The Cavendon Luck

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  As they walked carefully through the rubble, James said to Miles and the others, “By God, but they’re strong and courageous. I don’t mind telling you I’m proud to be English when I see this lot.”

  Suddenly, Ruby exclaimed, “Oh look, James … Dulcie. Over there. Isn’t that Mr. Churchill? I recognize his big hat and his cigar.”

  “Indeed it is,” James answered. People were cheering Winston, clapping, showing their appreciation. James said, “Let’s go over and do a bit of cheering ourselves. That man needs our support today.”

  As they joined the throng, Diedre, sharp as always, noticed that Winston Churchill had tears in his eyes when he spoke to the crowds surrounding him. He spoke with a certain gentleness that was unique, and as always his words were inspiring. Diedre felt herself choking up. She knew he truly understood what this terrible devastation and destruction meant to these Londoners. And she believed he shared their hurt, suffered with them.

  No wonder he was retaliating by bombing Berlin relentlessly. She recognized that it was nonstop warfare ahead of them and for a long time. But what else could Churchill do but defend his people? Not only with the RAF and their bombs, the Royal Navy and the army, but with his words as well. He gave them courage and hope with his uplifting speeches, and he did it better than anyone.

  William put his arm around her and held her close. “He’s the most amazing man, isn’t he?” he whispered against her hair. Diedre could only nod.

  Suddenly her head came up when she heard James bellowing, “Sid! Sid! We’re over here!”

  A moment or two later, James’s dresser, a full-blown Cockney because he had been born within the sound of Bow Bells like James himself, was running across the rubble. He kept tripping, stumbling, and falling down, but he picked himself up again and again. And he ran on until James was hugging him close, flooded with relief.

  “Thank goodness you’re all right, Sid.” James laughed, and added, with a wink, “You’re very necessary in my life. I can’t do without you.”

  “Yer dint ’ave ter tell me that. I knows it,” Sid muttered, but he looked pleased.

  * * *

  Once the food had been distributed James’s group began to slowly return to the buses. Unexpectedly, they were stopped by a line of policemen.

  Within minutes they understood why. The police were making way for a large black car out of which stepped Queen Elizabeth and King George VI.

  The crowds went mad, cheering them with all of their hearts.

  Their king and queen walked among them, talking to them, showing their concern and their understanding of their terrible plight. And it was quite a sight to behold. The queen was dressed in one of her beautiful pastel outfits, the king in his Royal Navy uniform. These Londoners stood taller, looked proud because they understood that they mattered to this royal couple, who walked in the rubble and dust to comfort them.

  * * *

  The Blitz had begun.

  Everyone understood it would not end for some time. And it did not. The bombings went on for months and the British people realized that it would be their lot to live with the Luftwaffe raids. The casualties had been heavy already. Thousands and thousands died, both civilians and their fighting military. The Second World War would last longer than any of them had ever imagined.

  STANDING TALL

  Bring me my bow of burning gold!

  Bring me my arrows of desire!

  Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

  Bring me my chariot of fire!

  I will not cease from Mental Fight,

  Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,

  Till we have built Jerusalem,

  In England’s green and pleasant Land.

  —William Blake, from the hymn “Jerusalem”

  Sixty

  The Cavendon Luck ebbs and flows. Cecily looked at the words she had just written in her private notebook, and nodded to herself. She liked the phrase. Genevra had said it to her yesterday, when she had dropped in to see her, after visiting her mother in Little Skell village.

  “The little one is the luck,” Genevra had then muttered. “She has all the luck in the world … treasure her. She’s a blessed child … an old soul.”

  Cecily had always listened to Genevra, paid attention to everything the Romany woman had said to her over the years. And she had never found her to be wrong.

  Turning her head slightly, Cecily looked at the child sitting at the small desk near the fireplace. Her burnished brown hair with its russet tints gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Her head was bent as she concentrated on her drawing, her crayon held tightly in her hand. Not only did the child look like her, she had inherited her power of concentration and some of her other traits as well. But she was like Miles in certain ways, a little stubborn but as warm and loving as her father, and as good-natured as he was.

