“I think you’re correct about the paintings, but you may find it a hard task to convince him. Miles has never wanted to let any of them go to auction,” Cecily pointed out. “Because his father didn’t want to do that, either. You know that better than anyone else, since you were married to Charles, Aunt Charlotte.”
“Yes, I do know. And the Ingham men can be very stubborn. Let me see if I can persuade Miles to sell one and get himself free of some of his financial worries. Now, about Greta and her offering to be a partner. I think you might wish to think about this seriously. It would help you, give you start-again money, and be an incentive to her, having a stake in your business, I mean. Here’s a point. I don’t want Dottie to feel slighted. She might want a stake, too. So, if you agree to take Greta into Swann, as we’re going to call it, then you must invite Dottie to be a partner as well. Give her the option … she might well refuse.”
“Yes, I see what you’re getting at. But don’t you think I ought to be free of debt before taking their money? If they want to give it to me, of course.”
“I do, indeed. And I would like to suggest the following. I will pay off half of your debt over the next six months, on a monthly basis, which will satisfy the bank, I’m sure. But I—”
“No! I won’t let you take this on! It’s not fair to you, and you’ve done so much for me in the past,” Cecily exclaimed, her voice rising in protest.
“Here’s the thing. It’s money I would be leaving you in my will,” Charlotte pointed out. “So let me finish my point. I know you still have the collection of Ingham jewelry you bought from Charles in the late nineteen-twenties, the collection you based your copies on. You do, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s here in the vault. Why do you ask?”
“Put it up for auction. Get money for it, in order to pay off the other half of your debt. You don’t need the collection any longer, since it’s now available in your fake collection of Cavendon jewels that you sell around the world.”
Cecily began to laugh, filling up with mirth in a way she had not done in a long time. As she continued to chuckle she wondered why she had never thought of that herself. A mind clouded by worry, she thought, which has blocked me lately.
Charlotte laughed with her, and finally Cecily sputtered, “Only you would think of a jewelry auction, Aunt Charlotte.”
“And you can make it sound very enticing, exciting. Now you can have the real thing, that sort of selling point,” Charlotte said. “And I know the head of Bonhams auction house, and I will introduce you to him.”
“What an amazing number of ideas I’ve had thrown at me this week. If only a couple of them work, we’ll be in clover,” Cecily murmured.
“Not quite,” Charlotte said. “But I do believe you need to free up your mind, so you can start designing next year’s summer collection.”
“That’s true. And I will.”
“I’d like you to do something else for me, Ceci. I want you to give the bad news to Miles as soon as you possibly can. Because I want to take him to the bank on Monday morning.”
“I will tell him tonight or tomorrow,” Cecily promised, feeling much more confident about confiding her troubles to her husband.
* * *
As she looked at herself in her dressing-table mirror, checking her face and hair, a phrase was running through Cecily’s mind: Let’s turn privilege into profit. It would be her mantra from now on.
What a relief it is, she thought, not to feel so alone anymore; Greta and Dottie, as usual, had been on her wavelength, and now they were plotting and planning in the office annex, endeavoring to streamline their ideas for finding smaller offices, and letting certain staff members go.
That was always the hard part; Cecily balked at doing it, but at this moment she had no option. They had to cut their overhead.
Fortunately, they rented the six-room office suite and had to give only two weeks’ notice to the landlord. Dottie had told her she already had her eye on a two-room suite near Burlington Arcade, and would try to secure it today.
Cecily’s thoughts now went to the jewelry she had put in the vault here at Cavendon. She had bought it from the sixth earl, Miles’s father, years ago when he was short of money for Cavendon. Then she had every piece copied, made from gold-plated silver and crystal stones in every color.
The fakes were still selling well, as were her other accessories. How lucky she was her White Rose perfume continued to be popular, bringing in steady funds, along with the White Rose silk pin worn on jacket and coat lapels.
Charlotte’s idea was clever; there were many women out there who bought jewelry rather than clothes, wearing simple dresses and suits, using their plain, tailored style as a background for their beloved jewels. Now she could offer them the real thing … the rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, and pearls which had inspired the fakes.
It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps an auction wasn’t the right thing to do. Why not create a real jewelry boutique within the Burlington Arcade shop which Dottie ran? She let that idea go at once. The customers who favored that shop didn’t have the money to buy real jewelry, so the auction idea was the best. As usual, Aunt Charlotte had got it right.
It would be tough going, she knew that already, but by lowering overhead, selling the factories, changing the whole theme of the couture line, she would be on the right track. Starting over would succeed. Fingers crossed, she added to herself.
Rising, she left her bedroom and went downstairs. Everyone would be assembling in the dining room for lunch at any moment. Not Greta and Dottie, though. They were joining her parents for lunch in Little Skell village. Dottie was her father’s cousin, and Greta was Alice’s conduit to Victoria, now living in London and working as a photographer. Her parents’ little evacuee was now twenty-one, and her best friend was Greta’s half sister, Elise.
Cecily smiled to herself. Poor Greta. She was going to get quite a grilling about Victoria and how she was doing in the big city. Alice would be full of questions about the girl they had adopted after the war.
