Secrets of Cavendon: A gripping historical saga full of intrigue and drama. Barbara Taylor Bradford

up, she walked over to the fireplace, and stood there, appreciating the warmth coming from the dying embers. ‘We’ve looked out for the Inghams for centuries,’ she announced in a cold voice.

      Miles was furious with himself. He had made a silly remark, and she had taken umbrage. Of course she had. It was a rotten remark, and totally uncalled for.

      Before he could apologize and say something nice to her, Cecily spoke. ‘You might as well know that a few other Swanns have come up with some ideas that might help us out. Uncle Howard recently read in The Times that Lord Overshed auctioned off his wine cellar, or rather the contents thereof, and made money. Mind you, a lot of wine had gone off. I told Eric to check the wine logbooks started by Hanson, and which he has continued to keep. A wine auction might produce money.’

      ‘I see,’ Miles said, now determined to watch his words, not wanting to upset her further.

      ‘And I ran into Percy the other day. We talked about the grouse moor. He told me that many aristocratic families with shoots are actually taking paying guests during the grouse season. Mostly American tycoons.’

      ‘I don’t quite know how that would work, here at Cavendon, I mean.’ Miles took a long swallow of the cognac, and put the glass down on the small table.

      After a moment he said quietly, ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about, Cecily. I will consider your suggestions. And I haven’t forgotten the one about charging rent.’

      ‘And will you have a meeting with Aunt Charlotte tomorrow?’ she asked, keeping her voice soft.

      ‘Of course. I’ll listen to what she has to say, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll take a bank loan.’

      He let out a long sigh, and stood up, walked over to the fireplace, kissed her on the cheek. ‘Why don’t you go to bed? It’s been such a long day for you. I’ll join you shortly, I have quite a lot to mull over, and I do need to have a quiet think alone.’

      ‘I am a bit tired,’ she admitted, and touched his arm lightly. ‘Don’t stay up too late, Miles. And tomorrow afternoon we can look at the other paintings in Diedre’s room,’ she promised, by way of a peace offering.

      Cecily found she was unable to fall asleep. She was very tired, just as Miles had suggested, but her brain would not stop working.

      His remarks about the Swanns had infuriated her, but within herself she realized it was just a thoughtless, throw-away line. He had not meant to hurt. He knew only too well how much the Swanns had done for the Inghams. And what she herself had contributed to the welfare of the family. She had saved them several times. Everyone knew that.

      Despite his anger and shock, Cecily believed she had been correct in telling Miles everything at once. Knowing him as well as she did, she was certain he would not come to bed until he had puzzled everything out. He was no doubt drinking another brandy in the sitting room, and ‘getting his ducks in a row’, as he called it.

      One thing she was sure of was his ingrained practicality. However distasteful something might be to him, he would, in the end, do what was best for Cavendon and its future.

      After a while, she managed to ease herself into a better frame of mind, to let go of her worries, and concentrated on her youngest child. Gwen had been unhappy for quite a while now, because she wanted to have a kitten. Miles had not liked the idea of animals in the house. Now Cecily decided she was going to buy Gwen that cat. Once it was there, Miles would find it extremely difficult to take it away from Gwen, whom he adored.

      Cecily smiled at this decision, and fell asleep at last, filled with loving thoughts of her wartime baby who had brought her so much happiness.

       PART TWO

       Les Girls

      I have spread my dreams under your feet;

      Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

      W. B. Yeats, ‘The Cloths of Heaven’

       NINE

      Victoria Brown, the shy and somewhat wary little evacuee, whom Alice Swann had taken into her heart the moment she had first met her, had grown up to be a lovely young woman. She had arrived at Cavendon in 1939, just before her eleventh birthday, and she would celebrate her twenty-first birthday later this year.

      In the ensuing years she had become strikingly pretty, with a mass of shiny brown hair shot through with golden streaks, and unusually deep green eyes. Tall, even as a child, she had a lithe, willowy figure, and a graceful energy when she moved.

      Alice was not at all surprised she had turned into a unique young woman, who made heads swivel when she passed people on the street. And neither was Walter. They knew, too, how talented Victoria was as a photographer, and had permitted her to move to London to pursue her passion. Her love of taking pictures had started when Walter had given her a Kodak camera as a child. Ever since then she had never had a camera out of her hands. But over the years they had grown more intricate and expensive.

      It had been Harry Swann’s wife, Paloma, who had noticed Victoria’s budding talent; a photographer herself, she had taught Victoria everything she knew about the art. Victoria’s forte was portraits, but she also enjoyed helping out on fashion shoots and had started to do a few of her own, which she managed to make unique and very different.

      On this warm Saturday afternoon in July, Victoria walked around her small flat in Belsize Park Gardens, checking the tiny rooms. Alice had told her to make Saturday her household day when she had first come to London a year ago; it was when they had found this flat. And this she had done. She went shopping for her weekly groceries first, then returned home to clean the bedroom, bathroom, sitting room and galley kitchen. Despite its small size it was comfortable, and she liked its cosiness.

      Nodding to herself, satisfied that everything was ‘spick and span’, as Alice always called well-cleaned rooms, she went into her bedroom. Walter had made a closet for her when she had first moved in, with a rail and curtain. It was in a small alcove, and held all her clothes – not that she owned very many, with rationing having been in place for a decade, and Alice being a great believer in make-do and mend. She slid hangers along the rail, picked out several skirts, blouses, cotton shirts and cotton frocks. These were her selections for next week; they were her work clothes.

      Alice had advised her to do this every Saturday: ‘being prepared’, Alice called it. It was yet another rule from Alice, but then Alice had been the centre of her life since she had arrived in Little Skell village ten years ago.

      Bright and very clever in a variety of ways, Victoria was aware Alice and Walter had helped to make her who she was today. It was their influence and love which had shaped her, their help that had supported her scholarship to Harrogate College.

      She hardly dared think what would have become of her if she had not been sent to them as an evacuee. She might well have been dead. They had saved her life, of that she was absolutely certain.

      It was to the Swanns that she always turned when she needed advice, or had a problem, and they had never failed her. And she knew they never would. Victoria was determined to make them proud of her.

      By the end of the war she had so settled in with them she was scared what would happen to her when peace came. Victoria knew she was where she wanted to be, where she belonged: in Little Skell village on the edge of Cavendon Park.

      But the Pied Piper Organization, in charge of the Evacuee Programme, might take her away and send her back to the frightening house in Leeds. That had truly made her shudder at the time. And she had finally found the courage to confide in Alice about her terrible childhood and her horrific mother. Alice had been upset, angry and shocked.

      After