Will sat down. “So, the die is cast. All I can say is thank God for Valiant.”
Diedre nodded. She was shocked at Will’s appearance. He looked exhausted and had dark rings under his eyes. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d had a bad night like she had. Her chest tightened. Was he experiencing the same feelings as she?
He said, “You’re staring at me, Diedre. Is something wrong?”
“No, no. You look rather tired, that’s all.”
“I did have a restless night, mostly because of Valiant, and your message from him. Did he want an answer? Am I to be in touch?”
“He never said anything about a response. I believe he thinks you’ll want his information, which you will, won’t you?”
“Of course. Absolutely. He’s invaluable. When I met him in Kiel last year, he muttered something about Germany having to lose the war in order to regain its humanity. He spoke so low I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.”
“You did. I can tell you right now, he’s totally anti-Nazi, and quite a few people know this. That’s the reason I worry about him. And there’s another thing I want to point out to you. When he was serving in the navy, Canaris had a protégé by the name of Reinhard Heydrich. There is a strong possibility he might become a rival, seeking greater power for himself. In my opinion anyway. Let’s keep that in mind, keep Heydrich in our line of vision. He could become a problem, a danger to Valiant.”
William nodded. “I understand he’s a glutton for power. I’ll pass it on. Now, let’s discuss Tony Jenkins.”
“What about him?”
“I think he has to come out. Menzies over at MI6 just told me earlier that the intelligence coming in from Berlin is really bad … Hitler’s on some sort of rampage.”
“Tony indicated that the mood in Berlin is growing more dangerous. He’s going right through to Paris on this upcoming exit. Shall I tell him to keep going?”
“Let’s bring him in now rather than later. Tell him to come home where he’s safe.”
Twenty-nine
Charlotte stood in her upstairs parlor at Cavendon Hall, staring out of the window, smiling with pleasure when she caught sight of the two snow-white swans gliding together across the lake. They looked so elegant, regal even, in the bright August sunlight. It touched her that swans mate for life.
In a very short time she would be going to Harrogate, to see Margaret Howell Johnson. The image of her had hardly left Charlotte’s mind. The physical resemblance to Diedre had been so pronounced it had been unnerving. Once again, she asked herself if Mrs. Johnson could be Lady Gwendolyn’s daughter. She was not certain, not without more information; on the other hand, there was a strong possibility she was indeed Great-Aunt Gwen’s Margaret.
How odd that she had met Mrs. Johnson because of a canning machine for the Women’s Institute, but then no one ever knew what was going to happen. Life makes its own rules, she thought. It was Alice Swann who had first said that to her, and she knew Alice was correct. She had her own favorite saying about life: What is meant to be is meant to be.
Slowly, the swans floated off around the corner of the lake, and disappeared from view. How empty that large sheet of glassy water suddenly looked. Charles had always said that Cavendon wouldn’t be the same without those swans, and also the Swanns. He was right on both counts.
Turning away from the window, she sat down at her desk and checked the list for Sunday afternoon tea. It looked as if everyone would be coming, except for Dulcie and James, who were still in Los Angeles. She was happy Charles would be surrounded by his children and grandchildren; he had been looking forward to this Sunday gathering, and a mingling of Inghams and Swanns.
Her mind strayed to the family history, and she recalled how, over a hundred and eighty years ago, a man called James Swann had become the liegeman of Humphrey Ingham, a clever businessman and trader, who traveled the world buying and selling everything from exotic spices in the West Indies, to gold and diamonds in India. In the process he became immensely rich and powerful, dabbled in politics, and had given back generously to the country of his birth in many different ways. Finally he was honored with a peerage which was gifted by the king along with a tract of land called Mowbray, in his native Yorkshire.
Once he became the Earl of Mowbray, Humphrey had bought up thousands of acres adjoining Mowbray, including the verdant valley called Little Skell which stood on the banks of the river Skell. The valley also had a rich and fertile grouse moor, which Humphrey and James had religiously cultivated over the years. It still flourished today and yielded a selection of game annually.
