Cavendon Hall Part 17

"As you know, Mr. Hugo finally came back, and he's had a very warm welcome. The most tragic thing is that the countess's sister is very ill. I'm sure you know that, Olive. The countess must have told you already."

"Yes, she has, and it's very sad indeed. Her ladys.h.i.+p indicated to me that her sister doesn't have much time left on this earth."

"So I've heard." Walter carried a blue suit to the window, where the light was better, to inspect it. He said carefully, "No other news, though, all has been normal. How was London?"

"I didn't get to see much of the city, I'm afraid. I was stuck in Croydon. After burying Mum, I had a lot to deal with, selling her house, all that sort of stuff. But her affairs weren't too complicated after all. And to be honest I was pleasantly surprised by the legacy she left me."

"A windfall?" Walter said, smiling at her.

"Yes, and a good one."

"Dare I ask how your chap is, Olive? Mr. Dayton?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Olive said in a low, somewhat saddened voice, "You'll never believe this, Walter. Ted left me. He ran away. With a married woman. They went to Canada ... emigrated."

Walter was flabbergasted, and couldn't speak for a moment, and then he said, "What a rotten thing to do. I'm sorry, Olive, very sorry. You must be really upset."

"No, I'm not, to tell you the truth, Walter. I'm relieved, actually. Can you imagine if we'd been married? Since we're not, I can say good riddance to bad rubbish. And mean it."

Thirty.

The house was Georgian. It had been built over 250 years ago, and it was beautiful. It was designed in the style of Andrea Palladio, the great Italian architect, and was the perfect Palladian villa standing on top of a small hill. Immediately below the house there was a man-made ornamental lake in which was reflected an image of the house.

"How clever they were, those architects of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries," Hugo said as he and Daphne walked around the lake. "They usually did put a great house on top of a hill, if the topography was correct, and then made a lake to create a reflection, a mirror image. A bit of clever trickery. Two houses for the price of one. Well, let's say a house and the perfect image of it." He laughed, added, "So imaginative."

Daphne looked closely at Hugo, thinking how intelligent he was. She had never heard anyone say this before about Whernside House. People only ever talked about the beauty of the interiors. She told him this, and went on, "The rooms are lovely, perfectly proportioned, s.p.a.cious and airy, but the outside is important too, isn't it?"

"Absolutely, and especially for me," Hugo confided. "I love an English park like Cavendon, and this park is very similar, although not as large. Let's go inside, shall we? I can't wait to see what's behind those walls. Maybe this place will be my new home."

Together they walked the short distance up the hill, and were met on the terrace by the caretaker, Mrs. Dodie Grant. "The park's gorgeous, isn't it, Mr. Stanton?" she said as Hugo and Daphne walked with her down the terrace to the French doors.

"It is indeed," Hugo replied. "And I'm impressed with the many ancient trees. They're just magnificent, most especially the oaks."

"Yes, they are, and the only other trees I've seen like them are in the park at Cavendon," the caretaker remarked.

"That's so," Daphne murmured, walking after the caretaker, going into the library, which opened off the terrace.

"I shall leave you alone to explore," Mrs. Grant now said. "Lady Daphne has been here before, and I think she knows her way around the house. I'll be in my little office, off the kitchen, if you need me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Grant," Hugo answered, offering her a pleasant smile. "I plan to take my time, though. I hope that's all right?"

"It is. Take as long as you wish."

Once the caretaker had hurried off, Hugo stood in the middle of the library and slowly turned around, taking everything in. "I understand what you meant about perfect proportions, Daphne; this is a wonderful room. The windows and the French doors let in such an amazing amount of daylight."

"The paneling helps too, Hugo. Mahogany is always too dark, in my opinion. I prefer pale wood."

"I agree."

After strolling around the library, discussing various aspects of it, they moved on, went to the drawing room, then the dining room, and toured every room on the ground floor. It seemed to Hugo that they became better and better.

The bedroom floor also had many lovely rooms, as s.p.a.cious and airy as those downstairs. At one moment, he couldn't help thinking that the house was rather big ... perhaps too big for one man. But then he wasn't going to be alone forever, was he? He would have a wife.

Only Daphne, he thought. She is the only one I want. The house suits her. She looks perfect in it ... but then she would be perfect anywhere. She's so beautiful. A truly luscious woman.

He watched her intently as she walked down the master bedroom to the other end, and looked out one of the windows.

She said, "There's a lovely view of the lake from here, Hugo. You could have swans, like we do at Cavendon. Yes, what this lake needs are two white swans. They mate for life, you know."

"I did know that, yes," he murmured, thinking we should mate for life. Totally preoccupied with his thoughts about her, he fully understood he couldn't get her out of his mind. Would he ever?

This afternoon she was wearing a peach silk dress, similar in tone to the one she had worn when he first met her ... yesterday. Was it only yesterday? It was. He had arrived here on Friday and today was Sat.u.r.day. How was that possible? He felt as if he had known her for years. They had spent an evening together at the supper dance; they had breakfasted with the family this morning. There had been the chat on the terrace before lunch, then lunch, and later the drive over to Whernside House in the close proximity of the motorcar. And the long wander around these beautiful rooms for the past hour.

