Cavendon Hall. Barbara Bradford Taylor
‘I’ll go and tell Cook, and then I must get back upstairs. I’ve a lot of jobs to do for Lord Mowbray today,’ Walter explained.
‘I’ll see you later, Walter. I’m looking forward to having lunch with Alice and your girl. Everyone loves Cecily.’
Walter grinned and hurried towards the kitchen, where he hovered in the entrance, obviously explaining matters to Mrs Jackson.
Once he was back in his office, Hanson placed the two bottles on the small table near the window, and went again to his desk. He dropped the bunch of keys into the bottom drawer, glancing at the clock as he sat down in the chair. It was ten minutes to twelve, and he had a moment or two before he needed to go upstairs to check on things. He looked down at the list he had made earlier, noting that the most pressing item on it was the silver vault. He must check it, tomorrow at the latest. The footmen had their work cut out for them – a lot of important silver had to be cleaned for the parties coming up in the summer.
Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts settled on Walter. How smart he always looked in his tailored black jacket and pinstriped grey trousers. He smiled inwardly, thinking of the two footmen, Malcolm and Gordon, who had such high opinions of their looks. Vain they were.
But those two couldn’t hold a candle to Walter Swann. At thirty-five he was in his prime – good looking, intelligent and hard working. And also the most trustworthy man Henry Hanson knew. Walter brought a smile to work, not his troubles, and he was well mannered and thoughtful, had a nice disposition. Few can beat him, Hanson decided, and fell down into his memories.
He had known Walter Swann since he was a boy … ten years old. And he had watched him grow into the man he was today. Hanson had only seen him upset when something truly sorrowful had happened: when his father, then his uncle Geoffrey, and then the 5th Earl had died. And on King Edward VII’s passing. That had affected Walter very much: he was a true patriot; loved his King and Country.
The day of the King’s funeral came rushing back to Henry Hanson. It might have been yesterday, so clear was it in his mind. He and Walter had accompanied the family to London in May of 1910, to open up the Mayfair house for the summer season.
The sudden death of the King had shocked everyone; when Hanson had asked the Earl if he and Walter could have the morning off to go out into the streets to watch the funeral procession leaving Westminster Hall, the Earl had been kind, had accommodated them.
Three years ago now, 20 May: that had been the day of the King’s funeral after his lying-in-state. Hanson and Walter had never seen so many people jammed together in the streets of London: hundreds of thousands of sorrowing, silent people, the everyday people of England, mourning their ‘Bertie’, the playboy Prince who had turned out to be a good King and father of the nation. There had been more mourners for him than for his mother, Queen Victoria.
Hanson knew he would never forget the sight of the cortège and he believed Walter felt the same – the gun carriage rumbling along, the King’s charger, boots and stirrups reversed, and a Scottish Highlander in a swinging kilt, leading the King’s wire-haired terrier behind his master’s coffin. He and Walter had both choked up at the sight of that little dog in the procession, heading for Paddington Station and the train to Windsor, where the King would be buried. Later they had found out that the King’s little white dog was called Caesar. They had wept for their King that day, and shared their grief and become even closer friends.
There was a knock on the door, and Hanson instantly roused himself. ‘Come in,’ he called and rose, moved across the room. He touched the bottle of white wine. It was still very cold from being in the wine cellar. He must take it upstairs to the pantry in readiness for lunch.
Mrs Thwaites was standing in the doorway, and he beckoned her to enter when she looked at him questioningly. As she closed the door and walked towards him he saw that her expression was serious.
She paused for a moment as she reached his desk and then said, ‘Instinct told me there was something about Peggy that was off, and now I know what it is that bothers me. She’s the type of young woman who’s bold, encourages men … you know what I mean.’
Hanson was startled by this statement and frowned, staring at her. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’
‘I saw her just now. Or rather them. Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane. They were sort of … wedged together in your little pantry near the dining room. She was canoodling with him. I was coming through the back hall upstairs and I made a noise so they knew someone was approaching. Then I went the other way. They didn’t see me. Instinctively, I feel that Peggy Swift spells trouble, Mr Hanson.’
Hanson didn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, ‘There’s always a bit of that going on, Mrs Thwaites. Flirting. They’re young.’
‘I know, and you’re right. But this seemed a little bit more than just flirting. Also, they were upstairs, where the Earl and Countess and the young ladies could easily have seen them.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head, continuing to look concerned. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’
‘You did the right thing. And we can’t have any carrying-on of that sort in this house. It cannot be touched by gossip or scandal. Let us keep this to ourselves. Better in the long run, avoids needless talk that could be damaging to the family.’
‘I won’t say a word, Mr Hanson. You can trust me on that.’
Daphne sat at the dressing table, staring at her reflection in the antique Georgian mirror. And she saw herself quite differently. For the first time in her life she decided she was beautiful, as her father was always proclaiming.
Unexpectedly, she now had a different image of herself, and it was all due to the two evening gowns she had just tried on.
She had been taken aback by the way she looked in the blue-and-green beaded dress, that slender column glittering with sea colours, and also in the white ball gown. Even though this was stained with ink, it had, nonetheless, made her feel happy, buoyant, full of life, whilst the long, narrow dress of shimmering beads had given her a feeling of elegance and sophistication she had never known before.
Leaning forward, she studied her face with new interest, and saw a different girl. A girl a duke’s son might find as lovely as her father did.
She thought he might have someone picked out for her, even though he had never actually said so. But he was determined to arrange a brilliant match for her, and she was certain he would do so. Her father was clever, and he knew everyone that mattered in society. After all, he was one of the premier earls of England.
A little spurt of excitement and anticipation brought a pink flush to her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled with joy. The idea of one day being a duchess thrilled her. She could hardly wait.
Next year, when she was eighteen, she would come out, be presented at court in the presence of King George and Queen Mary, along with other debutantes. Her parents would give a coming out ball for her, and there would be balls given for other debutantes by their parents, and she would go to them all. And after the season was over, there was no reason why she couldn’t become engaged to whichever duke’s son her father had selected.
A little sigh escaped, and she sat with her right elbow on the dressing table, her hand propping up her head. A faraway look spread itself across her soft, innocent face as she let herself float along with her romantic imaginings. Her mind was filled with marvellous dreams of falling in love, having a sweetheart, a true love of her own. A brilliant marriage. A home of her own. And children one day.
A sudden loud thumping on the door brought her out of her reverie, and she swung around on the stool as the door burst open.
A small but determined little girl with a flushed red face came storming in, heading straight for her. It was quite apparent the child was angry, and having a tantrum.