The Cavendon Women (37 page)

“There're plenty of other bedrooms in that wing. Any suggestions, Hanson?”

“I've done a quick tour with Mrs. Thwaites, and we selected two bedrooms and one suite. The bedrooms are the Gold Room and the Apricot Room, and there's the Venetian Suite, so beloved by your grandmother, Countess Florence, m'lord.”

“It's got rather a lot of Venetian glass in it, Hanson. Rare glass from Venice. That's why it's not often used. I'll think about it. In the meantime, what about the Chinoiserie Suite in the South Wing?”

“Do you think Lady Daphne will mind having guests in her wing, Lord Mowbray?”

“I don't suppose so, Hanson. But we can ask her. We'll work it out; after all, this old pile is full of bedrooms.”

“That it is, m'lord, and when the festivities are over, I think we should have Ted Swann and his staff look at every bathroom and every bedroom. In each wing. The weather has been so bad for the last two months. Such a lot of snow and ice. It's imperative that we pay attention to all of the pipes in particular.”

“You're correct, Hanson, as usual. Better do a good overall check with Mrs. Thwaites and Lady Charlotte. I'll make her aware of the problem later.”

Hanson nodded and was gone.

A short while later Charlotte came into the library, and as she walked toward him, he thought:
My wife. Charlotte is my wife.
Mine to have and to hold for as long as I live. How lucky I am.

He rose as she came to a stop next to his desk. Putting his arms around her, he kissed her cheek.

“You have a cold nose,” he said, leaning away from her, laughing.

“Just like a puppy.”

“A beautiful puppy,” he answered, still laughing.

His happiness with her was something sublime. He had never been so happy in his adult life. Charlotte truly was his better half.

Putting his arm around her shoulder, he walked her over to the fireplace, where they stood in front of the roaring flames. She said, “That feels good … the warmth. It's rather cold out today, Charles. If you go for a walk, you must be properly dressed.”

“Where were you, darling? I was looking for you earlier.”

“I popped down to see Lady Gwendolyn. She wanted to discuss what to wear for the various events this weekend,” Charlotte improvised. Having promised to keep his aunt's secrets, she couldn't tell him the truth.

Charles said, “I don't suppose she mentioned what she did the other day, did she?”

“No. What happened?”

“She wrote me a check for five thousand pounds and wouldn't take no for an answer. When I refused, she forced it on me, and I just didn't have the heart to push it back at her. She would've been hurt.”

“Why was she giving you five thousand pounds?”

“She said she wanted to contribute to the cost of the wedding, and that since I was her heir, she thought I might as well have some of the money now instead of later. When she was dead.”

Charlotte saw the mirth in Charles's eyes, and she was amused too. “There's really nobody like her. Oh, and by the way, she insists I now call her Aunt Gwendolyn.”

“And so you should. She's right about that.”

“Anyway, that was a lovely gesture on her part, and the money will come in useful. I've had to hire fifteen women from the village, Charles, and they do expect to be paid.”

“Fifteen women! Whatever for?” He looked aghast.

“To look after the guests. We will have approximately twelve additional people staying in the house. It's bad weather, snowing. There are various events, both during the day and in the evening. And we have outside guests coming, too, Charles. I asked Mrs. Thwaites to prepare a couple of rooms, the parlor and the mud room, for Wellington boots, raincoats, topcoats, and umbrellas. And I suggested Ted should put in racks. We need an extra cloakroom or two, you see.”

“I do see. And you've done the right thing.”

“Cook also needs extra help,” Charlotte pointed out. “The guests who are staying here have to be fed … breakfasts and lunches. That's why I've hired a caterer to help Cook with the dinners on Saturday and Sunday. That is my contribution to this wedding, by the way.”

“Charlotte, no! I won't have it. I can well afford to pay—”

“Too late, Charlie,” she interrupted. “I have already paid the caterer in advance. It's done and dusted.”

Charles let out a long sigh. “Whatever am I going to do with you?” he asked, shaking his head.

“You can always kiss me, Charlie, and whenever you want, and wherever you want, these days,” she replied, laughing. “We're married now. No more sneaking around.”

