The Cavendon Luck

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  * * *

  Eric and Laura Swann were standing on the doorstep of the house in South Street when they came down the street, obviously anxious about Cecily being outside. Eric ran to her at once to see if she needed help, but instantly saw she was being well looked after.

  After thanking the ARP warden, they went inside, and Alicia led Cecily to a chair in the entrance hall.

  “I so hope you’re not hurt,” Hugo said, looking worried and guilty. “I shouldn’t have made you run like that.”

  “It’s all right, Hugo,” Cecily answered in a tight voice. “I’m fine. No broken bones.” And no miscarriage, I hope, she thought. She was genuinely annoyed with him, but she had learned long ago that anger was a waste of time. It did nothing but upset her and interfered with her work.

  Laura Swann, who was still the housekeeper at South Street, said she would go and make a cup of tea, and Eric, the butler, excused himself and followed his sister to the kitchen.

  Taking charge in her firm and confident way, Alicia said, “I’ll help Cecily upstairs, Daddy. See you shortly.”

  Once they were in Cecily’s bedroom, Alicia slipped off her Red Cross cape, and helped Cecily to get undressed. Earlier, when they were walking down the street, she had noticed that Cecily held her stomach protectively at one moment. Now she said, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  “Nobody knows. Miles and I haven’t mentioned it to the family yet. So keep it between us. I hope the baby hasn’t been hurt.”

  “I’m sure the baby is safe. I noticed you had fallen on your side. By the way, you don’t show at all. What are you? Three months?”

  “Just over. Could you bring me a nightgown, please, Alicia? There are some hanging in the wardrobe over there.”

  Once she was in bed and feeling more relaxed, Cecily said, “Thank you, Alicia. You’ve helped me a lot and I can’t tell you what a relief it was when I heard your voice.”

  “I’m glad I was on my way home. I can’t imagine how Mr. Clewes and my father would’ve manhandled you. Men do mean well, but they’re rather dumb about a lot of things.”

  Cecily couldn’t help laughing and she reached out her arms to Alicia, who bent over the bed and held her close. “Don’t worry about the baby. Everything’s fine, I’m sure.”

  As it turned out, it was.

  * * *

  Diedre looked up as the door of her office opened and William walked in. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and said, “Operation Sea Lion. The Germans’ code name for the invasion of Great Britain.”

  “How did you find that out?” she asked, sitting up alertly in the chair.

  “I just hung up with C at MI6. He had the answer about a week ago, but he wanted to do some more checking to be certain. Now it’s confirmed. The PM knows. And Menzies wanted us to know. Yep, Operation Sea Lion. Valiant was right; he was warning us.”

  “But the invasion’s begun … we’re in the middle of the Battle of Britain, aren’t we?”

  “Up in the skies, yes. It’s air warfare. I think C believes Operation Sea Lion means an invasion by land. He thinks they’ll start by bombing the hell out of us, our towns and cities, and not just airfields and munition factories as they are doing now. He’s talking about the Wehrmacht crossing the Channel and conquering us on land. But I know we’ve really been at it on the coastlines. There are reinforcements everywhere. And remember, we do have something called radar. The Germans don’t have that, and, by God, radar does protect us, because it detects everything that’s moving.”

  “I know Churchill’s still on Beaverbrook’s back about more planes, and on everyone else’s about strengthening the coastlines.” She smiled slowly, and said, “Remember that message you got last week?”

  “No German boot will walk on English soil? Or something like that. That’s surely the one you mean, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is, and it came from a contact in Spain.”

  “Via Spain. From Canaris,” William corrected her and walked across the room. He sat down in the chair opposite her desk. “I trust him implicitly. He knows what he’s doing to help us. He wants to do it.”

  When she was silent, he asked, “What is it? You looked troubled.”

  “I wish I knew that somebody had his back.”

  “I think C might have his back. Or let me put it this way, MI6 more than likely has his back.”

  “Your words make me feel better.”

  “Come on, let’s go for a stroll in Green Park and have a bit of lunch. It’s such a beautiful day. I can’t believe the weather lately. Utterly perfect and the whole world in chaos, or about to be.”

