, whom she would never embrace or laugh with ever again. DeLacy’s untimely death in the Second World War had been the biggest loss of her life.
Cecily thought now of the years they had grown up together, here at Cavendon, always close, never far away from each other. They were the same age, with the same needs. While DeLacy was an Ingham, one of the Earl’s four daughters, and Cecily a Swann, who served the aristocratic family, the social divide had meant nothing to them. We were like one person, Cecily suddenly thought, all twined up together, interwoven like a fine fabric, thinking and saying the same things.
A small sigh escaped her and she closed her eyes, unexpectedly remembering their terrible quarrel. They had not spoken for several years. It was Miles who had been able to bring about a reconciliation, which Lacy had begged for, and Cecily had agreed to forgive and forget, and she had done that with all her heart. When they had come back together, were friends again, it was so easy, so natural, as if they had never been apart. In an instant, they had become one again.
To Cecily, DeLacy had always been the most beautiful of the four Ingham sisters, even though Lady Daphne had been singled out as the beauty of the family by their father.
Her husband’s sisters were all blonde with sky-blue eyes. Diedre, Daphne, DeLacy and Dulcie, each with their own honorary title of Lady, as the daughters of an earl. Her sisters-in-law, her friends. Daphne’s words earlier had hurt Cecily very deeply.
There had never been a serious rift between the Inghams and the Swanns until after the war. It was then that the fabric of the family had suddenly and unexpectedly been ripped. All because of the need for money for new government taxes and the proper running of the estate. Miles fully understood he was the guardian of an ancient line, one of the most important earldoms in England. Still, his birthright was a heavy burden to carry, Cecily knew that. Many of the ancient estates had been put up for sale over the years since the First World War, and now the Second World War had made it harder still. An old world order had ended for ever: a world in which the big houses were full of servants and the money flowed had disappeared.
Aunt Charlotte had told her as they had parted earlier that it was the first time in living memory there had been issues between the two families. And she ought to know. Aunt Charlotte had been the keeper of the Swann record books all of her adult life. They had been written since Cavendon was built, started at the time of the 1st Earl by James Swann. In those books were all the secrets of the Swanns and the Inghams; they were absolutely private and for Swann eyes only.
The Inghams had never been allowed to read those books. Now they were in her hands, and Cecily would keep the records, write in them, and they would not pass to another Swann until the day she died.
Cecily focused on Aunt Charlotte. She held a unique position in the two families, as the matriarch of the Swanns and, as the Dowager Countess of Mowbray, matriarch of the Inghams. Aunt Charlotte’s work for Miles’s grandfather, David Ingham, the 5th Earl, long before she married the 6th Earl, Charles, late in her life, meant there wasn’t much she didn’t know about the two families. How lucky for them that she had now remembered that the two houses, Little Skell Manor and Skelldale House, belonged to the 7th Earl, and not the different women who had lived in them over the years.
She hoped Miles wouldn’t be silly and get on his high horse, and say his sisters must continue to live rent free.
Daphne lived rent free, come to think of it. She and Hugo and their children had occupied the South Wing of Cavendon for all of their married lives. Did they pay rent? Had they ever? Should they now start? She had no answer to that.
Cecily felt a sudden rush of resentment. Daphne blamed her for the visitors who intruded on Daphne’s private haven, and she had to admit she was hurt, considering the efforts she had made over these many years. She had saved Cavendon from disaster time and again, shoring it up with money from her own fashion business.
Unexpectedly, tears again began to leak out of the corner of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She was weeping for the loss of her darling DeLacy, but also because of the accusations Daphne had levelled at her, words that had been most unfair.
She remained seated by the grave for a short while longer, pulling herself together, taking control of her emotions. On her way back to the house Cecily saw her mother hurrying along the path from Little Skell village. They spotted each other at the same moment, waving. A few seconds later they were embracing. Alice Swann said, ‘I was coming to look for you, Ceci. Your father told me that Lady Daphne and Mr Hugo have gone off to Zurich, and that she didn’t even attend the family meeting.’
‘Oh gosh, the Swann network does move fast,’ Cecily shot back, but there was humour in her tone. ‘I suppose you also know that she blames me for the commercialization of Cavendon, opening it to the public and all that stuff.’