With the help of his liegeman, James Swann, Humphrey had created three villages: Little Skell, Mowbray, and High Clough. He had built Cavendon Hall, a great stately home, on a hill above Little Skell village, and had thus brought security and a degree of prosperity to the local people living in the three villages.
What a lucky thing it was those two men met, became close friends and associates, Charlotte thought. It was meant to be.
Because of Humphrey Ingham, there would always be swans on the lake at Cavendon, in honor of his dearest friend, James Swann. It was a tradition she loved.
So be it, she murmured to herself. Rising, she picked up her handbag, and went downstairs. Charles had gone with Harry to look at the two allotment fields which the women of the WI had created. They were so proud of them; Charles had deemed it necessary to show an interest. They had worked hard, no doubt about that, and Harry had volunteered to give the earl a guided tour.
Goff opened the car door for her, and she got inside, settled back, her mind centered on Margaret Howell Johnson. Filled with impatience to get to the bottom of it, and discover the truth, Charlotte had telephoned her yesterday to ask if they could borrow the canning machine earlier than arranged. Mrs. Johnson was out at the time, but an hour later one of the salesladies had returned her call. Mrs. Johnson would be happy to see her tomorrow, which was today, Friday, August 19.
If Mrs. Johnson was who Charlotte thought she was, her birthday would be in a week’s time, on Friday, August 26. But it still might not prove to be anything, just a quirky look-alike, and the birth date a coincidence. I need much more information, Charlotte thought, in order to make a positive identification. How to get it? That was the problem.
The only decent idea she had been able to come up with was to invent someone, a woman who once knew Margaret when she was a child, and wanted to know how the lovely little girl had fared in the world. So she had created a person and made a plan. Some might think it a flimsy idea, but she believed it would work. Anyway, what did she have to lose? Also, she was picking up the canning machine for the WI. It wouldn’t be a wasted trip.
But it was, according to Mrs. Johnson, who greeted Charlotte when she arrived at the shop. She was looking most apologetic when she said, “I’m so sorry, your ladyship, but I made an error. My WI ladies are going to be using the machine this weekend. You see, I didn’t know that they had already prepared lots of fruit to can this weekend, and they can’t let it go bad, obviously.” She shook her head, and finished, “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time, your ladyship.” She liked Lady Mowbray, and meant it sincerely.
Although she was taken aback for a split second, Charlotte was determined to spend some time with Mrs. Johnson in order to do a little digging. And so she improvised, when she said, “It’s not really a problem, because I also wanted to look at a cameo brooch I noticed in the window on my last visit. I rather liked it.”
Much to Charlotte’s relief, Mrs. Johnson smiled hugely, and exclaimed, “I’m so relieved you’re not upset, m’lady. Please, come and sit down, and I’ll bring out a selection of other pieces as well. Excuse me for a moment.”
As she walked away, Charlotte thought what a really nice woman she was. Pleasant, well-spoken, genteel, and not a bit pushy like some salespeople were. Margaret Johnson had a warm and welcoming personality, and impeccable manners.
A few minutes later Mrs. Johnson retur
ned, carrying a flat, velvet-lined tray, which she placed on the round table.
“My husband and I found some really beautiful pieces in Italy earlier this year, as well as these brooches. Here they are, and the brooch you liked.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” Charlotte said, and surveyed the pieces on the tray. She picked up the brooch, which she had intended to give to Diedre, but now she wasn’t sure if it was right. Diedre liked dramatic or unusual jewels.
Margaret Johnson, who was clever and astute, saw her hesitation, and said quietly, “I’m not sure if you would be interested, Lady Mowbray, but I bought a wonderful cameo necklace in Paris a few weeks ago. It is an antique and very rare. There is only one of it.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a necklace made of cameos,” Charlotte said, glad to drag out the time with Margaret Johnson, waiting for an opportunity to tell her invented tale. “I would like to see it, please.”
Mrs. Johnson excused herself again, hurried off, and Charlotte sat back, glancing around the shop. It was tastefully designed and decorated, and Charlotte could see that enormous effort and a lot of money had been used to create a comfortable and elegant setting.
