Secrets of Cavendon

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “What do you think, then?” Christopher asked, wheeling himself over to join her. “Will it work? This room?”

  Turning, smiling at him, she nodded. “It’s full of you. And it will be a marvelous intimate picture.”

  Glancing away from him, focusing on a photograph on the other wall, she now said, “Those are your parents, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. They’re dead now, but at least they lived long enough to know I survived the war. My mother never stopped worrying about me flying.” Shaking his head, a half smile lingering, he went on, “We were all so young, you know. Eighteen, for God’s sake. None of us had even finished our formal education. And none of us were married. I don’t think we ever thought about dying. We were very gung ho, just up there doing our stuff, bringing down Jerry planes, getting back to base in one piece.”

  “You were very young indeed, all of you. That photograph here—” She turned around, indicated a group picture in front of a plane. “Baby faces. All of you look about twelve.”

  “I know. Looking back, it’s hard to believe.”

  Twenty-five

  Although it was October, it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, with puffy white clouds, the sun was shining, and the weather was relatively mild. To Victoria it was what Aunt Alice called an Indian summer day.

  She and Christopher had now come out to the terrace, which overlooked the vast garden. Beyond the tall walls was Hampstead Heath.

  She could see how cleverly the garden had been landscaped, designed by Christopher; she knew that from Melinda.

  The editor in chief had also told her that Christopher’s mother had owned Plumptons, the grocery chain, and that he had inherited it after her death two years ago. His great-grandfather Alfred Plumpton had founded it and it was famous for its jams and bottled fruit. Hence Christopher’s wealth. He owned the company but did not run it.

  Toward the end of the garden, near the wall, a number of trees were turning color. In a few days they would be scarlet, gold, and the honey tones of autumn. He was right. That area of the garden would be a perfect spot to have a few pictures taken.

  Turning to Christopher, she mentioned this, and he agreed. Then she asked, “How far is it to Biggin Hill?”

  “It takes about an hour and a half, perhaps a bit less, depending on the traffic. It’s not that far from London. Think in terms of heading toward Beachy Head and the coast.”

  A moment later Rory Delaney came back to the terrace and announced, “I’ve spoken to Biggin Hill and you can go whenever you wish, Christopher. This week, next week.”

  “Oh, I had hoped we could go there on Friday,” Victoria exclaimed, looking at Christopher. “There’s a bit of a rush on this shoot, because Melinda wants to get it into the magazine as soon as possible. To help your charity. We have a two-month lead time.”

  “Friday is all right for me, isn’t it, Rory? Do we have anything special?” Christopher asked.

  “A lunch with your accountant, which can be canceled.” Rory chuckled. “It’s yours to command, as far as Biggin Hill is concerned. The fellow I spoke to, a squadron leader, sounded really chuffed that you’re going to be photographed down there. You’re their … well … sort of their … legend.”

  “You didn’t speak to the base commander?” Christopher wondered out loud.

  “No, he wasn’t there. But I can promise you, on my scout’s honor, that they will welcome you with open arms.”

  Christopher turned to Victoria. “I’m afraid our Irish friend here has kissed the Blarney Stone far too many times. He also has a tendency to exaggerate. On the other hand, he’s the best wing man I have these days.”

  Rory sat down next to Victoria and winked. “They said a lot more laudatory things, Chris, but I’ll skip those. Might go to your head.”

  Victoria laughed. “I’m sure they did sing your praises, Christopher.”

  Over lunch he had told her that Rory had been based at Biggin Hill during the war, one of the aides to Christopher’s wing commander, and not in combat.

  Apparently he had worked as Christopher’s personal assistant for the last three years, alongside Freddy Angier, the physiotherapist, who kept Christopher fit.

  They spoke a little longer about the shoot at Biggin Hill, and Rory said he would handle everything for her, if she explained what she needed.

  “Several planes out on the airfield, that’s most important, and perhaps a few of the men who are based there. Also, I wondered if you might want to invite Noel Jollion, and perhaps a couple of other Biggin Hill chaps. How do you feel about that?” She looked at Christopher, wanting to see his reaction.

  “It presents no problem. I’ll see who I can rustle up, and I’ll give Noel a ring. We have now agreed to do the shoot at the base this coming Friday. When do you propose to take the remainder of the photographs?” Christopher’s eyes rested on her, admiring her beauty, thinking what a lovely person she was.

  “I don’t want to intrude on your weekend, but would you mind if I came on Saturday?” she asked, her eyes focused on his intently.

  “Not at all, and you can come on Sunday as well, if you wish.” Looking over at Rory, he continued, “You don’t mind being here, do you?”

  “At your service, as always, boss.” Addressing Victoria, Rory asked, “How will you get there? Shall we pick you up on Friday morning, take you with us to Biggin Hill?”

