Cavendon Hall. Barbara Bradford Taylor
were absent.
There was a breeze, a nip in the air, despite the brightness of the sunshine, and she was glad she had put on a hat, as well as a jacket over her grey wool skirt and matching silk blouse. She snuggled down into the jacket, slipped her hands in her pockets, walking at a steady pace.
Julian wasn’t expecting her this afternoon, but he would be at the manor house. He always practised dressage on Saturdays. He was a fine equestrian, loved horses, and aimed to join a cavalry regiment in the British Army. In fact, his heart had been set on it since he was a young boy. He would be going to Sandhurst at the end of the summer, and he was thrilled he had been accepted by this famous military academy. He had once told her that he aimed to be a general, and she had no doubt he would be in years to come.
Daphne wanted to tell Julian that her father had given her permission, over lunch today, to invite Madge Courtney to the summer ball at Cavendon. The Torbetts always came, and were naturally invited again this year. Her father had now thought it only proper and correct to include Madge. She and Julian were unofficially engaged, and when he graduated from Sandhurst, several years from now, they would be married.
Off in the distance in the long meadow, Daphne saw the gypsy girl, Genevra. She was waving; Daphne waved back, then veered to the left, walking into the bluebell woods, which she loved.
They were filled with old oaks and sycamores and many other species, magnificent tall trees reaching to the sky. There were stretches of bright green grass and mossy mounds beneath them and bushes that were bright with berries in the winter, others which flowered only in the spring.
A stream trickled through one side of the woods. Rushes and weeds grew there, and when she was a child she had parted them, peered into the clear parts of the water, seen tadpoles and tiddlers swimming. And sometimes frogs had jumped out and surprised her and her sisters.
Occasionally Daphne had seen a heron standing in the stream, a tall and elegant bird that seemed oddly out of place. She looked for it now, but it was not there. Scatterings of flowers could be found around the stream, and in amongst the roots and foliage. And of course there were the bluebells, great swathes now starting to bloom under the trees; they made her catch her breath in delight.
All kinds of small animals made their homes in the woods – down holes, in tree trunks, under bushes. Little furry creatures such as voles and dormice, the common field mouse and squirrels … She had never been afraid of them, loved them all. But most precious to her were the birds, especially the goldfinch. She had learned a lot about nature from Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, who had grown up at Cavendon, and it was she who had told her that a flock of goldfinch was called a ‘charm’. The little birds made tinkling calls that were bell-like and pretty. Her great-aunt told her they actually sang in harmony, and she believed her.
Once, her mother had called the tops of the tall trees a ‘shady canopy’ where their branches interlocked, and she had used that phrase ever since. Bits of blue sky were visible today, and long shafts of sunlight filtered through that lovely leafy canopy above her.
Their land was beautiful and she knew how lucky they were to live on it. Just to the left of these woods were the moors that stretched endlessly along the rim of the horizon. Implacable and daunting in winter, they were lovely in the late summer when the heather bloomed, a sea of purple stretching almost to the coast.
But as a family they had usually spent most of their time in the woods, where they had picnics in the summer. ‘Because of the shade, you know,’ Great-Aunt Gwendolyn would explain to their guests. She was a genuine stoic, the way she cheerfully trudged along with them, determined never to miss the woodland feasts or any of their other activities. And the ball was her favourite event – one she would not miss for the world, she would say, explaining she had never failed to attend since being a young woman. ‘I was always the belle of the ball, you know,’ she would add.
Daphne’s thoughts settled on the summer ball. For a split second, she thought of the ink stains, and the image of herself in the gown was spoiled. Then, almost in an instant, it was gone, obliterated. She was absolutely confident Cecily would make the gown as good as new, and she would wear it after all.
Over lunch, DeLacy had told their father about the terrible accident with the ink, which had been her fault. He had been understanding, and he had not chastised DeLacy. Although he had said she should have known better than to play around with a valuable gown.
The one thing he had focused on was the way Cecily had behaved, how she had been willing to take the blame to protect DeLacy. ‘She is a true Swann, instantly ready to stand in front of an Ingham. Remember our motto, DeLacy, Loyalty binds me. It is their motto as well. The Inghams and the Swanns are linked forever.’
It is true, Daphne thought. It always has been thus and it always will be. And then she stared ahead as the trees thinned, and she found herself crossing the road and walking onto Torbett land.
Daphne approached Havers Lodge from the back of the house, and she couldn’t help thinking how glorious it looked today. Its pale, pinkish bricks were warm and welcoming in the sunlight. The Elizabethan architecture was splendid, and there were many windows and little turrets, as there always were in traditional Tudor houses. And some privet hedges were cut in topiary designs.
The long stretch of manicured lawn was intersected by a path of huge limestone paving stones, which led up to the terrace. Once she reached this, she turned the corner on the right, and walked towards the front door. It was made of heavy oak, banded in iron.
She had only dropped the iron knocker once when the door opened. Williams, the Torbetts’ butler, was standing there, and he smiled when he saw her.
‘Lady Daphne! Good afternoon. Will you come in, please, m’lady.’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you. Good afternoon, Williams.’
After he had closed the door, he said, ‘Shall I tell Mrs Torbett you are here? Forgive me, but is she expecting you, my lady?’
‘No, she’s not, Williams. I stopped by to see Mr Julian. If you would be so kind as to let him know I’m here.’
‘Oh dear! He’s gone out, Lady Daphne. He didn’t say how long he’d be. But he didn’t go riding. I saw him walking.’
Daphne gave the butler a warm smile. ‘Just tell him I was here, Williams. And please ask him to come over to Cavendon in the next few days. It’s nothing important, just an invitation I want to extend.’
‘I will, m’lady.’ The butler walked her to the door, and saw her out, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Going to marry a duke’s son, she was. At least, that was what he had heard.
Daphne had been walking along the woodland path for only a few minutes when she heard a strange rustling sound. Looking around, she saw nothing unusual, so simply shrugged and went on at her usual pace. Squirrels playing, she thought, and then came to a sudden stop when she saw the heron at the edge of the stream, standing high on its tall legs in the shallow water. It was such an elegant bird.
A smile of delight flitted across her face. This was such an odd place for it to visit. She couldn’t help wondering why it kept coming back, but then perhaps it liked the stream and the woodland setting. Maybe it feels at home—
This thought was cut off when something hard struck her back, just between her shoulder blades. She pitched forward, hitting her head against a log as she fell to the ground. She lay still for a moment, stunned and overcome by dizziness. Realizing she had been attacked by someone, she endeavoured to stand up; she managed to get onto her knees, was about to scramble to her feet, but instead she was pinned to the ground from behind, and with brute force.
She struggled to free herself but the weight on top of her was too much; suddenly she was turned over, roughly, and laid on her back.
Daphne stared