Cavendon Hall (9 page)

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 murmured 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 Swiss roll. “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, endeavoring 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 her. Then she took a seat in a chair opposite them.

Hanson, as usual ever on the 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 that she once again looked slightly on edge. Felicity’s face was taut, and Gwendolyn 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 strung out, more nervous than ever.

Twelve

D
iedre 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 still was 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, had her taste for strictly tailored clothes and understated jewelry, 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. Her father was speaking about something important, from the sound of his voice; 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 toward 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 later 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 murmured, 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 considering the engagements we have in the next few weeks, to ascertain 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 DeLacy, 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 favorite; 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 … and 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, and leaning closer to him she said, “I have bad news … Anne is dying.”

A look of genuine 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 very unique woman, a woman of intelligence, kindness, and humor. And an extraordinary artist. Her glorious still-life oil paintings had become collector’s 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 the chance to become 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

H
arry 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, finished his baked apple in silence, savoring it. Ever since childhood, it had been his favorite dessert. The two of them were sitting 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 gray 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.