Nine
The happiness of the evening was still with her, wrapped around her like a soft silk shawl, and she felt better than she had in a very long time. She had a sense of peace, of quiet contentment.
As Cecily undressed and got ready for bed, she knew this feeling of joy stemmed from the presence of Charlie and Alicia at dinner, and Greta had added much to the evening’s enjoyment as well. She and her assistant were as close as ever.
As he had done at lunchtime, Charlie made them laugh with his stories and comments about his life as a newspaperman; Alicia was her charming and loving self, and the two of them brought the true meaning of family to the table.
Even Miles, often so dour these days, had smiled and chuckled and joined in the fun.
What was so important about the evening was the way Daphne’s tirade of last week had disappeared, just gone away. No one mentioned her, and they were the happy clan again, united in all things, at ease with each other.
As Cecily slipped on her silk dressing gown, and crossed the bedroom floor, she braced herself. She had promised Aunt Charlotte she would tell Miles about her troubles tonight, and there was no way out. She must do it.
Their upstairs sitting room was empty when she went in, and she walked over to the chest upon which she had propped up the painting of DeLacy earlier, stood gazing at it. A moment later, Miles came out of his dressing room, and joined her.
“Isn’t it beautiful, darling?” he said, glancing at her after staring at the portrait of his sister for a few seconds. “How could we have forgotten about it.”
Turning to face him, Cecily said, “I never forgot it, Miles. I thought of it almost every day. I knew very well where it was, since I put the box up there in the attic when DeLacy’s possessions arrived years ago.” Her face changed, and she sighed. “I simply couldn’t bear to bring it out, not then, so soon after she had been killed. And I thought you were on the same page.”
/> Miles nodded. “I was, and understand. It was a terrible, grief-stricken time for all of us.” He paused, took a sip of cognac. “But why now? What made you finally bring it down?” As he spoke he walked over to the sofa and sat down.
Cecily gave the painting a lingering glance and joined him. She explained, “I bought a new steamer trunk, a big one to hold the Swann record books. And Eric noticed the large box which contained DeLacy’s portrait and others by Travers Merton. Those he had left her in his will. Eric pointed it out to me, and I suddenly understood that now was the right time at last. So I told him to bring it down to the bedroom floor. Being sensitive to our feelings, Eric unpacked the paintings and put them in Diedre’s old room, rather than DeLacy’s. I brought the portrait out earlier, and I’m glad I did.”
“So am I.” He smiled at her, and changed the subject. “It was a nice evening. I was happy to see Charlie and Alicia still in such good form. Incidentally, I’d like to take a look at the other paintings by Travers. Why don’t we do that tomorrow?”
There was a moment of silence. Taking a deep breath, Cecily said, “I can’t tomorrow, I’m afraid. You see—”
“But we always spend Saturday together,” he cut in, sounding put out.
“Yes, I know. However, I need to meet with Aunt Dottie and Greta to discuss a few more of my business plans. Greta is staying on until Monday. In fact, they both are.”
“Oh, I see. I suppose you do have a bit of planning to do, now that you will be in Yorkshire most of the time.”
“Yes, I also have a lot of problem solving to do. Anyway, Aunt Charlotte would like to speak with you tomorrow morning, Miles. She asked me to tell you she’ll be available any time it’s convenient for you.”
“Aunt Charlotte?” He frowned. “Is there something wrong? Do you know what it is about?”
“I do. She wishes you to meet the managing director of her bank in Harrogate on Monday. To arrange a loan for you. She will be your guarantor.”
Miles stared at her nonplussed, frowning. “A loan? Whatever for?”
“The government taxes, Miles. They’ll be due soon.”
Once again he gaped at her, surprise and puzzlement still filling his face. “But you always give me the tax money…” he began, and then his voice trailed off when he saw how serious her expression was.
“I don’t have the money to give you, I’m afraid. I have a lot of business problems, which is why Aunt Charlotte has now stepped in.”
“I can’t borrow money from a bank! The whole world will soon know the Inghams are in trouble!” he exclaimed, his voice rising.
“But everyone knows that already, Miles. All the aristocratic families have been in trouble financially since the end of the war. Because of the tax increases and lack of men on the land. It’s not a secret.”
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” he demanded, anger echoing in his voice. He glared at her. “We share. Always.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. I can solve my business problems by selling the two factories in Leeds, finding smaller offices in London, closing one of the shops in the Burlington Arcade, and dropping the ready-made clothing line. Also, Aunt Charlotte will give me half the money to pay off my bank debts … she explained I am her main heir, and it’s part of the money she would be leaving me in her will anyway.”
There was total silence in the room.
As she looked at Miles, Cecily noticed his face was as white as bleached bone and there was a look in his eyes she couldn’t read. Anger? Bafflement? Bewilderment? Shock, she decided. He was in shock.
He said suddenly, “Well, it seems the Swanns have been very busy these last few days, doesn’t it?”
Startled by those words, infuriated by them, Cecily snapped back, “More like a couple of hundred years, wouldn’t you say? And where would the Inghams have been without the Swanns?”
