Secrets of Cavendon: A gripping historical saga full of intrigue and drama

‘Hair of the dog,’ he muttered, and tried to smile, but winced, and a small shiver ran through him.

‘Have you been in a fight, Brin?’ she asked, leaning forward, peering at the cut above his eyebrow and the puffiness on one side of his face, her puzzlement apparent.

He shook his head, then closed his eyes, a deep sigh running through him.

Alicia went to the kitchen and prepared the coffee. She then took a fresh loaf of bread out of the bread-bin. After cutting a thick slice, she spread on butter, then peeled a banana and cut this into rounds, laying them on top of the bread. Taking the tray into the living room, she put it on a low table, bent over Bryan and shook him lightly.

‘Drink this coffee. It’ll help a lot, and so will the slice of bread.’

With a bit of an effort he roused himself, and sat up straighter, took several long swallows of the coffee. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember having dinner.’ As he spoke, he reached for the slice of bread.

‘What happened to you last night?’ she asked, sitting down in a chair.

‘Nothing. Lads’ night out – a pub crawl. Too many pubs, I suppose.’ He then ate the remainder of the bread.

She asked, ‘How did you end up at Jake Stafford’s?’

‘Tony Flint and I took him there. He was more the worse for wear than we were. Very drunk. We ended up sleeping on the sofas in his posh drawing room, too tired to drag ourselves home.’

She nodded. ‘Are they both all right?’

‘Dead to the world when I left, but alive.’ A faint smile formed on his mouth, and there was a sudden amused look in his deep green eyes, which, she noticed, were also bloodshot.

‘Sorry … to come here like this, Alsi. But then where else could I go?’

She went over to the sofa and sat down next to him. ‘You did exactly the right thing. I’m not angry, just worried about you.’

‘I’m okay, the coffee helped and the bread.’ He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer.

Instantly she pulled away, grimacing. ‘You stink, Brin. Of stale beer, whisky, smoke and sweat. It’s into the shower for you.’

She jumped up and took hold of his arm firmly. Once again he didn’t resist, just let her manoeuvre him into the bedroom, where she helped him out of his clothes.

When he was finally standing under the shower, she sighed with relief. She had come to realize he wasn’t drunk, just hungover. That in itself was reassuring, but it was out of character for him to be in this kind of dishevelled state. He was so finicky about his appearance and proud of his sartorial elegance. Once the water stopped running, she picked up a large towel and handed it to him as he stepped out of the bath.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured, ‘I do feel better.’

She nodded and went into the bedroom, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost eight. No point in her going back to bed now. Last night she had promised to go over to Charlie’s around eleven o’clock today to read some chapters of his new book, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him.

When she realized Brin was standing behind her, she turned and looked up at him. Alicia was tall at five feet ten, but he was six feet one, broad of chest, a big man, but without an ounce of fat on him. The sunlight now coming in through the window gave a hint of radiance to his blond-reddish hair, and as he drew her towards him his eyes were full of tenderness. She realized the cut over his eyebrow was nothing serious.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said softly against her hair.

‘I can’t,’ she murmured. ‘I promised Charlie I’d help him with a couple of chapters this morning.’

Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed Brin’s cheek. ‘But you ought to get some sleep. Right over there.’ She waved a hand at the bed. ‘You did say you were spending the weekend with me.’

He grinned. ‘You owe me for last night … you skipped out on me, to see your parents for dinner instead of eating with me.’

‘A big mistake.’

His eyes narrowed. He glanced at her swiftly. ‘Problems? Not with Charlie, I hope.’

‘How well you know us. But it wasn’t Charlie’s fault.’ She took hold of Brin’s hand, led him to the bed. ‘Get in, get some sleep, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

FOUR (#ulink_883aefd4-f62f-5558-afd1-8ce3c497a16a)

Cecily Swann Ingham knew that she was facing the greatest crisis of her life.

She was at her wits’ end. For days she had turned over in her mind a thousand thoughts about the immense problems facing her. Cavendon was at its lowest ebb ever, truly on the brink of disaster. She kept thinking that even the lightest breath of wind would blow the house off the edge of the precipice where it teetered dangerously. Gone in a puff. It was that easy. She shivered involuntarily.

