The Cavendon Women (50 page)

“I doubt it. I think my sisters are aiming to be quite glamorous.”

“I suppose they always are, like you. And that nanny you had must have been quite a tartar, calling for an inspection whenever you all went out.”

“She was, in a way, but she was also quite wonderful.”

“Do you want to go down? I am ready, I just have to slip on my jacket.”

“In a moment. I want to ask you something; well, several things, actually, Hugo.” Her face changed slightly, became more serious as she continued, “When we were married, you gave me this.” She opened the evening bag she was holding and took out a small envelope, showing it to him.

He nodded. “Yes, that's right, I did. And I told you to put it in the safe in our bedroom.”

“That's exactly what I did. It's been there ever since. And I must admit, I haven't wanted to acknowledge its existence because of the words written on the front—”

“Not to be opened until after my death,” he said, cutting across her, repeating the words he had written years ago. “I understand, darling. Why are you suddenly mentioning it now?”

“Because I want to know what's inside this envelope, Hugo. Please tell me.”

“It's the number of an account at the bank in Zurich, which was opened by my mentor, Mr. Benjamin Silver of New York. He gave the envelope to his daughter, my first wife, Loretta, and she passed it on to me later, just before she died. All anyone needs to take money out of a numbered account, as it's called, is the number.”

“And there is money in that account?” Daphne raised a brow.

“Yes. He put quite a lot there, many years ago, and no one has ever touched it.”

“I see. And my other question is what happened to Loretta's inheritance? Is it in this account in Zurich?”

“Partially, yes. But her inheritance from her father was not only money and investments, but also a great deal of real estate, many buildings, which bring in annual rents. As you know, that company, which I've owned since Loretta's death, is run by Neil Coulton, who has moved up through the ranks over the years. There has always been someone in charge, running it on my behalf, ever since I came back to live in England.” He paused, his eyes searching her face. “Why all these questions, darling?”

“Curiosity really, Hugo. I just happened to notice the envelope when I took out the sapphires, which I've not worn for a long time.”

“The money in the numbered account is
my
safety net for my family, Daphne. You and the children. It cannot be used for Cavendon, you know.”

“Oh, Hugo, I wasn't thinking of anything like that! I know what you've done for Papa. And giving him five million dollars was tremendously generous of you. I was just being nosey, that's all. Truly, Hugo.”

“All right, darling, don't get upset. I just want you to understand that I need to have you all protected, just in case anything should happen to me.”

“It won't. You're a young man. And thank you, Hugo, for explaining it, and for making sure our little family is safe and secure.”

“I'm glad your father agreed to let Dulcie auction off the collection of silver finally. It wasn't doing him any good stored in the vaults. You'll see, she'll do a wonderful job. After all, every piece is by a master silversmith, like Paul Storr.” Walking across the room to the clothes closet, Hugo took out his dinner jacket and slipped it on.

Daphne turned, moved toward the door. Hugo caught hold of her hand, and pulled her back to him. Looking into her face, his own gaze very serious and intent, he said, “Promise me you will keep that Swiss numbered account intact if I am dead. You must keep it for a rainy day, or a genuine emergency.”

“I promise I will keep it for our children, Hugo.”

He smiled, kissed her cheek, and led her out of their bedroom.

Bad times were coming, he knew that. So did Paul Drummond. Paul's brother Tim had warned him already that it was the era of boom and bust. That 1927 and 1928 had been the boom years. He did not like to think of what was coming next. Nor did he wish to discuss it with anyone. Why spoil Christmas?

*   *   *

Christmas Eve dinner had been a ritual at Cavendon Hall for over eighty years. Charles, being a traditional man, had continued the custom, hosted one for his family every year. It was the most special of the Christmas events and everyone looked forward to it with anticipation.

Now as he sat at the head of the table in the dining room he couldn't help feeling a rush of pride and pleasure when he glanced around.