Rising, she walked over to the fireplace, stood there, enjoying the warmth coming from the dying embers. “We’ve had your back for centuries,” she announced in a cold voice.
Miles was furious with himself. He had made a silly remark, and she had taken umbrage. Of course she had. But it wasn’t a silly remark at all. It was a rotten remark, and totally uncalled for. He had made a grave error. He wondered how to make amends.
Before he could apologize and say something nice to her, Cecily spoke. “You might as well know that a few other Swanns have come up with some ideas that might help us out. Uncle Howard recently read in the Times that Lord Overshed auctioned off his wine cellar, or rather the contents thereof, and made money. Mind you, a lot of wine had gone off. I told Eric to check the wine logbooks started by Hanson, and which he has continued to keep. A wine auction might produce money.”
“I see,” Miles said, now determined to watch his words, not wanting to upset her further.
“And I ran into Percy the other day. We talked about the grouse moor. He told me that many aristocratic families with shoots are actually taking paying guests during the grouse season. Mostly American tycoons.”
“I don’t quite know how that would work … here at Cavendon, I mean.” Miles took a long swallow of the cognac, and put the glass down on the small table.
After a moment he said quietly, “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Cecily. I will consider a wine auction. To be honest, I’ve worried about the cellar for a while now. I’m afraid some of the wine has been there far too long, and it may have turned.”
“And will you have a meeting with Aunt Charlotte tomorrow?” she asked, keeping her voice soft.
“Of course. I’ll listen to what she has to say, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll take a bank loan.”
He let out a long sigh, and stood up, walked over to the fireplace, kissed her on the cheek. “Why don’t you go to bed? It’s been such a long day for you. I’ll join you shortly, I have quite a lot to mull over, and I do need to have a quiet think alone.”
“I am a bit tired,” she admitted, and touched his arm lightly. “Don’t stay up too late, Miles. And tomorrow afternoon we can look at the other paintings in Diedre’s room,” she promised, by way of a peace offering.
* * *
Cecily found she was unable to fall asleep. She was bone tired, just as Miles had suggested, but her brain would not stop working.
His remarks about the Swanns had infuriated her, but within herself she realized it was just a thoughtless, throwaway line. He had not meant to hurt. He knew only too well how much the Swanns had done for the Inghams. And what she herself had contributed to the welfare of the family. She had saved them several times. Everyone knew that.
Despite his anger and shock, Cecily believed she had been correct in telling Miles everything at once. Knowing him as well as she did, she was certain he would not come to bed until he had puzzled everything out. He was no doubt drinking another brandy in the sitting room, and “getting his ducks in a row,” as he called it.
One thing she was sure of was his ingrained practicality. However distasteful something might be to him, he would, in the end, do what was best for Cavendon and its future.
After a while, she managed to ease herself into a better frame of mind, to let go of her worries, and concentrated on her youngest child. Gwen had been unhappy for quite a while now, because she wanted to have a kitten. Miles had not liked the idea of animals in the house. Now Cecily decided she was going to buy Gwen that cat. Once it was there, Miles would find it extremely difficult to take it away from Gwen, whom he adored.
Cecily smiled at this decision, and fell asleep at last, filled with loving thoughts of her wartime baby who had brought her so much happiness.
Part Two
LES GIRLS
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
—W. B. Yeats
Ten
Victoria Brown, the shy and somewhat wary little evacuee whom Alice Swann had taken into her heart the moment she first met her, had grown up to
be a lovely young woman. She had arrived at Cavendon in 1939 just before her eleventh birthday, and she would celebrate her twenty-first birthday later this year.
In the ensuing years she had become strikingly pretty, with an abundant mass of shiny brown hair shot through with golden streaks, finely chiseled features, and unusually deep green eyes. Tall, even as a child, she had a lithe, willowy figure, was graceful when she moved, and there was a natural elegance about her.
Alice was not at all surprised she had turned into this rather unique young woman, who made heads swivel when she passed people on the street. And neither was Walter. They knew, too, how talented Victoria was as a photographer, and had permitted her to move to London a year ago, when she was offered a job by Michael Sutton, the head of PhotoElite, a famous agency, all arranged by Paloma Swann.
Her love of taking pictures had started when Walter had given her a Kodak camera as a child. Ever since then she had never had a camera out of her hands. But over the years they had grown more intricate and expensive.
It was Harry Swann’s wife, Paloma, who had quickly noticed Victoria’s budding talent, and a photographer herself, she had taught Victoria everything she knew about the art. Victoria’s forte was portraits, but she also enjoyed doing fashion shoots, which she managed to make unique and very different. People soon recognized “a Vicki,” as they now called them, because she put her stamp on them in her own special way: a model in an elaborate ball gown in the middle of a forest; two models in cocktail attire on a flat rooftop, ready to jump off.
On this warm Saturday afternoon in July, Victoria walked around her small flat in Belsize Park Gardens, checking the four rooms. Alice had told her to make Saturday her household day when she had first come to London a year ago; it was when they had found this flat. And this she had done. She went shopping for her weekly groceries first, then returned home to clean the bedroom, bathroom, sitting room, and galley kitchen. Despite its size it was comfortable, and she liked its coziness.
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