Her beloved business, the one constant in her life, her mainstay, was facing financial trouble, and because of that she could not help Miles pay the government taxes and so help save Cavendon. She had managed to do so many times in the past; she could not help him any more. Not now. Sadly.

Every time she had been about to confide in him, tell him the bitter truth, she had lost her nerve. Instead she had simply promised him that she would now do her full and proper duty as the 7th Countess of Mowbray.

She would remain at Cavendon Hall indefinitely; she would not go to London to run her company. She would do that long distance. She would take on the duties her sister-in-law had shouldered. Daphne was gone. Cavendon was now in her keeping.

If Miles had expected her to fight him about this, or quibble, or endeavour to make some sort of compromise, he would soon discover that her acquiescence was genuine, and she would keep her word.

Cecily had agreed to do what he wanted because she was realistic enough to know she had no choice in the matter. This was the family tradition in most stately homes. The Countess ruled. She would do the menus for the meals, and supervise the running of the house. She would turn up for all the activities in Little Skell. She would open the garden fêtes in all three villages, give prizes at the village schools, and take part in Women’s Institute activities.

Once, long ago, Emma Harte had warned her not to sacrifice her marriage on the altar of ambition. ‘Husband first, business second,’ Emma had instructed. ‘And just be glad you have that option. Some women have had to discover, the hard way, that a cash register doesn’t keep your cold bottom warm at night.’ Cecily half smiled to herself as she walked through the park, remembering those wise words.

It was now Wednesday morning and early, not quite seven o’clock. Cecily had crept out of the house, needing to walk, to be in the fresh air, to clear her head. And to think. Miles still did not know of her dilemma, was unaware that she was on a rack, crippled with despair. If nothing else, at least she knew how to push a bright smile onto her face, and look as if everything was all right and under her control.

Glancing around, she couldn’t help thinking how beautiful Cavendon Park looked this morning. The huge spreading trees, centuries old, were full and luxuriant under a sky of palest blue, filled with scudding white clouds. There was no sun this morning, but no sign of rain either, and the northern light was crystal clear.

She grimaced to herself as she walked on, thinking how little the weather mattered to her when she had such immense issues to deal with.

The problem was, she had no solution for anything, and that was so unlike her. For the first time in years her head was totally empty, without inspiration or a game plan.

I’ve completely run out of steam. This terrible thought brought her to a sudden stop. What’s happening to me? It was then she saw the door to the rose garden; pushing it open, she went down the steps, and headed for her preferred garden seat. Sitting down gratefully, she closed her eyes.

The peacefulness enveloped her, the fragrant scent of the late-blooming roses a balm for her weariness. How could it have come to this, she wondered? And knew at once the answer. The war. The war had not only killed off their men, ruined their cities, left their country broke, and the British Empire in disarray, it had destroyed her couture business and even her ready-made line. Clothing had just come off rationing but there was no way back to the pre-war days. Only her accessories were selling, and the White Rose perfume.

Many other businesses, as well as her own, had been affected. Money was short, very tight. People weren’t buying. Yes, the war they had won had left its imprint in more ways than one. The country was ruined.

The loud fluttering sound of many birds rising up into the air caused her to stand. She glanced around. But no one was there, nothing had disturbed them. They had just decided to leave the trees in the park. She wanted to leave. She couldn’t.

Scattered, as they flapped their wings and flew up, they became, within seconds, a true formation, totally aligned, as if directed by a hidden hand. They formed a huge V and remained in position like a squadron, flying towards the grouse moor, balanced, absolutely perfect, every bird in place.

Amazement filled her face. How do they know how to do that, she wondered? Well, it’s inside them perhaps, in their genes. They were born knowing how to form these squadrons and when to fly to warmer climes. How extraordinary nature was.

Born knowing.

Her son David, now twenty, had been born knowing he was the heir, would one day become the 8th Earl of Mowbray. Her son, Miles’s son: part Ingham, part Swann. The two families, united in her children, for the first time carrying that joint bloodline forward under the name of Ingham.

She could not fail him. She must find a way to solve the problems facing her. She had to win. For David, for her son. The future.