A few minutes later Mrs. Johnson returned carrying another flat, velvet-lined tray, which she placed next to the other one on the table.
“This is just beautiful!” Charlotte exclaimed when she saw the necklace. “May I pick it up? Look at it more closely?”
“Of course, Lady Mowbray. Perhaps you would like to try it on.”
“Well, yes, I would, thank you very much.”
“Here, let me put it around your neck and fasten it,” Mrs. Johnson said, then led her over to a mirror.
Looking at herself, Charlotte realized how truly unusual the necklace was, although it wasn’t for her. She was seeking a Christmas present for Diedre, and decided this might be the perfect thing to give her.
“I like it very much,” Charlotte said. “Would you be kind enough to unclasp it for me, please, Mrs. Johnson.”
Once this little task had been accomplished, Charlotte returned to the chair, and again looked at the other cameo pieces, still wondering how to launch into her tale.
She was saved the trouble when Gillian Hunter, the younger of the two saleswomen, came over carrying a photograph and an empty silver frame.
“Excuse me for interrupting, your ladyship, but I do need to speak to Mrs. Johnson for a moment,” Gillian said.
Charlotte nodded, and smiled. “There’s no problem.”
“It’s all right, Gillian, I see what you have in your hands. You’re going to the frame shop, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I think you ought to buy a new frame, Mrs. Johnson, as well as new glass. The frame’s badly dented.” As she spoke, she showed the frame to Mrs. Johnson, and in doing so she dropped the picture.
It fell at Charlotte’s feet, who bent over and picked it up, then exclaimed, “What a beautiful baby! And the christening robe is exquisite.”
Margaret Johnson smiled. “They don’t make christening robes like that anymore, I’m afraid.”
Nodding in agreement, Charlotte asserted, “This is you, isn’t it? And the lady holding you must be your mother.”
“That’s correct.” Looking across at the saleswoman, Mrs. Johnson said, “I think you’re right, Gillian. Please pick something in silver, similar to this.” Turning to Charlotte she said, “May I have the photograph, please, Lady Mowbray? So Gillian can be on her way.”
“Of course. Here I am, clinging to it for some reason.” Charlotte gave the photograph to Gillian.
The saleslady hurried away, and Mrs. Johnson explained, “I knocked it over the other day and broke the glass. Sorry for the interruption, m’lady.”
“Seeing that photograph of you reminds me of something,” Charlotte began. “I have a friend who used to live in Yorkshire many years ago. She seems to think she knew your mother, and you, when you were a baby. Your name happened to come up when I mentioned I had seen a rather unusual cameo in your shop. She’s interested in jewelry.”
Charlotte laughed. “Oddly enough, I was telling her about the canning machine, and then spoke about the shop. She said when she lived in Yorkshire she knew your mother who had a jewelry shop, and that you were the most beautiful baby. She even remembered the christening robe, and she told me she came to your first birthday party, when you were one year old.”
“Goodness, who is she? Imagine someone remembering the robe, and my first birthday. It must have been a really good friend.”
“She said your birthday is the twenty-sixth of August. Is she correct?” Charlotte asked.
“Indeed she is. Please tell me her name, m’lady. You’ve whetted my appetite, and sadly I can’t recall her.”
“Audrey Finch. She was a fashion designer and very much involved in clothes and jewels. From what I understood, she knew you when you were a toddler. Don’t you remember her? A lovely brunette with bright green eyes.”
Margaret Johnson shook her head. “I don’t, to be honest. But that doesn’t mean anything, really. What child could remember so far back? I will be fifty next Friday. It was a long time ago.”
“Indeed it was.”
Margaret Johnson said, “We didn’t live in Harrogate then. My parents had a jewelry shop in York, which is where we lived until I was twenty. They moved because they liked Harrogate, and thought it would be a good place to do business. And when they found this shop they bought it immediately. I met my first husband here, and we married when I was twenty-two. Sadly, he was killed in a car crash when I was twenty-four.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, you were very young to lose your husband,” Charlotte said in a sympathetic voice.
