Cavendon Hall. Barbara Taylor Bradford
in a few pins where I need to adjust it. It’s a perfect fit, Lady Daphne.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Alice.’
Cecily said, ‘There aren’t many beads missing, Mam.’
Alice swung her head, smiled at her daughter and went on with her work.
Cecily sat back in the chair, watching her mother, always learning from her. Alice was now kneeling on the floor with a small pincushion attached to her left wrist. Every so often she put a pin or two in the hem, marking the exact spot for attention later.
Pins had a language of their own, Cecily was aware of that. It was a language her mother was going to teach her soon. She had made a promise, and her mam always kept her promises.
When Daphne finally got off the platform and walked towards the screen in a corner of the room, Alice beckoned to Cecily, and the two of them took the bouffant white ball gown off the mannequin. Alice followed Daphne, carrying the gown. She was certain this would fit her too. It had been made at the same time as the beaded column.
Daphne emerged a few seconds later, looking so beautiful, so ethereal, in the froth of white lace and tulle, that Cecily caught her breath in surprise. Then she exclaimed, ‘You look like a fairy-tale princess!’
Daphne walked forward, smiling. She swirled around, the skirts billowing out, and then swirled again, and nobody even noticed the ink stains, so entrancing was she.
‘The perfect bride for the son of a duke,’ DeLacy blurted out, and then shrank back in the chair when they all stared at her.
The phantom duke not yet found, Alice thought, and therefore no son to marry. But there will be one soon enough, I’ve no doubt. After all, she’s only seventeen and not quite ready for marriage yet. Still a child in so many ways. And such a beauty. But all of the four Dees are lovely, and so is my Cecily. Yes, they’re the beautiful girls of Cavendon, none to match them anywhere.
Alice stood there smiling, admiring them, and thinking what a lovely summer it was going to be for everyone – the suppers, the dances, the big ball, and the weekend house parties … a happy, festive time.
Although she did not know it, Alice was wrong. The summer would be a season of the most devastating trouble, which would shake the House of Ingham to its core.
‘It’s extremely quiet in here, Mrs Jackson,’ the butler remarked from the doorway of the kitchen, surveying Cook’s domain.
‘Did yer think we’d all died and gone ter heaven then?’ Nell Jackson asked with a laugh. ‘I just sat down ter catch me breath before I start on the main course. Can’t cook it yet, though, not till the last minute. Dover sole is a delicate fish, doesn’t need much time in the pan.’
Mr Hanson nodded and went on. ‘I’ve no doubt the hustle and bustle will start up again very shortly.’
‘It will. Right now everyone’s off doing their duties upstairs, but they’ll soon be scurrying back down here, bringing their bustle with them. As for Polly, I sent her ter bed, Mr Hanson. She’s got a sore throat and a headache. It’s better she’s confined ter her room until she feels better. I don’t want her spreading germs, if she does have a cold.’
‘Good thinking on your part, Mrs Jackson. Lord Mowbray is a stickler about illness. He doesn’t like the staff working if they’re under the weather. For their sakes as well as ours. You’ll be able to manage all right. It’s only three for lunch, with the Countess and Lady Diedre in Harrogate today.’
‘It’s not a problem, Mr Hanson,’ Mrs Jackson reassured him. ‘Elsie and Mary will help me ter put the food on the serving platters, and Malcolm and Gordon will handle lunch upstairs with ease.’
‘And I shall be serving the wine, and supervising them as usual,’ he reminded her with a kindly smile. Then he nodded and walked on down the corridor, heading for his office. The room was one of his favourites in this great house, which he loved for its beauty, heritage and spirit of the past; he looked after it as if it were his own. Nothing was ever too much trouble.
Hanson had occupied the office for some years now, and it had acquired a degree of comfort over time, resembling a gentleman’s study in its overall style. Henry had arrived at Cavendon Hall in 1888, twenty-five years ago now, when he had been twenty-six. From the first day, Geoffrey Swann, the butler at that time, had favoured him; he had spotted something special in him. Geoffrey Swann had called it ‘a potential for excellence’.
The renowned butler had propelled Hanson up through the hierarchy with ease, teaching him the ropes all the way. Starting as a junior footman in the pecking order, he rose to footman, eventually became the senior footman, and was finally named assistant butler under the direction of Geoffrey Swann. He had been an essential part of the household for ten years when, to everyone’s shock, Geoffrey Swann suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in 1898.
The 5th Earl had immediately asked Hanson if he would take over as butler. He had agreed at once, and never looked back. He ran Cavendon Hall with enormous efficiency, care, skill and a huge sense of responsibility. Geoffrey Swann had been an extraordinary mentor, had turned Hanson into a well-trained major-domo who had become as renowned as Swann before him in aristocratic circles.
Sitting down at his desk, Hanson picked up the menus for lunch and dinner, which Mrs Jackson had given him earlier, and glanced at them. In a short while, he must go to the wine cellar and choose the wines. Perhaps a Pouilly Fuissé for the fish and a Pomerol for the spring lamb that had been selected for dinner.
Leaning back in the chair, Hanson let his thoughts meander to other matters for a moment or two, and then he made a decision and got up. Leaving his office, he walked in the direction of the housekeeper’s sitting room.
Her door was ajar and, after knocking on it, he pushed it open and looked inside. ‘It’s Hanson, Mrs Thwaites. Do you have a moment?’
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in.’
Closing the door behind him, Hanson said, ‘I wanted a word with you … about Peggy Swift. I was wondering how she was working out? Is she satisfactory?’ he asked, getting straight to the point as he usually did. ‘Is she going to fit in here?’
Agnes Thwaites did not reply immediately, and he couldn’t help wondering why. He was about to ask her if she was unhappy with the new maid, when she finally spoke.
‘I can’t fault her work, Mr Hanson. I really can’t. She’s quick and she’s efficient. Still, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on … something about her doesn’t sit well with me.’ Mrs Thwaites shook her head.
‘So I’ve noticed,’ Hanson replied pithily. ‘She did work at Ellsford Manor, and you did get an excellent reference, but then the manor is hardly Cavendon. It’s not a stately home.’
‘Oh, yes, I understand that,’ she answered, suppressing a smile. It was well known that Hanson believed Cavendon was better than any other house in the land, including Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and Sandringham, all royal residences. ‘I have noticed there is a certain coolness between Peggy and the other maids. I’m not clear why,’ Mrs Thwaites added.
‘Has Mrs Jackson told you what she thinks of Peggy?’ he asked, a brow lifting.
‘Well, naturally Mrs Jackson is pleased with her efficiency, her quickness. It might be that Peggy is just not suitable for this house.’
‘You’d better keep a sharp eye on her, since the maids are in your care, as the footmen are in mine. And I will as well, as I think two pairs of eyes see much more than one.’
Hanson left the sitting room and walked back to his office. He sat at the desk for a moment or two, thinking about the situation in general. They were still missing a third footman, and if they had to let