In a truly short s.p.a.ce of time they had been in each other's company rather a lot ... and he wanted to be with her constantly. She was not only the most beautiful of women, but intelligent, caring, and charming. He felt completely at ease with her, but had no idea how she felt about him. However, she was comfortable with him, he was certain of that. Because he noticed she was relaxed.

He glanced around the bedroom. It was large, but then all of the rooms were. This was a house meant for a man and his wife and their family. Not for a lonely man, a widower, all alone and mooning over a woman far too young for him. A woman he was not likely to ever possess.

She turned around, came walking back, smiling. Sunlight gilded her golden hair, gave it a s.h.i.+mmer, cast a bright radiance across her face. The peach silk rippled around her long legs, was draped across her shapely bosom.

The dizziness returned; his mouth went dry. There had been women before he married; after all he was a virile man. But he had not felt like this about any of them, not even his lovely Loretta, whom he had loved and been faithful to throughout their marriage.

Hugo, fully aware he was besotted with Daphne Ingham, did not know what to do about it. He, a sophisticated, experienced man of the world, was flummoxed.

"Let's go up to the nursery floor," Daphne suggested, breaking into his thoughts about her.

Pulling himself together, Hugo said, "Why not?"

They climbed the stairs quickly, and once they entered the nursery, Daphne exclaimed, "Oh! A rocking horse! Just like the one we have at Cavendon."

She rushed across the room and started pus.h.i.+ng the horse. It moved back and forth, and Hugo suddenly remembered the one in the nursery at Cavendon, which he'd ridden on as a child.

"Your rocking horse was a friend of mine, too," he said in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "It's called Dobbins."

Daphne nodded and laughed. She stopped the horse moving, and unexpectedly she flung one leg over its back and sat down on it. She started to rock back and forth. Her dress was caught on the horse's back and had ridden up to expose her leg.

He thought he would go mad with desire for her as she rocked to and fro. The movement had become highly suggestive to him, and he had to turn away. His desire was growing unbearable.

A moment later, Daphne left the horse and joined him near the window. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, "Thank you again, Hugo, for saving Greensleeves."

"It was a good thing I remembered to put on my shoes when I was running out of my bedroom."

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"I was in my slippers when I saw the flames out of the window. I started to run, but stopped to put on my shoes. So when I couldn't get the stall latch open, I used one of my shoes as a hammer," Hugo explained.

Daphne was staring at him, frowning. "Why couldn't you get the latch open? I don't understand."

"Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? There was a piece of wood wedged behind the latch. That's how I burned my fingers, attempting to remove it. The shoe did it, of course, and I was able to get the stall door open and release Greensleeves."

Daphne stood gaping at him. As his words sank in she understood everything. She felt a s.h.i.+ver of fear run through her, and her legs were suddenly weak. She sat down on a chair, shaking her head.

"What's wrong? What is it, Daphne?" Hugo asked, noticing at once the change in her demeanor.

"The latch was a bit loose, but no one ever put a piece of wood there to wedge it, Hugo. I was at the stable on Friday morning to see Greensleeves, and everything was normal." She felt chilled to the bone when she focused on Richard Torbett. He had threatened to kill her mother and Dulcie. And he had tried last night to kill her horse. It was him. She knew it without a question of a doubt. But why? She had not told a soul about his attack on her, nor mentioned his name.

"Don't you feel well?" Hugo pressed worriedly, wondering what was wrong with her. She was pale, appeared to be upset.

Daphne took control of her swimming senses. I must be careful what I say, she cautioned herself. Tell no one. Trust no one. Only the Swanns. Only your parents.

After a moment, she said slowly, "It was arson. I agree with the police. The bale of hay was torched. Whoever it was, they wanted to kill our horses and burn down the stables. Why they targeted Greensleeves I don't know. But they had trapped her in her stall ... obviously the other stalls were bound to ignite swiftly. There is somebody out there who has a grudge against our family."

"I hate to think that, Daphne," Hugo responded, concern written on his face. "I'm afraid I just a.s.sumed the bit of wood had been wedged there as a safety measure, by one of the stable boys."

"No!" she exclaimed. "You know as well as I do that a horse rarely walks out of its stall, even when the door is wide open."

He nodded, offered her his hand. "Perhaps we'd better go, the fresh air will do you good. Also, you must tell your father of your suspicions."

Taking his hand, Daphne stood staring into his face for a moment, and unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears. She said softly, "Thank you for being so understanding, Hugo. I was a little shocked a moment ago, when I realized someone bears us ill will. They do, don't they?"

"Perhaps."

Thirty-one.

Charlotte Swann walked slowly toward the lake at Cavendon. She had set off too early, but it was such a lovely day she had not been able to resist leaving her house in the village.

She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was amazing this afternoon. A clear bright blue, without a cloud, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with sunlight. They had been lucky so far this summer. Rain had been infrequent, the weather glorious. Unusual for Yorks.h.i.+re.