  Fifty-three

  The weather was incomparable. For several weeks now the sun had been shining all day, every day. The skies were a radiant blue and unblemished. Not a cloud. Not a drop of rain. Faultless, in a faulty world, Dulcie added to herself, as she walked out of her building, heading for Harte’s department store in Knightsbridge.

  They had a good food department, and still managed to stock quite a few staples, such as their famous pork and game pies, chicken pies, and various baked hams. But she had begun to notice they were now having shortages like most food shops. Because Rosalind, Juliet, and Henry were living at Cavendon for the duration of the war, she had their ration books, which meant extra coupons to use when she and James were in London.

  Dulcie glanced around as she walked. She loved London, and couldn’t help thinking how cheerful and positive the Londoners were. Crossing Eaton Square, where they now lived, she nodded to one of the charladies she knew by sight, and waved to her window cleaner who covered the entire square, and cleaned their windows. He waved back, then dashed over to her. “Wot a day, m’lady,” he said, grinning. “Wot a summer we’re ’aving. Ain’t seen a summer like this afore. If we dint ’ave Nazis in it, we’d be livin’ in a perfect world.”

  Dulcie laughed. “You’re absolutely right about that, Eddie. But we’ll beat them, though, you’ll see.”

  “I knows we will. They don’t know wot they’ve bargained for, teking us on.”

  “I agree.”

  He saluted her as he always did, threw her his cheeky grin, and dashed back to his little van.

  Eddie was a Cockney, born within the sound of Bow Bells, and as patriotic and cheerful as they come. But these Londoners she ran into every day were all made of the same good stuff. The postman, the ARP warden, the man who ran their local Home Guard, the bobbies on the beat, the newsboys with the papers—they just went on doggedly, laughing and joking, determined not to let anything or anyone get them down. It was the spirit of survival that kept them going … kept them all going. It was a British trait that nobody could knock out of them.

  She finally reached Harte’s, bought a game pie and a pork pie, paid, gave her coupons, and left. Dulcie then went around the corner to her butcher, who smiled when he saw her come into his shop. For once there was no queue, and it was empty.

  “Morning, Lady Brentwood,” the butcher said. “I have something for you.” He glanced at the door swiftly, disappeared into the back room, and came out with a wrapped package. “I kept these chops for you. I got a bit of lamb in yesterday, and I know Sir James likes his lamb.”

  “Why, thank you so much, Mr. Westin. That’s so kind of you,” Dulcie replied, and took out her ration books. “I hope I have enough coupons for lamb chops.” She handed the two books to him.

  The butcher nodded, smiled, and took out the coupons, handed her the package. After paying, she smiled and whispered, “Whenever my husband is in a new play, I’ll be sure to have two tickets for you and Mrs. Westin. House seats.”

  A big smile settled on the butcher’s face. “Are some theaters going to be opening up again soon?” he asked, sounding excited.

  Dulcie grimaced. “Not to my knowledge. They’re staying closed, and the cinemas, too, as you know. Everything is closed. Including my art gallery. Any public places where people gather.”

  “I suppose it’s for
our safety, but I gotta say London’s a bit dreary at night, especially with the blackout. It’s a dark city now.”

  “I know what you mean. However, blackout curtains are truly necessary. The prime minister doesn’t want a chink of light to show through any window. Because of night bombing.”

  “Thank God Mr. Churchill’s leading the country,” the butcher exclaimed. And then he said good-bye to her as three customers came into the shop and he turned to greet the women holding their ration books.

  On the way home to Eaton Square, Dulcie’s thoughts went to the theater, and to James, who had been morose for months. Mostly because he had nothing to do. He had been making propaganda films for the government, the Ministry of Information, because there were no theatrical productions of any kind. Not on the stage or on the screen.

  It was she who had come up with an idea that not only pleased him enormously, but actually worked. She had suggested he start a little group using actors and actresses he knew, and put on plays to entertain the troops.