  It was her birthday today. Later this afternoon she would have her party with her cousins in the yellow sitting room. It was January 24, 1944, and she was three years old.

  How was that possible? The years had gone so swiftly. Good times, bad times; still, the family had survived. So far. And they had taken everything in their stride.

  Only the other day, Dulcie had said they must be made of iron. Cecily had laughed, and retorted that she preferred to think of them as being cut from shining steel.

  Turning the pages of her notebook bound in blue leather, Cecily searched for earlier years, her eyes lingering on them. The book was not a diary or an engagement book. It had plain white paper to be written on whenever she had something special she wanted to remember, things that were important to her. Meaningful.

  Staring her in the face was the date she had written in on one very happy occasion. Saturday, December 21, 1940. She smiled when she saw the notation: Charlie came home today with two legs.

  It was true, he had. No one had expected him. It was a surprise for Daphne and Hugo. She and Miles had known because Charlie had phoned her at the shop in the Burlington Arcade. He had told her he was going to be at Chapel Allerton Hospital, just outside Leeds, for a week, then he would be released. The hospital was renowned for its work with disabled men, and especially amputees who had been wounded in the war. She and Miles had arranged with Winston Harte to go and pick up Charlie, because he was so well-known at the hospital. Also, Emma wanted Charlie to become acquainted with Winston. A clever woman, she foresaw that Charlie might need advice or help at some point in the next few months.

  Sitting back in the chair, Cecily closed her eyes. She could recall that day easily. It had been a Saturday afternoon, just before Christmas, and she and Daphne had been hanging ornaments on the Christmas tree in the blue sitting room. They usually decorated the big fir tree over several days because it stood very high.

  There had been a moment of quiet. They had both been concentrating on their selections of ornaments when a familiar voice said, “Hello, Mother. Here I am at last.”

  Daphne had instantly dropped the ornament she was holding, and swung around, a startled look of surprise on her face.

  “Charlie!” She gasped when she saw him. “Charlie, it’s you.” She was about to move toward him, but Cecily had held her back. “Let him come to you, so you can see him walk,” Cecily had whispered.

  Daphne had done exactly that, and they had stood together watching him walk forward, tall, straight as an arrow, with only the slightest limp visible. He was wearing the dress uniform of the Coldstream Guards and Cecily thought he looked astonishing. He was twenty-three and looked very young. His face showed no signs of damage or suffering. He was as handsome as he had always been. There was a dignity and an elegance about him as he walked toward his mother without faltering.

  Miles walked in after him, grinning from ear to ear, and it had been quite a homecoming, and certainly it was the best Christmas they had had in a long time. Everyone in the family was very proud of Charlie, most especially his parents. He now had a job on the Daily Mail, where he edited one of the special secti
ons on the continuing war. In her will, Great-Aunt Gwen had left her flat in London to her nephew, the earl, who had given it to his grandson Charlie. Charles and Charlotte rarely visited London these days, and it had been standing empty ever since Lady Gwendolyn’s death.

  Death. Too many deaths, Cecily thought, sitting up, leafing through the notebook. There had been several since their matriarch had passed. She flipped the pages.

  She stared at the date she had written in after little Gwen’s birth: January 24, 1941. A wonderful year in certain ways. The birth of their little girl, an easy birth, and the arrival of a most beautiful child.

  Churchill had made a deal with President Roosevelt, and Lend-Lease had begun that year. The Americans had started to send food, ships, and ammunition to them, and were helping them to win the war.

  Even though the bombs had continued to drop and had scarred London, smashed parts of it to smithereens, the public were in an upbeat mood. Cecily believed that this was because Churchill inspired them, kept them going with his patriotic speeches.

