Barbara Bradford - Cavendon Hall

Placing both hands on the wall, she threw her legs up in the air, cartwheeled over it and landed on her feet in the field beyond.

After she had adjusted the red bandana tied around her dark curls, she skipped down the long meadow and disappeared behind a copse of trees. Her laughter echoed across the stillness of the fields, even though she was no longer in sight.

Cecily shook her head, baffled by the gypsy’s odd behaviour, and bit her lip. Then she quickly scuffled her feet in the dirt, obliterating the gypsy’s symbols, and continued up the slope.

She’s always been strange, Cecily muttered under her breath, as she walked on. She knew that Genevra lived with her family in one of the two painted Romany wagons, which stood on the far side of the bluebell woods, way beyond the long meadow. She also knew that the Romany tribe was not trespassing.

It was the Earl of Mowbray’s land where they were camped, and he had given them permission to stay there in the warm weather. They always vanished in the winter months; where they went, nobody knew.

The Romany family had been coming to Cavendon for a long time. It was Miles who had told her that. He was the Earl’s second son, had confided that he didn’t know why his father was so nice to the gypsies. Miles was fourteen; he and his sister DeLacy were her best friends.

The dirt path through the fields led directly from Little Skell village to the back yard of Cavendon Hall. Cecily was running across the cobblestones of the yard when the clock in the stable-block tower began to strike the hour. It was exactly ten o’clock and she was not late.

Cook’s cheerful Yorkshire voice was echoing through the back door as Cecily stood for a moment, catching her breath, and listening.

‘Don’t stand there gawping like a sucking duck, Polly,’ Cook was exclaiming to the kitchen maid. ‘And for goodness’ sake, push the metal spoon into the flour jar before you add the lid. Otherwise we’re bound to get weevils in the flour!’

‘Yes, Cook,’ Polly muttered.

Cecily smiled to herself. She knew the reprimand didn’t mean much. Her father said Cook’s bark was worse than her bite, and this was true. Cook was a good soul, motherly at heart.

Turning the door-knob, Cecily went into the kitchen, to be greeted by great wafts of steam, warm air, and the most delicious smells emanating from the bubbling pans. Cook was already preparing lunch for the family.

Swinging around at the sound of the door opening, Cook smiled broadly when she saw Cecily entering her domain. ‘Hello, luv,’ she said in a welcoming way. Everyone knew that Cecily was her favourite; she made no bones about that.

‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,’ Cecily answered and glanced at the kitchen maid. ‘Hello, Polly.’

Polly nodded, and retreated into a corner, as usual shy and awkward when addressed by Cecily.

‘Mam sent me to help with the frocks for Lady Daphne,’ Cecily explained.

‘Aye, I knows that. So go on then, luv, get along with yer. Lady DeLacy is waiting upstairs for yer. I understand she’s going to be yer assistant.’ As she spoke, Cook chuckled and winked at Cecily conspiratorially.

Cecily laughed. ‘Mam will be here about eleven.’

The cook nodded. ‘Yer’ll both be having lunch down here with us. And yer father. A special treat.’

‘That’ll be nice, Mrs Jackson.’ Cecily continued across the kitchen, heading for the back stairs that led to the upper floors of the great house.

Nell Jackson watched her go, her eyes narrowing slightly. The twelve-year-old girl was lovely. Suddenly, she saw in that innocent young face the woman she would become. A real beauty. And a true Swann. No mistaking where she came from, with those high cheekbones, ivory complexion and the lavender eyes … Pale, smoky, bluish-grey eyes. The Swann trademark. And then there was that abundant hair. Thick, luxuriant, russet-brown, shot through with reddish lights. She’ll be the spitting image of Charlotte when she grows up, Cook thought, and sighed to herself. What a wasted life she’d had, Charlotte Swann. She could have gone far, no two ways about that. I hope the girl doesn’t stay here, like her aunt did, Nell now thought, turning around, stirring one of her pots. Run, Cecily, run. Run for your life. And don’t look back. Save yourself.

The library at Cavendon was a beautifully proportioned room. It had two walls of high-soaring mahogany bookshelves, reaching up to meet a gilded coffered ceiling painted with flora and fauna in brilliant colours. A series of tall windows faced the long terrace that stretched the length of the house. At each end of the window wall were French doors.

Even though it was May, and a sunny day, there was a fire burning in the grate, as there usually was all year round. Charles Ingham, the 6th Earl of Mowbray, was merely following the custom set by his grandfather and father before him. Both men had insisted on a fire in the room, whatever the weather. Charles fully understood why. The library was the coldest room at Cavendon, even in the summer months, and this was a peculiarity no one had ever been able to fathom.

This morning, as he came into the library and walked directly towards the fireplace, he noticed that a George Stubbs painting of a horse was slightly lopsided. He went over to straighten it. Then he picked up the poker and jabbed at the logs in the grate. Sparks flew upwards, the logs crackled, and after jabbing hard at them once more, he returned the poker to the stand.

Charles stood for a moment in front of the fire, his hand resting on the mantelpiece, caught up in his thoughts. His wife Felicity had just left to visit her sister in Harrogate, and he wondered again why he had not insisted on accompanying her. Because she didn’t want you to go, an internal voice reminded him. Accept that.

Felicity had taken their eldest daughter Diedre with her. ‘Anne will be more at ease, Charles. If you come, she will feel obliged to entertain you properly, and that will be an effort for her,’ Felicity had explained at breakfast.

He had given in to her, as he so often did these days. But then his wife always made sense. He sighed to himself, his thoughts focused on his sister-in-law. She had been ill for some time, and they had been worried about her; seemingly she had good news to impart today, and had invited her sister to lunch to share it.

Turning away from the fireplace, Charles walked across the Persian carpet, making for the antique Georgian partners’ desk, and sat down in the chair behind it.

Thoughts of Anne’s illness lingered, and then he reminded himself how practical and down-to-earth Diedre was. This was reassuring. It struck him that at twenty Diedre was probably the most sensible of his children. Guy, his heir, was twenty-two, and a relatively reliable young man, but unfortunately he had a wild streak that sometimes reared up. It worried Charles.

Miles, of course, was the brains in the family; he had something of an intellectual bent, even though he was only fourteen, and artistic. He never worried about Miles. He was utterly loyal: true blue.

And then there were his other three daughters. Daphne, at seventeen, the great beauty of the family. A pure English rose, with looks to break any man’s heart. He had grand ambitions for his Daphne. He would arrange a great marriage for her. A duke’s son, nothing less.

Her sister DeLacy was the most fun, if he was truthful; quite a mischievous twelve-year-old. Charles was aware she had to grow up a bit, and unexpectedly a warm smile touched his mouth. DeLacy always managed to make him laugh, and entertained him with her comical antics. His last child, five-year-old Dulcie, was adorable; much to his astonishment, she was already a person in her own right, with a mind of her own.