  “You could call it ‘The Troupe for Troops,’” she had suggested, almost jokingly. But James had loved the name, and the idea, and when she had insisted he talk to Edward Glendenning, Paloma’s father, he had gone to the phone at once.

  Within a few weeks they had created the troupe and had decided to do variety shows rather than dramatic plays. And for two reasons: The first was the length of a play. The second, mentioned by Edward, was that the troops wanted to be entertained, wanted to laugh at comedians, hear popular singers like Vera Lynn.

  Felix Lambert had helped, as had his wife, Constance, and in no time at all they would be ready to “go on the road,” as James called it.

  “Our little repertoire company will be going to Catterick Camp first,” James had told her last week. “So I’ll be at Cavendon with you for a few days, and Edward can stay with Paloma.”

  Dulcie hated it when James was discontented. They had the best relationship, a good marriage, and rarely bickered or quarreled. But there was nothing worse than a man with nothing to do, with time on his hands. Daphne and Cecily had been impressed that she had come up with the idea of the acting group.

  As she approached Eaton Square the air raid sirens began to scream and she ran, although she was a bit impeded by the shopping bag. Dulcie made it to their flat in no time at all, and grabbed the ringing phone as she rushed into the hall.

  It was James. “You made it home, darling.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Where are you? At the rehearsal hall?”

  “Yes. But we’re going to the basement. It’s a proper air raid shelter down there. See you later. Oh, and do we have enough to eat if I bring Edward home with me?”

  “Yes, of course. Guess what? The butcher got a bit of lamb in yesterday and he kept me some chops, because he knows you like them.”

  “All I can say is thank God Henry is at Cavendon. Because if he were at home, you’d have to give them away.” He chuckled. “I love you. See you tonight.”

  “Love you, too,” she said, and they hung up.

  Dulcie carried the shopping bag to the kitchen where Mrs. Pearl was waiting for her. Dulcie handed her the bag and said, “Should we go down to the basement, do you think?”

  The housekeeper shrugged and then chortled. “I don’t think it’s necessary, your ladyship. I mean, the Jerries are not going to drop bombs on London. They’re going to do what they’ve been doing, hitting the munition factories. But if you want, I’ll go with you.”

  “Oh let’s forget it,” Dulcie replied. “I agree with you. Oh and we’ll be one extra for supper tonight, Mrs. P. Mr. Edward Glendenning will be joining us.”

  * * *

  The post had arrived in her absence, and Dulcie went to open it in her small den. As she sat slitting envelopes with the silver paper knife, she suddenly began to laugh thinking of their son Henry. He was now eight and, although he looked a lot like his father, he had her personality and the same flair for the English language as she did.

  She was laughing because James’s comment had reminded her of Henry’s confrontation with Miles earlier this year. One of their Land Army girls had persuaded Miles to buy a flock of sheep. The main point was that their lambs could feed them, and therefore save food coupons.

  Miles had seen the sense of this, and one day the family was surprised to see sheep wandering around in two of the fields. Miles understood that the sheep could not go near the grouse moors; they had been penned in near the Romany wagons.

  Unbeknown to anyone except Genevra, Henry loved one of the sheep, which she had helped to establish was “a girl sheep,” as Henry called it. He had named her Ophelia and came to pet Ophelia every day. He had even tied a pink ribbon around the ewe’s neck, although he did not need a ribbon to recognize her. She was the smallest of the flock.

  Unfortunately, Henry had overheard a conversation between the Land Army girl and Miles, who were discussing where to have sheep slaughtered when that was necessary.

  Later that day Henry had marched up to Miles and said it was wrong, a bad thing to do. He suggested that Miles should shoot his dog instead if he was hungry.

  The boy had been so inflamed Miles had instantly given in. He promised that none of the sheep would be harmed.

  To Dulcie he had said that Henry had inherited her volatility, and her outrageous tongue. She and James had laughed privately, but Henry was so attached to the animal James had made Miles promise not to harm Ophelia.

  “I won’t,” Miles had promised. “I’ll just keep killing off a sheep and replacing it with another one because Henry counts them every day. So he knows there are eight.”