He grinned at her, loving her so much. She could do no wrong in his eyes. The only time he'd ever been cross with her was when she had bossed him around when he was a boy.

Charlotte said, “I heard about the leaks in the West Wing. Mrs. Thwaites just told me. I'll get to it with her and Hanson next week, I promise.”

There was a knock on the door, and Daphne came in. She walked across to the fireplace, saying as she did, “I'm so glad you're both here. Hugo's had a call from Mark, a short while ago.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice was shaky. “Aunt Lavinia can't come tomorrow. She's apparently taken a turn for the worse.”

Daphne sat down on the sofa. Charlotte joined her, put an arm around her comfortingly. “I'm so sorry,” she murmured.

Charles was momentarily stunned. His sister had been in remission. He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness, followed by a sudden premonition that Lavinia would not survive. Cancer was a killer. He sat down in a chair, filling with worry and apprehension. And much regret.

A moment later Hugo came in and joined them at the fireplace. He said to Charles, “Mark apologizes for not speaking to you. He just felt he couldn't talk coherently, he's so upset. That's why he spoke to me instead, Charles. Lavinia is quite ill. He feels it's wiser that she stay in London.”

“I understand,” Charles answered. “I shall speak to him later, and perhaps Lavinia will be able to come to the phone as well.”

Daphne exclaimed, “I think we were so unkind to her. Now I regret it terribly. I was hoping to make her feel better this weekend. About us. I wanted her to understand we love her.”

“I'm sorry you felt you had to send her to Coventry because of the things she said about me,” Charlotte interjected. “I really didn't care, you know, and I knew she would accept me. After all, we've been friends since childhood.”

“You knew!” Daphne exclaimed, and then let out a long sigh. “Of course you knew, you're a Swann.”

“Vanessa is coming to Dulcie's wedding, isn't she?” Charles asked, looking across at Charlotte.

“Yes, darling, she's arriving tomorrow with Richard.”

“Personally I'm glad Great-Aunt Gwendolyn canceled that engagement party for Vanessa and Richard,” Daphne remarked. “Lavinia was ill, and Vanessa did the right thing, asking our aunt to postpone. Also the date was very close to Diedre's wedding.” There was a pause, and then she added, “I'm sorry Diedre won't be here this weekend. What a disappointment. But I suppose she has to follow doctor's orders.”

“Yes, she does, Daphne. Nobody ever wanted to be here at Cavendon more than she did,” Charles said. “Paul explained in his letter to me that the doctor didn't want her to travel. They're afraid Diedre might lose the baby. That's why it's bed rest for the time being.”

Charlotte said, “I'm absolutely positive Diedre will be fine, Charles. Do try not to worry.”

Wanting to change the subject, Daphne said, “Oh, by the way, Papa, Wilson was touched that you thanked her for helping us to get the jewels back.”

“I was very grateful to her, as well as to your little team.”

“Miles calls it
his
team.”

“Let's just call it the winning team,” Charles murmured. “And is Wilson now working here permanently, Daphne?”

“She is, Papa, and she's wonderful. A very efficient lady's maid. And she makes herself useful in other ways. She's also a nice person.” Daphne smiled inwardly, thinking how Olive Wilson had changed her life for the better, had made it so much easier.

Daphne looked at her father and said, “Miles says those jewels are contaminated. He thinks we ought to auction them off, Papa.”

Charles was surprised by this comment, and exclaimed, “We're not selling anything. We're managing very nicely at the moment. There are no reasons to make reckless moves.”

 

Forty-five

The grand entrance hall at Cavendon was empty when Travers Merton walked downstairs on this cold Friday morning in January. He glanced around, once again admiring the extraordinary paintings on the walls. All of them were by English portraitists considered to be among the greatest of the eighteenth century. And it was quite an array of ancestors, going up along the staircase wall and in the entrance hall as well.

After slipping into his overcoat, and wrapping the wool scarf around his neck, Travers strode toward the front door. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Hanson. Now he hurried in the direction of the dining room, where the butler was heading.

“Mr. Hanson!” he called. “Oh, Mr. Hanson. Could I have a word with you, please?”

