The Cavendon Luck. Barbara Bradford Taylor
also inherited Cecily’s colouring and her chiselled features. As for five-year-old Venetia, she was a true Ingham through and through, with her golden hair and bright blue eyes. Alice smiled to herself, thinking how much Venetia resembled Lady Dulcie when she had been the same age.
Grandchildren. They were very precious, and she would love to have more. Harry wanted a family. He had said that a few months ago. He would like to be married, he had confided, so he could have a child – several children, in fact.
He had the makings of a good father; there was no doubt in her mind about that. But Pauline Mallard, believed to be forty-eight, was certainly past the child-bearing age. A spurt of anger erupted in Alice. Instantly, she pushed it away. She wasn’t going to dwell on that woman.
Within a few seconds her natural compassion overcame her anxiety about Harry, and her annoyance with him. She suddenly felt a rush of sympathy for her son.
Greta Chalmers put the receiver down and let her hand rest on it for a moment. She felt as if she had a tight band around her chest and tears brimmed in her green eyes. She swallowed them back and blinked a few times.
She had never heard her father sounding so despairing and morose, and she knew the reason why. He saw no way out of his predicament, no solution to his dilemma. At the end of their conversation he said, ‘I’m trapped. We’re trapped. There’s nothing anybody can do, liebling.’ After telling her he loved her, that they all loved her, he had hung up.
And she loved them: her father, her stepmother, Heddy, her half-sister, Elise, and half-brother, Kurt. They lived in Berlin but, being Jewish, they had now come to realize that they must leave as soon as possible, escape the dangers of the monstrous Third Reich. They wanted to come to England; they knew they had a home with her until they found a place of their own. They had passports but no visas, no travel papers. They were stuck, as her father had just said.
Greta’s mind raced. So many ideas were jostling around for prominence. She glanced at her watch. It was now almost three thirty and Cecily would be coming back into the office at any moment. Taking control of herself as best she could, Greta let go of the phone, sat up straighter, arranged the collar of her cotton dress, and smoothed one hand over her dark brown hair.
Reaching for the last letter she had typed she put it in the folder, reminded herself that she must be composed when Cecily arrived. She knew that Cecily worried about her, and her father’s problems. But so far she had not come up with a solution. No one she knew had, and she did have a number of good friends in London. Her employer had also turned out to be a true friend who had her best interests at heart.
The moment they met Greta and Cecily had ‘clicked’, as Cecily termed it. They had taken to each other at once and had been on an even keel ever since. Never a cross word, never a step out of place on both their parts.
Cecily often joked about their compatibility, the way they were frequently thinking the same thing at the same time. ‘May babies, that’s why,’ Cecily had said after their first year of working together. They were both born in the first week of May, but Cecily was six years older than Greta.
She loved her job as Cecily Swann’s personal assistant, and even though there was a lot of work, her boss worked just as hard as she did. They found satisfaction in their careers, and sometimes Greta shuddered when she remembered how she almost hadn’t gone for the interview at the shop in the Burlington Arcade. Cold feet, timidity perhaps, or even her lack of experience had got in the way for a while. But in the end she had gathered up her courage and gone to meet the famous designer. And she had got the job. She had started working at Cecily Swann Couture the next day.
Following Cecily’s earlier advice, Greta took her small notebook out of her handbag and picked up a pencil. She would make a list, as Cecily had suggested, writing down everything she had to do to make her house ready for her family.
Yesterday, when she had arrived at Cavendon, Cecily had told her to be positive about the future, reassuring her that her family would make it out of Nazi Germany eventually, that she would have to take them in. Greta wanted to do that, and to cherish them.
Many times in the last few years, Greta had wished her husband, Roy, had still been alive. He would have taken care of this situation in no time at all, made short shrift of it. But he was dead and gone. Five years ago now, and he had been far too young to die.
Bending her head, Greta began to make a list of extra things she would have to buy to make her house in Phene Street more comfortable.
‘Here I am!’ Cecily cried, hurrying into Greta’s office. ‘Sorry I’m late when you’ve got your train to catch.’
‘I’ve plenty of time. Goff said we should leave at four thirty for me to get the six o’clock to King’s Cross.’
‘So we can relax for a moment, and have a chat. I’ll sign my letters and go over my appointments with you. What do I have in London on Monday?’
‘There aren’t too many,’ Greta answered. ‘I kept the day light since you’re leaving for Zurich on Tuesday.’
After signing her letters, Cecily looked across at her assistant and said carefully, ‘Did you manage to get hold of your father?’
‘I did, and he sounded a bit down in the dumps, to be honest.’ Greta was surprised her voice was so steady.
Cecily nodded. ‘Of course he did, he’s troubled and frustrated. But look, I’m going to try to help you solve this. And you know what I’m like when I get my teeth into something.’
Despite her worries, Greta laughed. ‘A dog with a bone.’
‘That’s true,’ Cecily answered. ‘When there’s a problem, I have to solve it – and quickly, before it gets out of hand. I need help with this matter, Greta. I’m sure you realize that. I do have someone I can talk to, who might be able to guide me in the right direction.’
Greta simply nodded. She had total faith in her, knew that if anyone could help it was Cecily – this beautiful and talented woman whom she trusted totally.
Cecily was crossing the grand entrance hall at Cavendon a little later, when she heard the sound of music. Instantly she stopped, stood still for a moment listening intently.
The magical sounds were coming from the yellow drawing room and the piano, a recent addition, was being played by Daphne’s daughter, Annabel. No one else could conjure up such miraculous music on the ivory keys the way she did.
The fourteen-year-old had been playing since her childhood. It was her passion and she was superb. Cecily was forever telling Daphne how gifted she was. And good enough to be a concert pianist one day, she always insisted.
Daphne merely smiled serenely, no doubt because she believed the same thing yet did not want to admit it. The lovely Daphne, to whom Cecily was devoted, was far too refined to push her children forward for accolades. But the five of them were talented and very clever. Alicia wanted to be an actress, Charlie a journalist, and the twins intended to join Hugo in the world of finance.
Continuing across the hall, knowing she was yet again running late for afternoon tea, Cecily headed for the drawing room. She opened the door and stood on the threshold, peering in.
She let out a small sigh of relief when she realized she was not the last after all. For once. Aunt Charlotte and the Earl were already there, and so was Lady Gwendolyn. Annabel, of course, was still sitting at the piano, starting a new piece. It was Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’. Obviously Diedre had arrived from London earlier than usual. She sat between Lady Gwen and her son, Robin, who was eleven, and chattering to her, filling her in. As he usually did, he was spending the summer at Cavendon with his cousins.
Her own brood, David, Walter and Venetia, were at the children’s table on the other side of the drawing room. This was an innovation of Charlotte’s,