Barbara Bradford - The Cavendon Women

No one had kept her away from Cavendon; she had just not come, and that was of her own volition. She had not been home because she had been in a state of grief for a long time, and she had not wanted anyone to witness it.

Her grief for the person she had loved the most in her entire life was extremely personal, and therefore absolutely private. And since she was not able to talk about it, at least not coherently, there was no one who could give her comfort. Except, perhaps, her father, who was the most compassionate and sympathetic of men.

Brushing away her tears, Diedre sat down at the mahogany desk and immediately felt truly at ease. Her sister DeLacy loved fancy, frilly bedrooms, whilst she had usually had her eye on the best desks at Cavendon, had often rummaged around in the attics, looking for hidden treasures, mostly amongst the fine antiques.

This was a desk she had chosen years ago, and it became her favourite, with its many drawers, little cubbyholes and polished green leather top.

Unexpectedly, a wave of lovely memories washed over her, and she was surrounded by the past for a few moments. The first diary she had kept, when she was a little girl, had been written here, and her first love letter. She had done her homework at this desk, always diligent about such things; gift cards to her family had been written in this spot, along with Christmas and birthday cards.

Funny how she had liked desks so much when she was younger. She still did. She had three in her flat in Kensington. That was another safe haven. Thankfully, she could afford it, because of the trust from Grandfather Malcolm Wallace. Only she and Daphne had been given these trusts, because Grandfather Wallace, their mother’s father, had died before the other daughters were born.

Leaning back in the chair, Diedre let her eyes wander around the room once more. It was light and spacious, and had a lovely oriel window with a window seat. The pale lavender-grey walls and matching silk draperies created a restful feeling; she felt so comfortable here, and secure.

Now she wished she hadn’t been so silly, that she had come to Cavendon more often in the past few years. After all, she had grown up here. She loved every inch of the house and the parkland, not to mention the gardens. The history of this estate was the history of the Inghams, and therefore part of her.

Her father was a little hurt that she had not been home more often in the last few years. She had suddenly become conscious of this earlier today, when she had first arrived and gone to see him in the library. He had said this lightly, but she had caught a hint of sadness in his voice, and then it had passed. He was clever at hiding his feelings, of course. He would have made a good actor, she often thought.

She had pointed out that she had seen him frequently at the Grosvenor Square house; he had laughed, informed her it wasn’t the same thing.

He had obviously been very happy when she’d arrived this afternoon, most amiable and kind. Well, she was his eldest daughter, his first-born girl. As she was leaving he had reminded her there was to be a small gathering, here in the library later, before tea, and that she must be there.

And she would be. And at tea as well. Diedre hoped she could walk Great-Aunt Gwendolyn home, so that she could talk to her, confide her problem. A small sigh escaped her and she bit her lip, the worrying problem suddenly seeming insurmountable as she thought of it again. Her close friend, Alfie Fennell, had recently told her that someone was out to cause trouble for her at the War Office. He didn’t know who this was, or the reason why.

And neither did she. Diedre loved the work she had been doing during the Great War, and had stayed on after the war had ended, remained in the same division. She had gone to work there in 1914, when she’d been twenty-one. Now she was thirty-three, and it was her life. Without it she would be lost.

Alfie’s news had shaken her up, shocked her, and she had found it hard to believe. She didn’t want to be pushed out; she was frightened by the mere idea of this. It would ruin her life – what was left of it, now her one true love was dead and gone.

When she had finally railed at Alfie and demanded he tell her everything he knew, he did so. And it wasn’t much, as it turned out.

His cousin, Johanna Ellsworth, had been the first person to hear the rumour, and she had told Alfie at once, suggested he alert Diedre, inform her of a possible problem. Johanna was well connected and mixed in political circles.

‘But it is only a rumour,’ Alfie had said last week. ‘Rumours don’t mean much, now do they?’

Diedre thought they did mean something, and said so, adding that many people thought there was no smoke without fire.

Now she focused on the word rumour. Who had started it? And why had they? Was it someone with a grudge against her? A competitor? Did she have an enemy inside the War Office? Was it from inside? Or outside? Was someone trying to scare her? If so, why? Part of her job was asking questions, and now she was asking them of herself, racking her brains. Alfie had hinted she was supposed to have made a bad error in judgement.

There was one thing she did know. All of those who ranked above her, the top brass, were truly satisfied with her work. If a rumour had first been started at the War Office, it was obviously coming from a person in the lower ranks.

Diedre felt certain that her great-aunt would be able to help her, because of her connections in the British government. She knew everyone of any importance, and was considered a genuine friend by many, and if anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was Lady Gwendolyn. And a lot of people were indebted to her.

This aside, her aunt and she were very much alike, and were unusually close. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn was willing to listen to her any time, and to give her considered opinion, as well as good advice. Diedre couldn’t wait to confide in her. It would be a great relief just to unburden herself.

Henry Hanson sat in his office in the downstairs quarters of Cavendon Hall. Leaning back in his comfortable desk chair, the butler reread the menu for the dinner to be held on Saturday evening. It had been created, as usual, by Lady Daphne, and it was perfect as far as he was concerned. But then she couldn’t do much wrong in his eyes; she had long been his favourite.

Lady Daphne had chosen vichyssoise to start, and after the cold soup there would be Dover sole with parsley caper sauce. The main course was rack of baby lamb, fresh green peas from their own vegetable garden, and rösti. These were shredded potatoes, fried in hot oil until they became a crisp potato cake, a Swiss dish introduced into the household by Mr Hugo, which everyone enjoyed.

He glanced at the wine list, written by His Lordship earlier today. He smiled to himself. As usual, Lord Mowbray had chosen his own particular favourites, but the Pouilly-Fuissé was a good choice for the fish, and the Pomerol would be perfect with the main course.

The Earl had made a note on the card, suggesting Hanson select the champagne himself. This would be served with the dessert, and he immediately thought of Dom Pérignon, but he would go to the wine cellar later. Perhaps something else might catch his eye.

Rising, Hanson walked over to the window and looked out at the blue sky. It was a lovely day, very sunny, and he hoped the weather would last for the next few days. But, come to think of it, rain wouldn’t dampen anything, he decided. Happiness didn’t get diluted by rain.

Hanson was excited that the Earl had decided to have this family reunion, the first in six years, and delighted he had picked the middle of July.

It smacked of old times, when all was well in the world and they gave the big summer dances, always a hit with everyone in the county. But the county wasn’t invited tomorrow, just the family.