  April 10, 1942, caught her eye. Elise Steinbrenner had been twenty-one that day. Cecily had given a champagne tea for her at the house in South Street. Tea sandwiches, scones and jam, and a sponge cake with a candle on it, the best they could do because of rationing. Elise was a beautiful girl and the professor was bursting with pride that day. Heddy. Suddenly Cecily thought of her, wondering if she was still alive. She had written to her family from Paris for quite a few months and then the letters had stopped abruptly. She was lost in the turmoil and chaos of war …

  Her father-in-law, the Sixth Earl of Mowbray, had also died, but his had been a gentle death, and for that Cecily and Miles had been grateful. He had not been ill. Rather, he had been frail and absentminded in the summer of 1942. The day he had left them was imprinted on her mind, and would be forever.

  It was Venetia, their nine-year-old daughter, who had run to Cecily in her office in the annex that fateful afternoon. Venetia had rushed in, looking worried, and explained that she had to come. Aunt Charlotte needed her. Grandpa was fast asleep and Aunt Charlotte couldn’t awaken him.

  That moment suddenly flashed through her mind and her eyes filled. Charles had been sitting with Charlotte after lunch, and he turned to her and said he was going to have a little doze. Charlotte had continued to read her book until she heard a rather strange gurgling sound. She had stood up, leaned over Charles, wondering if something was wrong. He had smiled at her, reached for her hand. And then he had died. Charlotte, who had run to the door of the library, searching for Lane, had seen Venetia going upstairs and sent her instead.

  Three days later they had stood in the sunlight, all of them dressed in black, watching Charles Ingham’s coffin being lowered into his grave in the cemetery near the church on the estate. The family was bereft, and let their grief and sorrow show. Why not? Cecily had thought that day, and she thought it again now. They had all loved him and he had been the most extraordinary man. It was only when the vicar had addressed her as “your ladyship” that she realized she was now the Seventh Countess of Mowbray and Miles the Seventh Earl.

  There was a little rustling sound and suddenly a dainty three-year-old girl was standing next to her desk, holding out a handkerchief. “It’s for you, Mummy. Why are you crying?”

  As she took the handkerchief being offered by a small grubby hand, Cecily smiled. “I’m not crying, Gwen. I’m happy today because it’s your birthday.”

  The child nodded and handed her the drawing she had just finished. “This is for you, Mummy.”

  “Thank you, darling, how sweet of you.” Cecily took the drawing, stared at it, and smiled. It depicted a very wobbly-looking birthday cake with lots of wobbly candles on it.

  Cecily bent forward and kissed the cheek of her daughter, who explained, “It’s for your birthday.”

  “I’ll keep it until then,” Cecily said, and put her arms around Gwen and held her close. She adored all her children but somehow this child filled the sad little corners in her heart.

  Sixty-one

  Cecily was glad to be back in London, something that was harder to accomplish these days. She had come up to town from Yorkshire with Miles last night. He had an appointment to see his eye doctor, and she had jumped at the idea of accompanying him on the train.

  It was a windy March morning, cold but sunny, and she enjoyed her walk from the South Street house to the Burlington Arcade. She was bundled up in a heavy overcoat and woolen scarf.

  Cecily was meeting Dulcie there later as she wanted to buy one of her white silk scarves, a copy of those worn by the fighter pilots. Women loved them and she couldn’t keep them in stock. She had also had good sales on her square scarves, which were bright and colorful. Women tied them in a turban around their heads. Even Clementine Churchill, Winston’s wife, favored the scarf-into-turban look. All of Cecily’s accessories were selling well, but not couture. She hadn’t expected it to be bought in wartime. Her ready-made line was breaking even, but she knew sales would probably pick up this summer.

  Things were looking up for them, and there was a more positive feeling everywhere. This was due to America. On December 7, 1941, the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. In an unprovoked attack, two hundred planes destroyed most of America’s Pacific Fleet, killing thousands of troops and civilians. President Roosevelt immediately declared war on Japan; then Germany declared war on America. This prompted the president to declare war on Germany, and the United States entered the war. Fighter pilots, airmen, soldiers, and sailors had begun to arrive in 1942. Their presence had changed the face of London, if not indeed England.