  “And so does Genevra,” Dulcie had reminded her brother. The ringing phone interrupted her thoughts. It was DeLacy, who said, “I want to tell you about my solution for the art. Oh dash, that’s the all clear going off.”

  “I’ll hang on,” Dulcie answered.

  In a short while the all clear ended and they were having their conversation. And they confirmed that they would both be at Cavendon for their usual Saturday morning meeting. “We’ve a lot of problems to solve,” Dulcie added.

  Fifty-four

  For many years the Four Dees and Cecily had met in the conservatory every Saturday when they were at Cavendon. Since Harry’s marriage to Paloma, they had become six, because she had accepted at once when they asked her if she would like to join their team.

  On this particular Saturday in late July, they had gathered for coffee to review the situation on the estate and discuss any problems that might have developed.

  Dulcie said that she and DeLacy had one major problem, although they felt they probably had the solution. She explained, “Before Hanson retired, he had wooden crates made in which to slide the family paintings. Ted Swann and his team made quite a few, and the paintings were put in them. About six months ago before war was declared. And then they went down to storage in the basement. The rest were wrapped in heavy quilted cloth sheets and also put in the vaults. DeLacy and I check the wooden crates all the time to make sure the art is in good shape. Recently, just two weeks ago, we decided to take the paintings out of the crates because they felt warm. One or two canvases even felt damp. So perhaps the crates are not needed.”

  Paloma was the first to comment, when she said, “The wooden crates might well have made the paintings sweat. Anyway, you did the right thing, in my opinion.”

  “I know you studied art history, as I did,” DeLacy ventured. “So I wonder if you agree with me … I think the paintings should be simply stacked against the walls in the vaults. That would mean they are in similar conditions to those of the house itself up here.”

  “That’s probably the best solution,” Paloma agreed. “But you ought to compare the temperature in Cavendon Hall to the temperature in the vaults. Also, sometimes it is a good idea to install air-conditioning for coolness. Do you have electricity down there? I mean, can you plug in an air-conditioning unit?”

  “Oh yes, we can,” Daphne inte
rjected. “I’ve always been glad electricity was put in years ago.”

  Dulcie said, “The paintings which belong to my art gallery were simply placed against walls, in one of the other vaults, and they are fine.”

  “Do let’s double-check everything,” DeLacy said to Paloma, who nodded her agreement.

  Diedre looked over at Daphne and smiled. “I’m glad you agreed to let Susie Jackson go. There’s no point trying to persuade someone to stay when they’re itching to go off to fight in the war. You’re bound to lose in the end.”

  “She was so gung ho about it,” Daphne explained. “I finally gave in. I don’t quite see Susie working in a munitions factory, but then it is her life. And anyway, Cecily found us a new cook within a couple of days.”

  “A lot of people want to get out of London, because they’re fearful of being killed in the air raids,” Cecily said. “Eric has a friend whose daughter is a chef. Her name is Meggie Trader, and she jumped at the job.”

  “Meggie came up to Yorkshire and cooked several meals for us,” Daphne explained. “Last week. Papa and Charlotte enjoyed the things she made, so no problem there. Charlotte offered her the job the other day. She’s here for the next few days to cook for us all. Then she’ll go to London to get her things. She’s on board.”

  “I’m looking forward to tasting her specialties,” Diedre said, then changed the subject. “I would like to address something else. I think we should have an ARP warden in each of the villages. I know everyone knows what to do, go down into their cellars or into their air raid shelters. However, I think there should be a man in charge in each village, a person everyone can go to. The other point is, I’d like to see a first-aid station created, with someone trained in nursing in charge. For emergencies.”

  “Do you think we might be bombed?” Daphne asked, frowning. “Why would they bomb the country? Why kill cows?”

  “I’m so happy you didn’t mention lambs,” Dulcie murmured, gazing at her sister, faking a look of sadness.

  Daphne laughed. “Oh yes. Goodness me, Ophelia. I’d forgotten for a moment.”