‘I do,’ Alice replied. ‘When I think of all the money you have given to the family to maintain Cavendon, my blood boils. Thousands. Even when Swann Couture was starting to take off you chipped in, and later you bought that pile of Ingham jewellery and then gave to the Earl annual cheques from your collection of copies.’ Alice shook her head and let out a long sigh. ‘Poor Daphne, she’s not well, in my opinion. Or perhaps she’s just overtired. I know deep down she loves you dearly, Cecily. You look as if you’ve been crying. Not about Daphne, I hope?’
‘No. Missing DeLacy. Anyway, I’m a bit hurt at the moment, but it will pass.’ Quickly she changed the subject and said, ‘Aunt Dottie is looking forward to seeing you and Dad, Mam.’
Alice smiled. ‘And I can’t wait. She’s always so cheerful and loving.’
Miles swung around and jumped up when he saw Cecily coming into his study. ‘There you are, darling!’ he exclaimed, his engaging smile filling his face with love. ‘I’ve been wondering where you were.’
Taking hold of her, he led her over to the sofa.
‘There was no meeting,’ she began. ‘Daphne—’
‘Daphne’s been here to see me,’ he cut in. ‘With Hugo in tow. He indicated they would be living in Zurich for quite a few months. A short while later, Aunt Charlotte showed up and told me all about her little scheme. Not so little, actually.’ He paused, reached out and gently wiped a damp cheek with his fingertips. ‘You’ve been crying. Not about Daphne, I hope?’
‘No. I went to sit with Lacy for a few minutes. Missing her.’ As she spoke, Cecily swept both hands across her face, sat up and offered her husband her brightest smile.
Miles studied her. She was forty-eight and still beautiful, with her luxuriant, russet-brown hair, those unusual lavender-tinted eyes and a clear complexion. If there were a few wrinkles around her eyes, he hardly noticed them, and neither did anyone else. She was his woman, his wife, his partner, his soulmate, and his saviour in so many ways. Without her he would be lost.
He was fifty, but he had worn quite well. There were many grey hairs now, and frequently bags under his eyes, and sometimes he was ready to collapse from exhaustion. On the other hand, fifty was fifty, after all. Certainly he made sure nobody knew how tired he felt half the time, although he suspected this woman he had loved all his life knew this. Cecily Swann. The girl he had loved from childhood. Now Cecily Ingham. His. There had only ever been her. His brief marriage to Clarissa, a forced marriage at that, had been a sham. Thank God he had his Cecily by his side, loving and loyal.
Miles leaned closer and kissed her forehead. ‘I won’t permit anyone to blame you for turning Cavendon into a commercial enterprise. We all supported that. And we had to do it in order to survive, to save all this.’ He paused, waved his hand towards the window, indicating the entire estate.
‘Did Aunt Charlotte tell you Daphne does blame me?’
‘She did. And Daphne more than likely blames Dulcie for opening her art gallery; Harry for creating gorgeous gardens that lure the public here; her son Charlie for writing a bestselling history about us that titillates everyone and brings more visitors; Paloma for producing a coffee-table book about Harry’s gardens that sells so well for us. And I am positive that the greatest blame goes to me. Her brother, the Seventh Earl, who has allowed all this horrific stuff to happen.’ He smiled gently, shaking his head. ‘Please don’t take her words to heart. You’ve saved us, not ruined us. And we’ve all aided and abetted you.’
‘Oh Miles, you do make me feel better. I was a bit down in the dumps earlier. I’m afraid Daphne’s attitude has been troubling me for the past year. She and Hugo have been … well, grumblers, to say the least. So, are you going to do what Aunt Charlotte suggests? Charge rent for Little Skell Manor and Skelldale House?’
‘She persuaded me I should think about it.’ Miles wasn’t giving much away.
Cecily nodded. ‘They can both afford it. James and Will are wealthy men, and Diedre still works.’
‘She’s always been keen to help out, and actually those two houses they live in are taxed by the government as part of the estate taxes.’
‘Then you have no choice,’ Cecily answered emphatically.
Miles stood, walked over to the window and looked out at the moors. There was a prolonged silence before he finally returned and sat down with Cecily. Taking hold of her hand, he said, ‘Daphne’s departure is going to be a burden for you in some ways. I think we must discuss the problems now, get them dealt with.’
‘I have to be at Cavendon all the time, to run it myself now, don’t I?’ Cecily replied, detecting the seriousness in his voice.