She wondered, as she walked along, why Charles wanted to talk to her, and why he had chosen the gazebo at the edge of the lake as a meeting place. She could only imagine that what he had to discuss was extremely private; certainly n.o.body could hear them talking, unless they were in close vicinity, like under the gazebo floor. This thought brought a smile to her face.

She pushed her hands in the pockets of her pale green silk dress, and continued on at a steady pace, thinking about the clothes Cecily had been designing for Daphne to wear, once the pregnancy began to show. Cecily had been taken into her confidence recently.

She was astounded at Cecily's talent. The suits and dresses were brilliantly clever, and she had soon realized that this was all to do with their construction.

Because Cecily had explained this to her, had shown her various drawings, each of which applied to a single garment, Charlotte had quickly understood how Cecily literally engineered the clothes.

Charlotte had telephoned her cousin, Dorothy Swann, who lived in London, and worked in the fas.h.i.+on department of Fortnum and Mason, on Piccadilly.

Without revealing anything about designing clothes for a pregnant woman, Charlotte had told Dorothy about Cecily, and how amazingly creative and talented the girl was.

"I want to send her to live with you one day," Charlotte had explained. "This one's a winner, Dottie; she will go places. I can guarantee that Cecily Swann will be a designer of great fame one day. World famous, in fact."

Dorothy had listened carefully to every word, and had agreed that once Cecily was old enough to leave Cavendon, she could live with her and her husband, Howard Pinkerton, in London. And she guaranteed a job for Cecily at Fortnum's. She trusted Charlotte's judgment implicitly.

I want her out of here, Charlotte now thought. This place is too beautiful, too comfortable, too easy, too perfect in so many ways. And dangerous. It was the Ingham men, of course. They were irresistible. And fatal.

Miles was only fourteen, but Charlotte had noticed more than ever before just how he looked at Cecily, especially over the past few weeks, since he had been home from Eton. They were rarely apart, and even though DeLacy was usually with them, Miles appeared joined at the hip to Ceci.

I've got to nip that in the bud. She can't be like me. I won't permit that, Charlotte reminded herself, then came to an abrupt stop.

Much to her amazement, Genevra, the gypsy girl, was suddenly in the middle of the path, gazing at her. Where had she sprung from so unexpectedly?

"Genevra! Goodness me! What are you doing here?"

The girl shrugged, smiled. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Charlotte."

"You know very well you're not supposed to come on this part of the estate," Charlotte said in a soft but slightly reprimanding tone.

The Romany remained silent, but stretched out her hand, offered something to Charlotte. She said, "A present."

Fully aware that she could not offend the gypsy, Charlotte took the offered gift and examined it carefully. It appeared to be a piece of bone or ivory. Slender and smooth, it was carved with small crosses on either side of a tiny carved heart. There were small pieces of ribbon tied to it. One was scarlet, the other sky blue.

Charlotte frowned, looked at Genevra intently, and realized, suddenly, how important this offering was to the girl. She said warmly, "Thank you so much, Genevra, I shall treasure it always. Did you make it?"

Genevra nodded. "It's lucky. A charm. Don't lose."

Charlotte put it in her pocket. "I shall keep it safe. I must hurry now, I am late."

"Bluebell woods no good." Genevra shook her head. "Trespa.s.sers prosecuted," she muttered, lifted one hand, moving it, as if writing those words in the air. And then she whirled around and ran off, racing across to the meadows, heading for the Romany wagons far away on the hill.

Staring after her, Charlotte couldn't help wondering about those words. They sounded familiar, and then she instantly remembered. Years ago, the fifth earl had posters made warning exactly that, and they were attached to trees in the bluebell woods and around the estate. Did Genevra mean they should be put back on the trees?

And why had she said the bluebell woods were bad? Oh my G.o.d! Had Genevra seen the attack on Daphne in May? Charlotte shuddered at this awful thought, and walked faster, hurrying to the gazebo, not even stopping to see the swans, as she usually did.

She was the first to arrive. Once inside, she sat down on one of the chairs, catching her breath, and endeavoring to put thoughts of trespa.s.sers out of her head.

Within a few minutes, Charles Ingham stepped into the gazebo, touched her lightly on the shoulder, and sat down opposite her. "h.e.l.lo. I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Charlotte."

"No, you haven't, Charlie. I just got here." She sat back in the chair. "I suspect you wish to speak to me about something really important, very private, something that no one else must hear. Hence the choice of this famous beauty spot."

"You know, you can sound quite pompous at times," he said, obviously amused.

"And so can you," she answered. "I think we picked that up from each other when we were little. Anyway, here we are, so very private in the gazebo, with only the swans to eavesdrop. So, what is all this about?"

Leaning forward across the small bamboo table, Charles said in a serious tone, "Before Hugo left, he came to see me. He told me that he had fallen in love with Daphne. To say that I was flabbergasted is the understatement of the year. In fact, I was speechless for a moment. Then he shocked me further, by saying he wanted my permission to court her, if she was not spoken for already. He explained he had serious intentions. He wants to marry her ... if I didn't have any objections to his courts.h.i.+p of her, that is."

"And what did you say?"