The Cavendon Luck. Barbara Bradford Taylor

       ONE

      Cecily Swann Ingham stood on the outside steps of the office annexe at Cavendon Hall, glancing around. What a change in the weather, she thought. From a gloomy, overcast morning it had become a radiant afternoon.

      Blue sky. No clouds. Brilliant sunlight filtering through the leafy trees. A perfect day in late July. A smile of pleasure touched her face fleetingly.

      Walking down the steps and crossing the stable yard, she headed for the dirt path through Cavendon Park which led to Little Skell village.

      Cecily thought suddenly of her son’s birthday earlier in the month as she strode ahead. It had poured with rain that day and spoiled their plans for the garden party. The celebration was held indoors in the end. She couldn’t help wishing it had been a glorious day like this. On the other hand, David hadn’t minded about the weather. It was his ninth birthday and he had enjoyed every moment, as had his brother, seven-year-old Walter, and their sister Venetia, who was five. It had been a happy time for the family, and that was what counted most; their enjoyment derived from the festivities, and what Miles always called the ‘gathering of the clan’.

      Later that night when they were in bed, Miles had drawn her closer to him, and had wondered out loud where all the years had gone. She had said she didn’t know and had reminded him that time always flew when they were together.

      He had laughed and pulled her even closer, stroking her hair. After a moment, she had added that they had been busy raising three children, going about their own business and keeping Cavendon safe.

      She recalled how he had murmured his thanks for all that, had wrapped his arms around her, then slipped on top of her, kissing her, touching her tenderly. Within seconds they were making love to each other with the same excitement and joyousness they had always known.

      Suddenly, remembering that night so clearly, she couldn’t help wondering if he had made her pregnant on their son’s ninth birthday? They had both been so eager for each other, and intense. It had been a passionate night.

      The idea of pregnancy lingered. She was thirty-seven. If she was pregnant, then so be it. I must think of another child as a gift, because soon my child-bearing years will be over. But having a child with war coming? This thought troubled her. She pushed it away, and hurried on towards the village. And her mind turned to the huge amount of work she and Miles had done to make Cavendon Hall and the family safe. Her brother Harry had plunged in too, as well as her four sisters-in-law. They had been hard years in so many ways.

      Each of them had made all sorts of sacrifices, and had frequently used their own money to keep everything afloat.

      But they had done it.

      The Inghams and the Swanns, pulling together, had accomplished miracles. Cavendon was now set on the right course. And it was safe.

      Yet even now, today, there was that awful little knot in her stomach. Earlier, Cecily had put this down to her worry about Harry plus her concern for Greta, her personal assistant, but she knew instinctively that neither was the real reason for her anxiety.

      It was something entirely different, and it troubled her constantly, nagged at her, gave her sleepless nights.

      Germany’s menacing Third Reich was casting a giant shadow across Britain, as it had done for the longest time over central Europe. And that was causing her tension. The Reich was sinister and dangerous, and the threat of war hovered. Cavendon would be at risk if there was an invasion … the whole country would be at risk. And Europe, too. The whole world, actually. She understood that only too well.

      When Cecily came to the walled rose garden she paused, then pushed open the heavy oak door and went down the steps. The fragrance of late-blooming summer roses enveloped her instantly. She breathed deeply and sat down on an iron garden seat. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, trying to relax for a few moments.

      This lovely old garden had not changed for centuries; it was a tranquil refuge for her, as it always had been since she was a child. She sat in here almost every day, if only for a few minutes. She loved the scent of the roses, the peacefulness behind the high brick walls. This place soothed her troubled senses, helped her to clear her mind, sort out her worries.

      Her thoughts went to her mother. Cecily knew she was busy with preparations for war, working with the women in the three villages who were members of the Women’s Institute. It was run by Charlotte, who was the president. They were quite an amazing collection of village women, and had come up with solutions to make life easier if war did come to their shores.

      Of course it will come, Cecily muttered to herself. The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, believed he could appease Adolf Hitler, who had already annexed Austria and was eyeing Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia.

      On the other hand, Winston Churchill understood the futility and terrible danger of appeasement, and kept on warning the government that war was imminent. Churchill was right, she was certain of that. Horrific as that thought was.

      The drone of a low-flying aircraft cut off Cecily’s thoughts, and she jumped up, lifted her head to the blue sky, and that first flash of fear dissipated at once.

      The small plane did not bear the emblem of Nazi Germany, the swastika. It belonged to Noel Jollion, the nineteen-year-old son of Commander Edgar Jollion of the Royal Navy, who lived on the other side of Mowbray village, near High Clough. The commander had built an airstrip in a long field on his land at Burnside Manor because his son loved flying.

      Returning to the garden seat, Cecily sat down, and tried to throw off her concern about the war. But she was finding it difficult this afternoon. It was on her mind.

      Last week Hanson had taken her and Miles down into the vast cellars of Cavendon, and had shown them the preparations he had begun to make for war.

      The cellars were always crisply clean, with whitewashed walls and well-swept floors. Hanson had pointed out a stack of camp beds which he had brought out of storage. There were sofas, armchairs and small tables, all of which had been in the attics. The Earl had told him to make the cellars as comfortable as possible, in case they had to live in them. Also all of the paintings and other objets d’art would be placed in the lower vaults as soon as there was a declaration of war between Britain and Germany, he had told them.

      It seemed to her that Hanson, as usual, had been very efficient. There was even a refrigerator which had been purchased at Harrods and delivered by a Harrods van. What would they do without Hanson? He was supposed to retire in December. He was seventy-six and had been in service at Cavendon for fifty years. She for one hoped that wouldn’t happen. He looked as fit as a fiddle and they needed him.

      Reluctantly, Cecily left her sanctuary, and continued on her way to her parents’ house in the village. But first she must stop at the Romany wagon where Genevra lived. She needed to talk to her.