How beautiful the four Dees looked, dressed in lovely gowns and wearing their best jewelry. Four daughters he cherished, as he cherished Miles, his son and heir. And there was Cecily, his future daughter-in-law, a shining star. He looked at DeLacy, glad she was more like her old self, smiling again.

And what about the three men three of his daughters had chosen. He believed they had all been made for their wives, rather a lucky break, since he considered marriage a game of chance.

For a moment his eyes rested on his first cousin, Hugo Stanton, who had proved to be an adoring spouse and extraordinary father.

Charles moved on, glancing at Paul Drummond, who was cut from the same cloth as Hugo, a genuine man of honor. He had been the first man to make Diedre truly happy after her years of sadness and her lonely life as a spinster, working at the War Office.

And finally James Brentwood. For all his handsomeness, talent, great fame and stardom, he was a man without vanity, as far as Charles was concerned. Long walks with James had shown him that the actor was a good man, decent, full of integrity and honesty. It was obvious to the entire world, not only to the family, that he adored Dulcie. As for his youngest daughter, she worshipped the ground James walked on.

His heart ached for Miles and Cecily, a young woman he had known since her birth, and whom he had grown to love like another daughter. What a ghastly situation they were stuck with. After Christmas, he would go to London with Miles, take advice from their solicitors. The fact that John Meldrew was seemingly a crook did not entirely surprise him. Although he had not realized the extent of his chicanery.

Miles had told him everything he knew, and Charles had spoken to Charlotte at length about it. She agreed with him that some strong measures must be taken with the Meldrews, to achieve what Miles sought. A divorce. Then marriage to Cecily. And hopefully the arrival of an heir one day in the not-too-distant future.

His sister Vanessa was smiling at him, and he smiled back. She, too, was happy. Her marriage to Richard Bowers had come late in her life. But Bowers was a gentleman, a fine man, and they were obviously in love.

Perhaps he would speak with Bowers over the holidays and ask his advice. He had to be careful how he handled this, though; he didn't want Bowers to think he was asking for help from Scotland Yard, where Richard was in top management.

Charlotte caught his eye, and he stared down the table, admiring her, loving her, his dearest wife. She put him first, before anyone else, and his family as well. He knew she would defend the Inghams and Cavendon Hall with her last breath.

Finally, his eyes rested on the grand dame of the family … Aunt Gwendolyn, the matriarch. She looked splendid tonight. Beautiful, vigorous, and truly on form. This coming year of 1929 she would be eighty-nine. “And don't worry, I shall make it to a hundred, Charles,” she had announced to him tonight. He didn't doubt her. She had good health and a will of iron.

There they were, surrounding him, his clan, his tribe, his ilk; call it what you wanted, they were
his.
To love and honor and protect. That had always been his aim since he had become the sixth earl, and it still was. That was his duty.

He glanced at the door as Hanson and Eric Swann came in along with the two footmen, ready to serve the main course. Eric and Laura Swann had come to work at Cavendon for the Christmas and New Year period. Charles had finally sold the Grosvenor Square house two weeks ago.

It had been bought by an Indian maharajah of great wealth. Eric, not one to waste time, had found a much smaller but charming town house in Queen Street, not far from Grosvenor Square. Charles had bought it immediately; he was happy they would remain in Mayfair.

After the holidays Eric and Laura would return to London to prepare the new house for occupancy. Trust a Swann to do his duty, Charles thought. They will have it ready in no time at all, and they would be the only staff except for a general maid.

Hanson and Eric poured the red wine, and Gordon Lane and Ian Melrose served the roast duck, steamed vegetables, gravy, and orange sauce, one of Cook's specialities.

Charles noted that Hanson was, as usual, in his element, looking after the entire family, serving them with style. What a devoted and loyal retainer he had been over all these years.

The dinner was full of laughter, chatter, and bonhomie as everyone ate the delicious food and drank the best of wines, whilst talking about politics, the government, assessing Stanley Baldwin and his policies.

