The Cavendon Women. Barbara Bradford Taylor
would not like this turn of events.
‘Not until September. So there’s plenty of time to deal with my mother regarding the jewels.’
‘Whatever your mother says, I know that Wilson will tell you the truth. That is why you’re calling her your ally, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Hugo. Wilson helps my mother to dress every day. She’s in charge of her clothes, and, presumably, her jewels.’ She stared at him, and added quickly, ‘I know that look on your face, Hugo. You think Wilson should’ve told me before … about the jewels. But you see, Olive Wilson doesn’t know that they’re not Mama’s, not her own personal possessions.’
‘She has no idea they’re family heirlooms?’ he asked, sounding sceptical.
‘How could she? My grandfather was a wealthy industrialist, and I’m quite sure Wilson thinks my mother’s jewels were given to her by him. Or by my father. There’s no way she would know that the jewels Mama wears must remain in the care of the current Earl, that they aren’t actually hers to keep, only on loan.’
‘You make sense, darling,’ Hugo murmured, and stood up. ‘I’d better go back to the annexe for a short while, I’ll see you at teatime.’
‘Oh no, no, Hugo, you must come to the little gathering Papa is having in the library, at three thirty. Just the girls, Miles and you. I know your presence is important to him. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’
‘It did slip my mind, but I shall be there,’ he answered, going over to kiss her cheek.
She moved her head slightly, and, as he bent forward, her face was bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the window. He was instantly struck by her loveliness this afternoon. At thirty, Daphne was at the height of her beauty. Thirteen years, he thought. It didn’t seem possible that they had been married almost that long.
As his lips brushed her cheek, and he squeezed her shoulder affectionately, he thought of their children. Genevra’s prediction had come true … the gypsy girl had foretold that Daphne would bear five children. And she had. They were Inghams through and through, beautiful girls and handsome boys. He loved them dearly and spoiled them atrociously. But why not? Along with Daphne, they were his life.
Walking back to the annexe, Hugo’s thoughts were still with Daphne. What a truly wonderful woman she had become over the years; she had helped her father run Cavendon, and done it well. He smiled inwardly, when he pictured his wife being ‘the general in charge’, as she called herself. Some general, indeed. She was still beautiful, glamorous really, with her abundant golden hair a soft halo around her lovely face. No chic 1920s crop for her; and those glorious eyes were as blue as ever, her skin clear and perfect. I’ve been lucky, so very lucky, he reminded himself. We both have good health and we’re still in love. Miraculous.
Diedre stood in the middle of her bedroom, slowly turning, her eyes resting on some of her favourite things. The large antique silver mirror standing on her dressing table, given to her when she was a little girl by her mother, the collection of lace pillows on her bed, made for her by Mrs Alice, and the tortoiseshell and silver brushes, comb and mirror set, a gift from her father for her sixteenth birthday.
All were beloved things, just as this room, which had always been hers, was one of the most special places in the world to her. She had missed it, and as she walked forward to sit down at her small Georgian desk, she felt unexpected tears welling in her eyes.
No one had kept her away from Cavendon; she had just not come, and that was of her own volition. She had not been home because she had been in a state of grief for a long time, and she had not wanted anyone to witness it.
Her grief for the person she had loved the most in her entire life was extremely personal, and therefore absolutely private. And since she was not able to talk about it, at least not coherently, there was no one who could give her comfort. Except, perhaps, her father, who was the most compassionate and sympathetic of men.
Brushing away her tears, Diedre sat down at the mahogany desk and immediately felt truly at ease. Her sister DeLacy loved fancy, frilly bedrooms, whilst she had usually had her eye on the best desks at Cavendon, had often rummaged around in the attics, looking for hidden treasures, mostly amongst the fine antiques.
This was a desk she had chosen years ago, and it became her favourite, with its many drawers, little cubbyholes and polished green leather top.
Unexpectedly, a wave of lovely memories washed over her, and she was surrounded by the past for a few moments. The first diary she had kept, when she was a little girl, had been written here, and her first love letter. She had done her homework at this desk, always diligent about such things; gift cards to her family had been written in this spot, along with Christmas and birthday cards.
Funny how she had liked desks so much when she was younger. She still did. She had three in her flat in Kensington. That was another safe haven. Thankfully, she could afford it, because of the trust from Grandfather Malcolm Wallace. Only she and Daphne had been given these trusts, because Grandfather Wallace, their mother’s father, had died before the other daughters were born.
Leaning back in the chair, Diedre let her eyes wander around the room once more. It was light and spacious, and had a lovely oriel window with a window seat. The pale lavender-grey walls and matching silk draperies created a restful feeling; she felt so comfortable here, and secure.
Now she wished she hadn’t been so silly, that she had come to Cavendon more often in the past few years. After all, she had grown up here. She loved every inch of the house and the parkland, not to mention the gardens. The history of this estate was the history of the Inghams, and therefore part of her.
Her father was a little hurt that she had not been home more often in the last few years. She had suddenly become conscious of this earlier today, when she had first arrived and gone to see him in the library. He had said this lightly, but she had caught a hint of sadness in his voice, and then it had passed. He was clever at hiding his feelings, of course. He would have made a good actor, she often thought.
She had pointed out that she had seen him frequently at the Grosvenor Square house; he had laughed, informed her it wasn’t the same thing.
He had obviously been very happy when she’d arrived this afternoon, most amiable and kind. Well, she was his eldest daughter, his first-born girl. As she was leaving he had reminded her there was to be a small gathering, here in the library later, before tea, and that she must be there.
And she would be. And at tea as well. Diedre hoped she could walk Great-Aunt Gwendolyn home, so that she could talk to her, confide her problem. A small sigh escaped her and she bit her lip, the worrying problem suddenly seeming insurmountable as she thought of it again. Her close friend, Alfie Fennell, had recently told her that someone was out to cause trouble for her at the War Office. He didn’t know who this was, or the reason why.
And neither did she. Diedre loved the work she had been doing during the Great War, and had stayed on after the war had ended, remained in the same division. She had gone to work there in 1914, when she’d been twenty-one. Now she was thirty-three, and it was her life. Without it she would be lost.
Alfie’s news had shaken her up, shocked her, and she had found it hard to believe. She didn’t want to be pushed out; she was frightened by the mere idea of this. It would ruin her life – what was left of it, now her one true love was dead and gone.
When she had finally railed at Alfie and demanded he tell her everything he knew, he did so. And it wasn’t much, as it turned out.
His cousin, Johanna Ellsworth, had been the first person to hear the rumour, and she had told Alfie at once, suggested he alert Diedre, inform her of a possible problem. Johanna was well connected and mixed in political circles.
‘But it is only a rumour,’ Alfie had said last week. ‘Rumours don’t mean much, now