Hanson swung around at once, smiled when he saw Travers. “Yes, of course you can, Mr. Merton. How can I be of help?”

“I was wondering if it would be all right for me to go into the church? I don't want to disturb anyone working there.”

“You are talking about the little church here on the estate, aren't you, Mr. Merton?”

“Yes, the one up the hill, behind the stable block.”

“There is no one in there, sir. You see, Lady Dulcie's wedding is to be held in the village church. It's much larger and quite a crowd is expected. Friends of the groom, as well as his family, are coming from London.”

“Oh, I see. I hadn't realized it was at a different location. I love old churches, Hanson, enjoy prowling around them, studying the architecture.”

The butler nodded. “I knew your grandfather, Mr. Merton. I haven't had a chance to mention that before. Lord Noyers was such a lovely gentleman. He came here for the grouse. He was one of the Guns.”

Travers nodded. “Yes, I know. He was a close friend of Lord Mowbray's father, the fifth earl, and he enjoyed his trips to Yorkshire. So did my grandmother. They're long gone now, I'm afraid. They died within a few weeks of each other, seven years ago now.”

“I did know that, Mr. Merton. It must have been a big loss for you.”

“It was. They brought me up. I was an only child. Anyway, thank you, Hanson. I shall wander up to the church. Oh, and by the way, is Lady DeLacy anywhere around? I looked for her after breakfast, but no luck.”

“I'm not sure where she is at the moment. I do know that she is meeting with her sisters and Miss Cecily later. A ladies' get-together of some sort, sir.”

“She did mention that. Well, perhaps she's gone for a walk. I might run into her outside. Thank you again, Hanson.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Merton. It's icy. I'm glad to see you're wearing a topcoat. Enjoy your visit to the church, sir.”

“Thank you,” Travers said, and hurried on toward the front door.

*   *   *

It was a white landscape outside. The fields and moorland were totally covered in snow, which glistened brightly in the sunlight.

Not even a bare black branch, Travers thought as he walked up the hill. Even they are weighted down by snow. I couldn't even do a black-and-white etching in grisaille.

He was surprised when he pushed open the old oak door and stepped into the church. It was warm; then he noticed the paraffin stoves standing against some of the walls. Somebody knows their job, he thought, moving forward, his attention caught by the extraordinary stained-glass windows, their vivid colors brilliant from the sunshine pouring into the church.

He sat down in a pew, and looked around, noticed flowers on the altar. The church was well taken care of, that was patently obvious. But then so was this great stately home. The Inghams knew what they were doing, preserving it so well. Hats off to them, he thought with admiration.

He had grown up in a lovely manor house, not a great stately home like Cavendon, but that, too, had been looked after scrupulously by his grandparents. Compton Noyers was a Tudor house, not far from Cirencester in Gloucestershire, and he tried to go down at weekends. It was his. Both of his parents had died in an accident when he was a child. He had promised his grandfather he would not sell the house, and would one day bring up a family there. He kept a housekeeper and a caretaker, and the house was always ready to receive him.

A small smile flickered around his mouth. He might well be able to keep that promise now. And all because of a girl he had lusted after, thinking only of sexual conquest and his own pleasure. But with whom he had fallen deeply in love.

His beautiful, tender, loving DeLacy, the girl of his dreams, the kind of girl he had never thought he would meet. Golden hair, blue eyes like a summer sky, and a complexion like a summer rose. Her features were delicate, finely sculpted. What a beauty.

But he had met her, and had known within the first week that this was no lady to be lusted after and left. This was a special and very unique young woman. A woman he wanted to love and protect, and keep close to him forever. And much to his own amazement she had eventually reciprocated his feelings.

Looking back, he remembered how difficult things had been at first, when, after weeks of painting her portrait, he had managed to woo her into his bed. Now he recalled his shock when he realized how terrified she was of physical contact with a man, how genuinely afraid of sex. Only after a great deal of gentle coaxing, touching, and endless foreplay had he managed to make her feel relaxed enough to finally make love. His gentleness, tenderness, and genuine feelings for her had won her over at last. But it had been quite a task to quell that awful fear she harbored.