Cavendon Hall. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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He still thought the only way to deal with this matter easily and in a kindly way was to invite his aunt to live with them. Perhaps Felicity could talk to her. His wife had a rather persuasive manner and much charm.
Charlotte stood up, and joined him near the fireplace. As she approached him she couldn’t help thinking how much he resembled his father in certain ways. He had inherited some of his father’s mannerisms, often sounded like him.
Instantly her mind turned to David Ingham, the 5th Earl of Mowbray. She had worked for him for twenty years, until he had died. Eight years ago now. As those happy days, still so vivid, came into her mind, she thought of the South Wing at Cavendon. It was there they had worked, alongside Mr Harris, the accountant, Mr Nelson, the estate manager, and Maude Greene, the secretary.
‘The South Wing, that’s where Lady Gwendolyn could live!’ Charlotte blurted out as she came to a stop next to Charles.
‘Those rooms Father used as offices? Where you worked?’ he asked, and then a wide smile spread across his face. ‘Charlotte, you’re a genius. Of course she could live there. And very comfortably.’
Charlotte nodded, and hurried on, her enthusiasm growing. ‘Your father put in several bathrooms and a small kitchen, if you remember. When you built the office annexe in the stable block, all of the office furniture was moved over there. The sofas, chairs and drawing-room furniture came down from the attics and into the South Wing.’
‘Exactly. And I know the South Wing is constantly well maintained by Hanson and Mrs Thwaites. Every wing of Cavendon is kept in perfect condition, as you’re aware.’
‘If Lady Gwendolyn agreed, she would have a self-contained flat, in a sense, and total privacy,’ Charlotte pointed out.
‘That’s true, and I would be happy to make as many changes as she wished.’ Taking hold of her arm, he continued, ‘Let’s go and look at those rooms in the South Wing, shall we? You do have time, don’t you?’
‘I do, and that’s a good idea, Charles,’ she responded. ‘Because you have no alternative but to invite Hugo Stanton to visit Cavendon. And I think you must be prepared for the worst. He might well want to take possession of Little Skell Manor immediately.’
His chest tightened at her words, but he knew she was right.
As they moved through the various rooms in the South Wing, and especially those that his father had used as offices, Charles thought of the relationship between his father and Charlotte.
Had there been one?
She had come to work for him when she was a young girl, seventeen, and she had been at the 5th Earl’s side at all times, had travelled with him, and been his close companion as well as his personal assistant. It was Charlotte who had been with his father when he died.
Charles was aware there had been speculation about their relationship, but never any real gossip. No one knew anything. Perhaps this was due to total discretion on his father’s part and Charlotte’s … that there was not a whiff of a scandal about them.
He glanced across at Charlotte. They were in the lavender room, and she was explaining to him that his aunt might like to have it as her bedroom. He was only half listening.
A raft of brilliant spring sunshine was slanting into the room, was turning her russet hair into a burnished helmet around her face. As always, she was pale, and her light greyish-blue eyes appeared enormous. For the first time in years, Charles saw her objectively. And he realized what a beautiful woman she was; she looked half her true age.
Thrown into her company every day for twenty years, how could his father have ever resisted her? Charles Ingham was now positive they had been involved with each other. And on every level.
It was an assumption on his part. There was no evidence. Yet at this moment it had suddenly become patently obvious to him. Charles had grown up with his father and Charlotte, and knew them better than anyone, even better than his wife Felicity, and he certainly knew her very well indeed. And he had had insight into them, had been aware of their flaws and their attributes, dreams and desires; and so he believed, deep in his soul, that it was more than likely they had been lovers.
Charles turned away, realizing he had been staring so hard she had become aware of his penetrating scrutiny. Moving quickly, saying something about the small kitchen, he hurried out of the lavender room into the corridor.
And why does all this matter now? he asked himself. His father was dead. And if Charlotte had made him happy, and eased his burdens, then he was glad. Charles hoped they had loved each other.
But what about Charlotte? How did she feel these days? Did she miss his father? Surely she must. All of a sudden he was filled with concern for her. He wanted to ask her how she felt. But he didn’t dare. It would be an unforgivable intrusion on her privacy, and he had no desire to embarrass her.
The evening gown lay on a white sheet, on the floor of Lady DeLacy Ingham’s bedroom. DeLacy was the twelve-year-old daughter of the Earl and Countess, and Cecily’s best friend. This morning she was excited, because she had been allowed to help Cecily with the dresses. These had been brought down from the large cedar storage closet in the attics. Some were hanging in the sewing room, awaiting Alice’s inspection; two others were here.
The gown that held their attention was a shimmering column of green, blue and turquoise crystal beads, and to the two young girls kneeling next to it, the dress was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.
‘Daphne’s going to look lovely in it,’ DeLacy said, staring across at Cecily. ‘Don’t you think so?’
Cecily nodded. ‘My mother wants me to seek out flaws in the dress, such as broken beads, broken threads, any little problems. She needs to know how many repairs it needs.’
‘So that’s what we’ll do,’ DeLacy asserted. ‘Shall I start here? On the neckline and the sleeves?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Cecily answered. ‘I’ll examine the hem, which my mother says usually gets damaged by men. By their shoes, I mean. They all step on the hem when they’re dancing.’
DeLacy nodded. ‘Clumsy. That’s what they are,’ she shot back, always quick to speak her mind. She was staring down at the dress, and exclaimed, ‘Look, Ceci, how it shimmers when I touch it.’ She shook the gown lightly. ‘It’s like the sea, like waves, the way it moves. It will match Daphne’s eyes, won’t it? Oh, I do hope she meets a duke’s son when she’s wearing it.’
‘Yes,’ Cecily muttered absently, her head bent as she concentrated on the hemline of the beaded gown. It had been designed and made in Paris by a famous designer, and the Countess had only worn it a few times. Then it had been carefully stored, wrapped in white cotton and placed in a large box. The gown was to be given to Daphne, to wear at one of the special summer parties, once it had been fitted to suit her figure.
‘There’s hardly any damage,’ Cecily announced a few minutes later. ‘How are the sleeves and the neckline?’
‘Almost perfect,’ DeLacy replied. ‘There aren’t many beads missing.’
‘Mam will be pleased.’ Cecily stood up. ‘Let’s put the gown back on the bed.’
She and DeLacy took the beaded evening dress, each of them holding one end, and lifted it carefully onto DeLacy’s bed. ‘Gosh, it’s really heavy,’ she said as they put it back in place.
‘That’s the reason beaded dresses are kept in boxes or drawers,’ Cecily explained. ‘If a beaded gown is put on a hanger, the beads will eventually weigh it down, and that makes the dress longer. It gets out of shape.’
DeLacy nodded, always interested in the things Cecily told her, especially about frocks. She knew a lot about clothes,