  It seemed to her that all of the Americans she and Miles had met were tall, good-looking, and full of natural charm, and she rather enjoyed being called “ma’am,” quaint though it was.

  She and her four sisters-in-law had mingled with quite a lot of American servicemen at Emma Harte’s canteen on the Fulham Road. Emma was generous in every way, and with sons and a son-in-law in the war she had seen the need for a place where soldiers, sailors, and airmen could meet, relax, get to know local young women, and enjoy themselves in general.

  To that end, she had bought a warehouse, fitted it out with several bars, kitchens, toilets, four comfortable sitting rooms, and even a dance floor. Which naturally needed a band, and eventually a singer, so that all of the favorites could be sung.

  The canteen had become the talk of London, and young servicemen and women, and many local girls flocked to it. Emma had made it an international spot, and so every nationality could be found there. Poles, Czechs, and French men who had joined the RAF some years ago, as well as the Yanks, as Noel Jollion called them. There was a great spirit there, friendliness and warmth. It was not unusual to see Emma socializing several nights a week. Her daughters Daisy and Elizabeth often came and helped out, making sandwiches and coffee, pouring drinks and looking after the boys and girls of the armed forces.

  It was their turn soon, and Cecily was looking forward to going to the canteen again. Usually Miles, James, and William tagged along, because they found Emma fascinating, and they enjoyed the buzz and the activity at the canteen and the company of the men.

  Dulcie was waiting for her when she arrived at the shop, and Aunt Dottie was soon pressing a cup of hot tea in her hands.

  “It’s a stinker out there,” Dulcie said, after giving her a hug. “And poor James is on location today. Shooting outside. I shouldn’t say ‘poor,’ should I? He’s a happy boy, now that he’s making a film. For Sir Alexander Korda. In his element, he is. The good thing is Sir Alex is now running MGM in London for Louis B. so this film is part of James’s contract.”

  “I’ve got to let Emma know when we’ll go to the canteen. What about this Thursday? Miles and I are staying in London all week. Back to Cavendon on Friday.”

  “It’s fine with me. Let’s ask Diedre and DeLacy. I’ll go with you, even if they can’t.”

  After finishing their tea, they went upstairs
to Cecily’s office. Dulcie settled herself in a chair. “After the war, we might go back to Hollywood for a while,” she confided. “James enjoys working there, and he misses Clark Gable. I think Clark might miss him, too. He was devastated when Carole Lombard was killed in that awful plane crash two years ago, and when he was here last year James thought he was a totally changed man. And I agreed. Clark has never gotten over her death. And he never will. James was a bit embarrassed not to be in uniform, when there was Clark, a captain in the American Air Corps and he’d been in combat too, a gunner. Flying over Germany.”

  “But didn’t James tell him he had a problem with damage to a nerve in one of his ears?”

  “Clark knew that already. But you know what men can be like. It’s always irked James that he wasn’t fighting in the trenches.”

  “Miles too, but he has problems with his eyes. That’s why he’s wearing glasses now. But let’s face it, Miles is needed at Cavendon. Who’d run the estate without him?”

  “Daphne of course!” Dulcie shot back. “You know she’s ready to take on anything, especially if it has to do with Cavendon. We have to make her a halo soon. Or maybe even two.”

  “Don’t be mean, Dulcie. You know she’s a good person.”

  “I’m just teasing, Daphne’s the best.”

  * * *

  Noel Jollion made a beeline for the Four Dees and Cecily the moment he spotted them at Emma’s canteen later that week.

  After kissing each one of them on the cheek, he asked, “Where are your husbands?”

  “In one of the sitting rooms, having a drink with Emma and Blackie. Why?” Dulcie said.

  “Because I’ve brought some of my Yanks along, and they’re itching to do a bit of jiving. Jitterbugging. What about it, girls?”

  Cecily said, “I’m not the best person for jitterbugging, Noel. However, I can do a foxtrot.”

  “I’d do a jitterbug,” DeLacy said. “But I have a friend coming and I’d better wait for him.”