Cavendon Hall. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Charles had enjoyed irking his sisters by calling each other Charlie, chortling at the confusion this created. They had been inseparable until he had gone off to Eton. Nevertheless, their loyalty and concern for each other had lasted over the years, albeit in a slightly different way. They didn’t mingle or socialize once Charles had gone to Oxford, and, in fact, they lived in entirely different worlds. When they were with his family, or other people, they addressed each other formally, and were respectful.
But it existed still, that childhood bond, and they were both aware of their closeness, although it was never referred to. He had never forgotten how she had mothered him, looked out for him when they were small. She was only one year older than he was, but it was Charlotte who took charge of them all.
She had comforted him and his sisters when their mother had suddenly and unexpectedly died of a heart attack; commiserated with them when, two years later, their father had remarried. The new Countess was the Honourable Harriette Storm, and they all detested her. The woman was snobbish, brash and bossy, and had a mean streak. She had trapped the grief-stricken Earl, who was lonely and lost, with her unique beauty, which Charlotte loved to point out was only skin deep, after all.
They had enjoyed playing tricks on her, the worse the better, and it was Charlotte who had come up with a variety of names for her: Bad Weather, Hurricane Harriette and Rainy Day, to name just three of them. The names made them laugh, had helped them to move on from the rather childish pranks they played. Eventually they simply poked fun at her behind her back.
The marriage had been abysmal for the Earl, who had retreated behind a carapace of his own making. And it had not lasted long. Hateful Harriette soon returned to London. It was there that she died, not long after her departure from Cavendon. Her liver failed because it had been totally destroyed by the huge quantities of alcohol she had consumed since her debutante days.
Charles suddenly thought of the recent past as he stood watching Charlotte straightening the horse painting by George Stubbs, remembering how often she had done this when she had worked for his father.
With a laugh, he said, ‘I just did the same thing a short while ago. That painting’s constantly slipping, but then I don’t need to tell you that.’
Charlotte swung around. ‘It’s been re-hung numerous times, as you well know. I’ll ask Mr Hanson for an old wine cork again, and fix it properly.’
‘How can a wine cork do that?’ he asked, puzzled.
Walking over to join him, she explained, ‘I cut a slice of the cork off and wedge it between the wall and the bottom of the frame. A bit of cork always holds the painting steady. I’ve been doing it for years.’
Charles merely nodded, thinking of all the bits of cork he had been picking up and throwing away for years. Now he knew what they had been for.
Motioning to the chair on the other side of the desk, he said, ‘Please sit down, Charlotte, I need your advice.’
She did as he asked, and glanced at him as he sat down himself, thinking that he was looking well. He was forty-four, but he didn’t look it. Charles was athletic, as his father had been, and kept himself in shape. Like most of the Ingham men, he was tall, attractive, had their clear blue eyes, a fair complexion and light brown hair. Wherever he went in the world, she was certain nobody would mistake him for being anything but an Englishman. And an English gentleman at that. He was refined looking, had a classy air about him, and handled himself with a certain decorum.
Leaning across the desk, Charles handed Charlotte the letter from Hugo. ‘I received this in the morning post and, I have to admit, it genuinely startled me.’
She took the letter from him, wondering who had sent it. Charlotte had a quick mind, was intelligent and astute. And having worked as the 5th Earl’s personal assistant for years, there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Cavendon, and everybody associated with it. She was not at all surprised when she saw Hugo’s signature; she had long harboured the thought that this particular young man would show up at Cavendon one day.
After reading the letter quickly, she said, ‘You think he’s coming back to claim Little Skell Manor, don’t you?’
‘Of course. What else?’
Charlotte nodded in agreement, and then frowned, and pursed her lips. ‘But surely Cavendon is full of unhappy memories for him?’
‘I would think that’s so; on the other hand, as you’ve seen, Hugo says in his letter that he wishes to discuss the property he owns here, and also informs me that he plans to live in Yorkshire permanently.’
‘At Little Skell Manor. And perhaps he doesn’t care that he will have to turn an old lady out of the house she has lived in for donkey’s years, long before his parents died, in fact.’
‘Quite frankly, I don’t know. I haven’t laid eyes on him for sixteen years. Since he was sixteen, actually. However, he must be fully aware that our aunt still lives there.’ Charles threw her a questioning look, raising a brow.
‘It’s quite easy to check on this well-known family, even long-distance,’ Charlotte asserted. Sitting back in the chair, she was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I remember Hugo. He was a nice boy. But he might well have changed, in view of what happened to him here. He was treated badly. You must recall how angry your father was when his sister sent Hugo off to America.’
‘I do,’ Charles replied. ‘My father thought it was ridiculous. He didn’t believe Hugo caused Peter’s death. Peter had always been a risk-taker, foolhardy. To go out on the lake here, in a little boat, late at night when he was drunk, was totally irresponsible. My father always said Hugo tried to rescue his brother, to save him, and then got blamed for his death.’
‘We mustn’t forget that Peter was Lady Evelyne’s favourite. Your aunt never paid much attention to Hugo. It was sad. A tragic affair, really.’
Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. ‘You know how much I trust your judgement. So tell me this – what am I going to do? There will be an unholy row, a scandal, if Hugo does take back the manor. Which of course he can, legally. What happens to Aunt Gwendolyn? Where would she live? With us here in the East Wing? That’s the only solution I can come up with.’
Charlotte shook her head vehemently. ‘No, no, that’s not a solution! It would be very crowded with you and Felicity, and six children, and your sister Vanessa. Then there’s the nanny, the governess, and all the staff. It would be like … well … a hotel. At least to Lady Gwendolyn it would. She’s an old lady, set in her ways, independent, used to running everything. By that I mean her own household, with her own staff. And she’s fond of her privacy.’
‘Possibly you’re right,’ Charles muttered. ‘She’d be aghast.’
Charlotte went on, ‘Your aunt would feel like … a guest here, an intrusion. And I believe she would resent being bundled in here with you, with all due respect, Charles. In fact, she’ll put up a real fight, I fear, because she’ll be most unhappy to leave her house.’
‘It isn’t hers,’ Charles said softly. ‘Pity her sister Evelyne never changed her will. My aunt will have to move. There’s no way around that.’ He sat back in the chair, a gloomy expression settling on his face. ‘I do wish Cousin Hugo wasn’t planning to come back and live here. What a blasted nuisance this is.’
‘I don’t want to make matters worse,’ Charlotte began, ‘but there’s another thing. Don’t—’
‘What are you getting at?’ he interrupted swiftly, alarm surfacing. He sat up straighter in the chair.
‘We know Lady Gwendolyn will be put out, but don’t you think Hugo’s presence on the estate is going to upset some other people as well? There are still those who think Hugo was responsible for Peter’s death, and—’
‘That’s because they don’t know the facts,’ he cut in sharply. ‘Or they won’t accept them.’
Charlotte remained silent,