The Cavendon Women. Barbara Bradford Taylor
that is, Miles! Horrid.’ Cecily sounded aghast.
‘You’re telling me! It was preposterous, especially since we were separated by then. But I shall win, I’m quite certain. Papa has spoken to his solicitor, and the way through this is for me to take the blame, provide evidence of adultery, so that she can sue me for divorce. If she won’t agree to that, I might well have to divorce her. According to Mr Paulson, Papa’s solicitor, I do have grounds. Not of adultery, but of abandonment. You see, she packed all of her things and left me here at Cavendon. In other words, she left the marital home.’
Cecily leaned back in the chair, thinking of the last six years. For Miles they had been wasted. But for her they had been productive, because she had started her fashion business, and it was thriving, making money.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Miles said quietly, watching her carefully.
‘I was thinking of all the years you lost,’ she murmured, as honest as usual.
‘I know. On the other hand, I did learn a lot about agriculture, livestock, the land, the grouse moor, running the estate. And I keep on learning.’ He leaned forward and looked at her intently. ‘When I’m finally free, divorced from Clarissa, would there be any chance for me?’
‘What do you mean exactly?’ she asked, her mouth suddenly dry, a feeling of alarm running through her.
‘You know very well what I mean. But I’ll spell it out, clarify it. Is there a chance for me with you, Ceci?’
Cecily was not surprised by this question, because she knew he still loved her, just as she loved him. Nothing would ever change their feelings. There would never be anyone else for her, and she knew he felt the same way. But he was different in one thing. He was the heir to an earldom, and his father would most decidedly want an aristocrat for a new daughter-in-law. Not an ordinary girl like her. DeLacy had pointed that out to her six years ago, when she had blurted out that Miles was getting engaged to an aristocrat. ‘He could never marry an ordinary girl like you,’ DeLacy had said, and she had never forgotten those words.
‘You’re not answering me,’ Miles said, his blue eyes suddenly filled with love for her. That awful sadness was now expunged.
The way he was gazing at her, his face full of yearning, touched her deeply. His expression was signalling so much to her, and it reflected what she had felt for years. She said slowly, ‘When I was twelve, you proposed to me and I accepted. But we were too young. When I was eighteen you proposed again and I accepted. However, you married another woman. What are you saying to me now, Miles? Third time lucky?’ An eyebrow lifted quizzically.
He nodded, and a smile broke through his gravity. ‘Yes, third time lucky indeed! So you will marry me when I am divorced?’ He sounded excited, and his voice was lighter, suddenly younger.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Actually, I don’t think so. I’ve changed in many ways, and so have you.’ She paused, took a deep breath. ‘But the situation hasn’t. I’m still an ordinary girl. I can’t make that kind of commitment to you now, Miles, nor should you to me.’
‘You still love me, Cecily Swann. Just as much as I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you, and you know that.’ He sat back, a reflective look crossing his face, and then he said in a low, tender voice, ‘We belong to each other, and we have since we were children.’
She was silent, her face wiped clean of all expression. But inside her heart clenched. She wanted to say yes to him, to tell him she did belong to him, but she did not dare. She could not expose herself to him. Because it was his father, the Earl of Mowbray, who would ultimately have the final word in the end, not Miles.
Almost as if he had read her mind, Miles announced, ‘First things first, Ceci. I must get my freedom, and then we will talk again and sort everything out. Will you agree to that?’
Cecily could only nod.
Miles said, ‘Now, let’s get down to the business of the next few days, the events. This is what I thought we should do about Saturday evening.’
He began to outline the initial plans, but inwardly he smiled. He was going to have Cecily for himself, whatever she believed. The Ingham men and the Swann women were irresistible to each other, and he and she were no exception. It was meant to be.
It was a wonder, this garden, with its low privet hedges in front of the raised banks of glorious flowers. So beautiful, in fact, it took her breath away.
A smile of pleasure crossed Charlotte Swann’s face, and she felt a rush of pride. Her great-nephew, Harry, had created this imaginative effect in the pale green sitting room of the South Wing.
It reminded her of the indoor garden she herself had designed for this same room, some years before. Thirteen years, to be exact, and she had built it for the main summer event that year, the annual supper dance, to which the aristocracy of the county was invited.
The evening had been memorable in every way, and Lady Daphne had stunned everyone with her incomparable beauty, wearing a gown of shimmering blue-green beads the colour of the sea. Everyone had talked about it for weeks, and Charlotte had never forgotten how she’d looked.
Her mind still on Harry, Charlotte suddenly thought what a pity it was he’d had a change of heart. He was such a gifted gardener, with a great eye for form and colour, and his gardens outside were works of art, in her opinion.
Unfortunately, he had lost interest in being a landscape gardener. Instead he wanted to be an estate manager, relishing the idea of working with Miles and learning from Alex Cope, who had replaced Jim Waters as estate manager at Cavendon two years ago.
Harry’s rebellion had taken place at the beginning of the year, and it had shaken his father, Walter, who had felt betrayed when he realized his son was contemplating leaving Cavendon.
His mother, Alice, hadn’t been quite so surprised. She had known from the moment Harry had returned from the Great War that he had been changed considerably, affected by the brutality and wholesale killing he had witnessed at the front.
All the returning soldiers had been changed by their experiences, even her husband. While Walter was more contemplative, her son had acquired an independent attitude, become quite ambitious for himself; he felt he was owed something by society.
It was Cecily who had asked Charlotte to intervene, and she had. It had taken only a few words with Lord Mowbray, and then Alex Cope, for her to help Harry up the Cavendon ladder.
‘Is it all right, then?’
Charlotte jumped, startled at the sound of Harry’s voice. She swung her head. He was leaning casually against the door frame, a quizzical look on his face.
‘More than all right,’ she answered. ‘It’s beautiful. Harry, you’ve outdone yourself.’
‘I think I inherited what bit of talent I have from you, Aunt Charlotte.’
‘Oh, you’re a much better gardener than I am, a true professional, and it was good of you to take the time and trouble to create it. Thank you, Harry.’
‘It was my pleasure, and my way of saying thank you to you for helping to sort things out with Dad,’ he answered, and strolled into the room. ‘I’d like to ask you something …’ He stopped, became hesitant, as if changing his mind. He let his sentence trail off, stood silently next to her chair, obviously at a loss.
She looked up at him, thinking what a handsome young man he was. At twenty-eight he was tall, like his father, and had inherited the striking Swann looks, his features chiselled, the thick hair the same russet brown as hers. He even had her greyish eyes with that odd tint of lavender peculiar to the Swanns.
‘Is there something wrong, Harry?’ she asked. ‘You seem worried.’
‘Not