  “Well, I don’t want—”

  Interrupting her, Christopher exclaimed, “We have a lovely, very comfortable old Daimler. There’s plenty of room in it, and a big boot for any equipment you have. I think it’s best we all go together.”

  “All right, and thank you.”

  Rising, she turned to Christopher and said, “I think I’d better be going now, I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Thank you for being helpful, and for a delicious lunch.”

  “But you must stay for tea!” Rory exclaimed, having noted the sudden disappointment filling Christopher’s face. He threw Victoria a knowing look.

  She stared back at Rory and sat down again.

  * * *

  During tea on the terrace, Victoria talked to the two men about the charity Christopher had started. All she knew was that it would help veterans in many ways.

  Christopher explained that his great-aunt had left him a very nice town house in Charles Street in Mayfair. Since he did not wish to live there, he had decided to use the house as headquarters for the charity, and also as a club for the veterans.

  “What a great idea that is, having a club for them. They can share experiences, socialize, talk; it’s always good to ventilate,” Victoria remarked. “When will the house be ready?”

  Rory spoke up. “It’s in good condition and doesn’t need any work done, or remodeling. We’ve already moved furniture out of three bedrooms, and are furnishing them as offices. For the people working on a permanent basis for the charity. So we’re pretty well set.”

  Christopher added, “The reception rooms, the dining room, and the library, all on the lower floors, do need a few masculine touches, but that’s an easy job, just decorating. We want to get it rolling as soon as possible.”

  “And we’re looking for as much publicity about the charity as we can get,” Rory pointed out.

  “Melinda indicated that to me, and I’ll mention it to my friend Elise Steinbrenner, on the Daily Mail. She might be able to write something.”

  “Thank you, Victoria, that’s very nice of you,” Christopher murmured, and sat back, a reflective expression on his face.

  Eventually he said in a somewhat saddened tone, “It’s the strangest thing in the world to me … that the veterans of wars are never treated properly. It’s a given throughout history that governments and the public seem indifferent to them and their suffering. And it’s everywhere, not only in Britain. People are rotten to them, others oblivious.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was that bad,” Victoria said. “How awful, and what a predicament for the men to be in.”
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  “I’m afraid it is. It seems to me that nobody cares about these brave boys, because that’s what they mostly were. They put themselves in harm’s way to fight for their country and to protect the people. And I’m not just talking about airmen, but soldiers and sailors as well … our former fighting forces are not much appreciated when they return home from battle. In fact, they are the forgotten men. That’s what I call them.”

  Rory jumped into the conversation. “Many of the men need a lot of help. Some are physically ill, or are suffering from the shock of war, and they are truly in pain.”

  “That’s one of the worst things,” Christopher said. “The anguish they’re left with, having seen their mates wounded and dying on those killing fields, often in foreign countries. We have a big task ahead, I know, but I do think my charity will work and that it will help them.”

  Victoria had been listening attentively, had heard the passion and determination in his voice, noticed the sorrow etched on his face. And she understood that he was a most caring man who wanted to help those that were less fortunate, who were in difficult straits. She found herself touched by his goodness and compassion.

  * * *

  When she left the lovely old house in Hampstead, Christopher sent Rory with her to make sure she was put safely in a taxi. As they looked for one, Rory told her in a low voice, “He’s taken to you, and in a way I’ve not seen before. It’s just incredible.”

  “I like him a lot, too. He’s very special,” she answered with a warm smile.

  Rory merely nodded, but when a cab drew to a stop, and he helped her in, he muttered, “Just don’t mess with him, mess him up, I mean.”

  Victoria gaped at him, flabbergasted by the comment. Before she could answer, Rory added, “See you Friday at nine o’clock.” And he banged the door of the cab shut.

  As she sat back against the seat, Victoria realized that Rory was being protective, and she understood exactly where he was coming from.

  The last thing in the world she would do was hurt a man like Christopher Longdon. He touched her deeply on many levels. In fact, she was stunned by his impact on her as a man. He had bowled her over. She missed him already, wanted to go back, and sit next to him, and … And what? she asked herself. Make him smile, make him feel happy, just be there with him. Those were the answers she gave herself.

  * * *

  “Thank you for fitting the gown on me,” Alicia Stanton said, smiling at Greta. “I’m not in a hurry for it. The Royal Command Film Performance is not until November.”

  “I know, and it really suits you, Alicia,” Greta answered, and then began to laugh. “Blue again. But what can you do? The color does suit you.”

  “Adam chose it. Out of everything you showed us this morning, this was his favorite.”

  Greta nodded. “Anyway, you don’t have anything in your wardrobe like this—bouffant, frothy. It’s really lovely on you.”