‘You do, darling. You must take on the full responsibilities as chatelaine. After all, you are the Seventh Countess. And you must manage all the village events and be part of village life. The three villages.’
‘I have been doing quite a lot of that over these many years,’ Cecily protested, her voice rising slightly. ‘I realize Daphne always had a hand in supervising Cavendon Hall, especially when it came to keeping the room décor up to par, checking for leaks, making lists of any other tasks that needed doing. And keeping Ted and Paul Swann informed, showing them any damage.’
‘That’s not a difficult task, Ceci. We will ask every family member to keep an eye open for such things. I’m afraid Daphne could be overzealous about upkeep in a sense; she was always on top of the carpentry shop, pushing Paul in particular.’
‘I know that,’ Cecily replied. ‘Let’s not forget that Eric and Peggy haven’t left with her for Zurich.’ There was a sarcastic edge to her voice when she added, ‘They run the domestic side of Cavendon. Daphne didn’t do that any more, and hasn’t for years. Eric inherited Hanson’s mantle well. He’s a wonderful head butler, and Peggy Swift is an amazing housekeeper. I don’t think they need my hovering around them.’
‘That’s true. But you have spent a lot of time in London, and when it comes down to it, the Countess should be here on a regular basis.’
‘I’ve been in London for my business, not having a good time!’
He took her hand in his again, squeezed it. ‘Let’s not bicker. What we have to do is make a plan, work out how you can do both—’
Cecily interrupted him peremptorily and said in a brisk, business-like tone, ‘I shall have to learn to delegate, since I will have to run my business from here. I’ll promote Aunt Dottie and Greta Chalmers. They can do it, I’m sure. They’ll both handle more responsibility for the business well.’
‘And you won’t mind that?’
‘Of course not. I have to do what’s practical.’
His pleasure showed on his face. He was beaming at her, and his eyes held the sparkle that had been missing for so long.
Cecily’s heart sank. Her being here full time as Countess was what Miles wanted – and needed. But as she considered the serious problems she had with her business, the debts, the lack of money, she knew that spending less time on it could be disastrous. She was almost on the point of confiding in him, but changed her mind.
She would not be able to give him any money for Cavendon this year. Her business was in the red. But would Cavendon survive without her contribution? She was not sure.
Now she thought: Why spoil the weekend? I’ll talk to him on Monday, give him the bad news then.
‘We’d better go to lunch,’ she said, standing up, offering him a loving smile. But her heart was heavy with worry, disguise it though she did, knowing that Cavendon could go down.
THREE (#ulink_ab7de8c4-e7b1-55ef-b370-0b4be9e4f5a5)
Alicia Ingham Stanton, eldest child of Lady Daphne and Hugo Stanton, stood staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, startled by her appearance. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed, there were dark shadows underneath, and her delicate pink and white complexion had a strange greyish tint to it today.
But she was not really surprised she looked so awful. She and Charlie had drunk far too many cognacs last night, and later sleep had eluded her. Now, at six o’clock in the morning, she felt totally exhausted.
A small shiver ran through her as she thought of the evening she had spent with her parents and her siblings. The farewell supper at the Savoy Hotel had started out well enough, but had almost disintegrated into a huge quarrel. Knowing she was the only one who could prevent this from happening, she jumped up and threatened to leave immediately. Knowing that she always meant what she said, Charlie had backed off and their mother had instantly shut up.
After that their father had managed to quell the imminent storm, and had reintroduced a measure of peace around them. But, for Alicia, the dinner before their parents’ departure for Zurich had been a disaster, ruined by her mother’s bitterness about Cavendon.
Peering at her face once more, Alicia reached for a face cloth, ran ice-cold water on it, then pressed it against her cheeks. She did this several times, patted herself dry and slapped on layers of Pond’s cream.
She was not particularly vain about her looks, but she knew she must take care of them, since she was an actress who worked in films. The camera could perform magic but it also highlighted flaws. In two weeks she was starting a new film and must look her best, be in good form.
Once she was back in bed, she pulled the covers over her, determined to get a few hours of sleep. She was having lunch with Charlie later and knew she must be rested and alert before meeting him.
Alicia did not blame her brother for last night’s debacle. Rather, it was her mother’s fault. Everyone had been shocked to hear Daphne’s critical comments about Cecily, including their father. Of course Charlie, as usual, had been unable to hold back, had spontaneously blurted out a heated defence of Cecily before she could stop him. As always, this verbal fight-back was like a red rag to a bull as far as her mother was concerned. He had been doing it since childhood.