Margaret Johnson simply nodded.
Charlotte went on, after a moment or two, “So Howell isn’t your maiden name?”
Shaking her head, Mrs. Johnson explained, “No, it was Matheson.”
“What a lovely ring that has to it … Margaret Matheson. Your parents picked a lovely first name for you.”
Mrs. Johnson half smiled, and asked, “What else did your friend tell you about me? And my mother?”
“Nothing, actually. She just thought it was such an odd coincidence that I had come to borrow a canning machine for the WI in Little Skell, and that I had met you. She was really positive you were the child she remembered as the most beautiful blond baby she had ever seen.”
“Mrs. Finch could have known my mother in York, and also visited us here, when she still lived in Yorkshire.”
“That’s very possible. Anyway, I would like to buy the cameo necklace, Mrs. Johnson. It’s most unusual.”
“We thought it was. We bought it from an excellent jeweler in Paris, who had purchased it at an auction which featured some important pieces. The necklace belonged to Pauline, Napoleon’s youngest sister, who was the closest to him, you know, very loyal and loving. He may have even given her this necklace, according to the French jeweler.”
“It’s probably rather expensive since it’s such a special treasure,” Charlotte murmured. “But I do love it.”
Mrs. Johnson went over to the counter and found her list of French and Italian purchases. She jotted down the price of the necklace on a piece of paper, went back and handed it to Charlotte.
After glancing at it, Charlotte said, “I’m still going to buy the necklace, Mrs. Johnson, because of its provenance, as well as its beauty. I’m assuming you have all the papers pertaining to the necklace?”
“I do, m’lady, and I will give them to you. It’s most important to have proof of provenance.” There was a moment’s hesitation, before she added, “I’m really happy you’re buying it, m’lady. It is unique, a treasure.”
Charlotte watched Mrs. Johnson placing the necklace in a round worn leather box, and after a moment, she said offhandedly, “Is your mother still alive?”
“Oh goodness me, no,” Mrs. Johnson replied, closing the case. “After my father died she lived for about
five years. But she missed him greatly. They were wonderful parents, brought me up so well, with such love…”
Her voice trailed off, and she got up, carried the leather jewel case to the saleslady and asked her to wrap it.
When Mrs. Johnson returned to the table, she sat down, and, quite unexpectedly, picked up her conversation where she had left off. “I say that because I was adopted. Some adopted children fall into the wrong hands. I was lucky; my parents adored me, made me feel I was their own flesh and blood.”
Charlotte held herself very still. There was a tightness in her chest, and she was unable to speak. Eventually, recouping slightly, she managed to say, “Did they know your birth mother? Did you ever meet her?”
“No, they didn’t. And we never met her. However, what they did know they told me when I was old enough to understand. She was a young woman who became pregnant out of wedlock, and from an excellent family from the gentry, they told me. She was unable to marry my father. She had to give me up. I’m sure you know as well as I do what it was like in those days, the shame of it all.”
“I’m afraid things haven’t changed much,” Charlotte murmured. “People are still extremely bigoted.”
“I do know one thing,” Mrs. Johnson murmured softly. “The young woman who was my birth mother must have loved me very much. The christening robe and other beautiful clothes were packed up in a box for me, came with me from the hospital in Leeds, where my parents went to get me, and took me home with them.”
Charlotte swallowed, and clasped her hands to her lap. They were shaking. She was now quite certain this woman was Lady Gwendolyn’s child. Taking a deep breath, she said slowly, “And did you not ever wonder about your birth mother, Mrs. Johnson? Or want to meet her?”
“Oh yes, I did, and so did my parents, but by the time I was ten, when they first told me I was adopted, the two solicitors involved had died.” She shook her head.
“My parents didn’t know where to begin to look for her, and so we just let it go.” Mrs. Johnson smiled, finished, “You can tell your friend Audrey Finch that the little blond child she knew fared well.”
The Cavendon Luck Page 20