Cavendon Hall (3 page)

“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 to unburden myself.”

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, had a classy look 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 fifth 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 harbored 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, pursed her lips. “But surely Cavendon is full of unhappy memories for him?”

“I would think that is so; on the other hand, in his letter Hugo announces 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 how to respond to you. 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 her young son 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 favorite. Your aunt never paid much attention to Hugo. It was sad. A tragic affair, really.”

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. “You know how much I trust your judgment. 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 a few who think Hugo might have been a bit slow in coming to Peter’s aid—”

“That’s because they don’t know the facts,” he cut in sharply. “He did not have anything to do with it at all.”

Charlotte remained silent, her mind racing.

Getting up from the chair, Charles walked over to the fireplace, stood with his back to it, filled with 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, 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 focused on David Ingham, the Fifth 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 annex 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 correct.

*   *   *

As they moved through the various rooms in the South Wing, and especially those which 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 fifth earl’s side at all times, had traveled with him, and been his close companion as well as his personal assistant. It was Charlotte who was 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 grayish-blue eyes appeared enormous, and, for the first time in years, Charles saw her objectively. And he realized what a beautiful woman she was, and she looked half her 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 in time 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

T
he 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 which 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 the duke’s son when she’s wearing it.”

“Yes,” Cecily murmured 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 worn it only 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, looked 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 color. It can become creamy, yellowed, or faded. But the ball gown has been well protected, and it’s as good as new.”