Though it was justified, Alicia now thought. Charlie was correct to defend a woman who had saved their family from catastrophe more than once. Their mother had been wrong, the attack misguided. Why on earth had Daphne spoken like that?
Although she had not said anything to a single soul, Alicia was worried her mother was ill. She had noticed certain little things lately. A tremor in her hands at times, a hesitation when trying to remember something, an irritability Alicia had never seen displayed before.
Did her father know the truth? Was he keeping something from them? Maybe. Hugo would never reveal a thing to his children about his wife. He loved them, she knew that, but his main priority in his life was his beautiful Daphne. He had always been her knight in shining armour. That was the way it had begun – love at first sight for him – and ever since he had been mesmerized by her beauty and charm, devoted and supportive.
It suddenly struck Alicia that she ought to confide in Charlie, pass on her worries about their mother. She knew she must also exonerate him for speaking out; she needed to reassure him he had been correct. At the back of her mind, she was positive her brother was still harbouring that anger from last night.
At thirty-five, Alicia was four years older than Charlie, and had been his protector since childhood, forever looking out for him. They were joined at the hip, more like twins than their siblings, Andrew and Thomas, who were twins.
The shrill of the phone cut into her thoughts, and she reached for it. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ a gruff male voice growled at the other end.
‘Brin? Is that you?’ she exclaimed.
‘Who else would ring you at this ungodly hour?’
‘What’s wrong? You sound strange.’
‘I’ve been up all night. I’m about to collapse, drop dead perhaps. I’m coming over. Okay?’
‘You sound bad. I’ll come and get you. Where are you?’ she cried, her alarm spiralling.
‘Just left Albany, Jake Stafford’s place. I’m in Piccadilly, in a phone box.’
‘That I realize—’
‘Say you’ll let me in … Do you want me to be arrested for loitering with intent?’
‘Get into a taxi at once. Oh, do you have money?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘I bloody well hope so.’
The phone went dead. She stared at it for a long moment, then put it back in the cradle. In the year they had been involved in an intense and passionate love affair, nothing like this had ever happened before. He did like to drink, that was true, but he could hold his liquor, was always in control. Now he sounded out of control, weird. She couldn’t help wondering if he was still drunk?
Alicia leapt out of bed, went to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. She then hurried into her bedroom, pulled on a silk dressing gown, continued into the bathroom, removed the cream, washed her face, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Ready for anything, she muttered.
Returning to the kitchen, Alicia set a tray, but was interrupted by the doorbell. Bracing herself, she went to let him in, not quite knowing what to expect.
She called him Brin, an invention based on a favourite toy from her childhood. His real name was Bryan MacKenzie Mellor, born thirty-one years ago, in Edinburgh of a Scottish mother and an English father. A fellow actor, he was tall, handsome, dashing, and considered to be the second best-looking man on the West End stage. The first was her uncle, James Brentwood, still thought of as the greatest matinee idol of all time.
Brin coveted his Savile Row clothes, was proud of his stylish appearance and looks, and did not usually have a hair out of place.
Not this morning, she thought, shocked by what she saw standing before her. He looked like a tramp who lived permanently on the streets; someone who had just risen up from the gutter.
His navy blue pinstriped suit, a piece of perfect Savile Row engineering, was crumpled and his jacket was stained. A blue silk tie dangled out of a side pocket; his white shirt had dark bloodstains on the front and the collar was torn. Then she noticed the cut above his right eye and bruises on one cheek, just visible under his growth of stubble. He lolled against the door-jamb and it seemed as if he was about to slide down onto the floor. He almost did.
Reaching out with both hands, she grabbed his arms and pulled him inside the flat. He tripped and almost fell, but managed to somehow stay upright. Then he staggered towards the bedroom, muttering, ‘Bathroom.’
Alicia followed him, stood waiting for him. Once he came into the bedroom, she took hold of his arm and said firmly, ‘Come on, darling, let’s get you comfortable.’
He didn’t protest as she led him into the living room, just allowed himself to be propelled over to the sofa. He flopped down, a look of relief crossing his face as he sank into the soft cushions.
‘Do you want a glass of water? Coffee might be better.’
‘Whisky.’
‘No way. You smell like a brewery.’
