Barbara Bradford - Cavendon Hall

Dorothy Pinkerton, née Swann, cousin of Charlotte and the Swanns. She lives in London and is married to Howard Pinkerton, a Scotland Yard detective.

Mr Henry Hanson, Butler

Mrs Agnes Thwaites, Housekeeper

Mrs Nell Jackson, Cook

Miss Olive Wilson, Lady’s maid to the Countess

Mr Malcolm Smith, Head footman

Mr Gordon Lane, Second footman

Miss Elsie Roland, Head housemaid

Miss Mary Ince, Second housemaid

Miss Peggy Swift, Third housemaid

Miss Polly Wren, Kitchen maid

Mr Stanley Gregg, Chauffeur

Miss Maureen Carlton, the nanny, usually addressed as Nanny or Nan.

Miss Audrey Payne, the governess, usually addressed as Miss Payne. The governess is not at Cavendon in the summer. The children are not in school.

A great stately home such as Cavendon Hall, with thousands of acres of land, and a huge grouse moor, employs many local people. This is its purpose for being, as well as providing a private home for a great family. It offers employment to the local villagers, and also land for local tenant farmers. The villages surrounding Cavendon were built by various earls of Mowbray to provide housing for their workers; churches and schools were also built, as well as post offices and small shops at later dates. The villages around Cavendon are Little Skell, Mowbray and High Clough.

There are a great number of outside workers: a head gamekeeper and five additional gamekeepers; beaters and flankers who work when the grouse season starts. Other outdoor workers include woodsmen, who take care of the surrounding woods for shooting in the lowlands at certain times of the year. The gardens are cared for by a head landscape gardener, and five other gardeners working under him.

The grouse season starts in August, on the Glorious Twelfth, as it is called. It finishes in December. The partridge season begins in September. Duck and wild fowl are shot at this time. Pheasant shooting starts on 1 November and goes on until December. The men who come to shoot at Cavendon are usually aristocrats, and always referred to as the Guns, i.e., the men using the gun.

She is beautiful and therefore to be woo’d;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

William Shakespeare

Honor women: They wreathe and weave

Heavenly roses into earthly life.

Johann von Schiller

Man is the hunter; woman is his game.

Alfred Tennyson

Cecily Swann was excited. She had been given a special task to do by her mother, and she couldn’t wait to start. She hurried along the dirt path, walking towards Cavendon Hall, all sorts of ideas running through her active young mind. She was going to examine some beautiful dresses, looking for flaws; it was an important task, her mother had explained, and only she could do it.

She did not want to be late, and increased her pace. She had been told to be there at ten o’clock sharp, and ten o’clock it would be.

Her mother, Alice Swann, often pointed out that punctuality might easily be her middle name, and this was always said with a degree of admiration. Alice took great pride in her daughter, and was aware of certain unique talents she possessed.

Although Cecily was only twelve, she seemed much older in some ways, and capable, with an unusual sense of responsibility. Everyone considered her to be rather grown up, more so than most girls of her age, and reliable.

Lifting her eyes, Cecily looked up the slope ahead of her. Towering on top of the hill was Cavendon, one of the greatest stately homes in England and something of a masterpiece.

After Humphrey Ingham, the 1st Earl of Mowbray, had purchased thousands of acres in the Yorkshire Dales, he had commissioned two extraordinary architects to design the house: John Carr of York, and the famous Robert Adam.

It was finished in 1761. Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown then created the landscaped gardens, which were ornate and beautiful, and had remained intact to this day. Close to the house was a manmade ornamental lake, and there were water gardens at the back of the house.

Cecily had been going to the hall since she was a small child, and to her it was the most beautiful place in the world. She knew every inch of it, as did her father, Walter Swann. Her father was valet to the Earl, just as his father had been before him, and his great-uncle Henry before that.

The Swanns of Little Skell village had been working at the big house for over one hundred and sixty years, generations of them, ever since the days of the 1st Earl in the eighteenth century. The two families were closely intertwined and bound together; the Swanns had many privileges, and were exceedingly loyal to the Inghams. Walter always said he’d take a bullet for the Earl, and meant it sincerely.

Hurrying along, preoccupied with her thoughts, Cecily was suddenly startled and stopped abruptly. A figure had jumped out onto the path in front of her, giving her a shock. Then she saw at once that it was the young gypsy woman called Genevra, who often lurked around these parts.

The Romany stood in the middle of the path, grinning hugely, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes sparkling.

‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ Cecily exclaimed, stepping sideways swiftly. ‘You startled me. Where did you spring from, Genevra?’

‘Yonder,’ the gypsy answered, waving her arm towards the long meadow. ‘I see yer coming, liddle Cecily. I wus behind t’wall.’

‘I have to get on. I don’t want to be late,’ Cecily said in a cool, dismissive voice. She tried to step around the young woman without success.

The gypsy dodged about, blocked her way, muttering, ‘Aye. Yer bound for that owld ’ouse up yonder. Gimme yer ’and and I’ll tell yer fortune.’

‘I can’t cross your palm with silver, I don’t even have a ha’penny,’ Cecily said.

‘I doan want yer money, and I’ve no need to see yer ’and, I knows all about yer.’

Cecily frowned. ‘I don’t understand …’ She let her voice drift off, impatient to be on her way, not wanting to waste any more time with the gypsy.

Genevra was silent, but she threw Cecily a curious look, then turned, stared up at Cavendon. Its many windows were glittering and the pale stone walls shone like polished marble in the clear northern light on this bright May morning. In fact, the entire house appeared to have a sheen.

The Romany knew this was an illusion created by the sunlight. Still, Cavendon did have a special aura about it. She had always been aware of that. For a moment she remained standing perfectly still, lost in thought, gazing at Cavendon … she had the gift, the gift of sight. And she saw the future. Not wanting to be burdened with this sudden knowledge, she closed her eyes, shutting it all out.

Eventually the gypsy swung back to face Cecily, blinking in the light. She stared at the twelve-year-old for the longest moment, her eyes narrowing, her expression serious.

Cecily was acutely aware of the gypsy’s fixed scrutiny, and said, ‘Why are you looking at me like that? What’s the matter?’

‘Nowt,’ the gypsy muttered. ‘Nowt’s wrong, liddle Cecily.’ Genevra bent down, picked up a long twig, began to scratch in the dirt. She drew a square, and then above the square she made the shape of a bird, then glanced at Cecily pointedly.

‘What do they mean?’ the child asked.

‘Nowt.’ Genevra threw the twig down, her black eyes soulful. And in a flash, her strange, enigmatic mood vanished. She began to laugh, and danced across towards the dry-stone wall.