It was after this course was finished that Charles stood up. “I'm not going to make a long speech,” he said. “I just want to say a few words. Firstly, Charlotte and I thank you all for coming to Cavendon, to share Christmas with us. We welcome you with much pleasure and love. Now I would like to toast Cecily and my four daughters, who have done so much in the last two years to help keep Cavendon safe. You all know how hard they have worked raising the necessary money for the restoration, so I don't have to repeat their feats of generosity and dedication. I think of them sometimes as women warriors, at other times as angels in disguise. But tonight let us toast the five of them as
Cavendon women of the finest order
!”

He raised his glass and so did the others, including the five young women, who toasted each other with smiles on their faces.

*   *   *

Several days after Christmas, Miles was truly worried as he walked down to Charlotte's house on the edge of the park, where Cecily lived part of the time when she was at Cavendon. Quite often she shared his suite of rooms which he now occupied in the South Wing. His father and Charlotte never said a word; each turned a blind eye. And now he was on his way to persuade Ceci to come back to the main house with him. Immediately.

Percy Swann, the head gamekeeper, had warned him a short while ago that a snowstorm was coming. Miles did not wish to have Cecily isolated alone in the house on the edge of the park. She would argue, he knew that, because her parents, Alice and Walter, lived opposite, across the village street. Nonetheless, he would not take no for an answer.

When he went into the house, Cecily was actually putting on her coat, and he noticed she had her satchel on a chair.

“Hello, darling, I see you were expecting me,” he said, smiling at her. “It must be mental telepathy.”

“Yes,” she replied, with a light laugh. “My mother came over to see me. She said Percy was warning the villagers about the weather, and she thought I should be with you, under the circumstances—” She instantly broke off, realizing she was about to say the wrong thing.

Miles frowned. “What circumstances?”

“The snowstorm, silly,” she improvised, and went on, “My mother told Percy he ought to perhaps do something about Genevra and her parents and brothers, up there on the ridge in their caravans. They could be trapped, you know, at risk.”

“Percy usually has the right ideas, so he'll do what your mother said. I noticed they don't go away in the winters these days … the Romany family I mean. Just to be sure, I'll see Percy attends to it. They can be housed in one of the empty farms nearby. Much safer for them. If there is a storm, that is.”

*   *   *

The storm did not come that day.

For several days the weather was clear. But on Friday, December 28, Miles looked out of the window of the bedroom and gasped. The entire landscape was covered in snow that glistened in the wintry sunlight. It seemed to have a coating of shimmering ice. There must be a wind, he thought, still gazing out. There were huge snowdrifts, and the bare black trees had disappeared under blankets of white that weighted the branches.

Looking up at the white sky, he knew, with a sudden rush of anxiety, that more snow would fall soon. He could not help thinking about the North Wing. The roof had now been repaired, but so many rooms had horrendous problems, and they had years of work ahead. It was the wing which caught the most damage, exposed as it was to the moors, and the cold blasts from the North Sea.

He glanced at Cecily, who was still asleep, and slipped out into the bathroom. It was only six o'clock in the morning but he knew he had to be dressed and downstairs as soon as possible. He would be needed, of that he was certain.

*   *   *

He found his father in the dining room, having breakfast with Hugo and Paul. They all looked as worried as he felt, and they were soon discussing the measures that needed to be taken.

Hanson came in, and served him his usual hot pot of coffee, and then Miles asked him to give him sausages and mushrooms for breakfast. The butler did his duty with his usual efficiency and grace.

“What do
you
think, Hanson?” Miles asked as the butler put the plate in front of him.

“Batten down the hatches,” Hanson said. “I think we might be trapped here for the next few days. Of course the outside workers will start clearing the snow from around the house. But it will be a hard week ahead, Mr. Miles.”

*   *   *

Everyone's predictions had been true. More snow came. Then it rained. And because of the fierce winds blowing over the moors from the sea, the banks of snow froze, became glassy surfaces. Many paths were dangerous to walk on, and the outside workers scattered ashes and cinders from the fireplaces, as well as sand mixed with rock salt.