  Alicia sat down on the sofa in the main showroom, where Cecily’s clothes were always fitted, and took a sip of the tea Aunt Dottie had just brought them.

  “I was glad I didn’t have to film today. And that Adam was able to come to the shop with me earlier. He had to make a plane to New York this afternoon; that’s why he was in a hurry. He needed to talk to me, which is why I had to come back for the fitting.”

  “So who’s in charge when the producer is away on a trip?” Greta asked, sitting down, picking up her cup.

  “The other producer, the line producer, and the director. Plenty of people. Although I think Adam is probably the driving force, the best of the lot. He’s bringing this film in on time and has not gone over budget.”

  When Greta remained silent, made no comment, Alicia looked at her closely and asked, “Did you like Adam when you met him on Saturday?”

  “I did, yes. I thought he was extremely personable, easy to talk to. In fact, everyone liked him. And I must say, he’s awfully good-looking. I wish my Elise could find a nice chap like him.”

  “I thought Arnold Templeton’s younger brother seemed rather struck by her. Certainly he was pretty much by her side all evening. And by the way, thank you for letting us come to the supper, we really enjoyed it. And Adam got to meet you and some of the family.”

  “My pleasure, Alicia. I want to tell you yet again that you were the epitome of glamour.”

  “In a blue frock,” Alicia answered, sounding pithy.

  A moment later Dottie arrived with Constance Lambert in tow. She said, “When Mrs. Lambert heard you were in the shop, Miss Stanton, I couldn’t stop her from racing up here.”

  They all laughed. Dottie went back downstairs, while Constance joined Alicia and Greta in the seating area of the Swann showroom.

  “I bought one of your gold metal box bags, Greta. I think this new line is superb. Dottie’s wrapping it now. And I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.” She looked from Greta to Alicia.

  “No, of course not,” Greta exclaimed. Constance was one of their biggest clients and bought almost everything she wore from Swann. And she was much liked by the entire staff.

  Alicia jumped up, went over to the clothes rack, and took the blue gown off the hanger. “Look at this, Connie. I just bought it. For the Royal Command ‘do’ in November.” She held it against herself. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s perfect, darling. You’ll steal everyone’s thunder.” Constance stared at her for a long moment, and said in a lowered voice, “It’s all over town, you know. Everyone’s talking about you and Adam being romantically involved, having an affair, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Good heavens! News travels fast. We were only seen in public together on Saturday. Four days, since it’s now Tuesday. Wow!”

  “Wow, wow, wow! That’s what I’d say,” Constance cried, amusement echoing in her voice. “Anyway, I understand it’s lovely gossip, not bad stuff. People seem pleased for you both. All agog, actually.”

  “Now I understand why everyone was careful around me at Shepperton yesterday, and constantly glancing at me.”

  “They were probably envying you. Or envying Adam,” Constance replied.

  * * *

  When Greta walked into her house in Phene Street an hour later, she found Victoria sitting at the table in the kitchen, making notes on a small pad.

  “Hello, Greta,” Victoria said, looking up, smiling.

  “Was your visit with Christopher Longdon successful? How did it go?” Greta asked, leaning against the door frame.

  “Very well. I found him to be extremely nice, helpful, welcoming. We sort of clicked, got on like a house on fire, and the time flew. I even stayed for lunch.”

  Noticing the strange expression on Greta’s face, Victoria asked, “Why are you looking so surprised?”

  “Does that often happen?” Greta sounded puzzled.

  “No. But we actually worked hard at planning the entire shoot. Choosing what rooms to use in the house, whether to take any pictures in the garden, which is sort of finished now, but the trees are turning and are lovely. Also, we talked about Biggin Hill, where he was stationed during the war. In fact, we’re going down there on Friday.”

  Greta was amazed, and it showed. “My goodness, Vicki, you obviously covered a lot of ground in a short time. What’s he like?”

  “Fabulous. And very cooperative. He liked my idea of having him amongst planes out on the airfield, wearing his flying suit, surrounded by some of the airmen based there now. And he’s going to phone Noel Jollion, who was also at Biggin Hill.” Victoria, confident about their plans, nodded. “It’s all going to work very well, Greta.”

  “How wonderful for you, Vicki, that you were able to put this together so fast.” Greta paused, a thoughtful look in her eyes. After a split second, she said, “He’s in a wheelchair, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I never really noticed that…” She stopped, gave Greta a hard stare. “His personality is warm, and he’s outgoing, gregarious. The immense charisma takes over, I suppose.” Sitting up a bit stra
ighter, she finished, “Actually, I’ve never met a man like him.”

  Greta’s gaze remained closely focused on Victoria and she suddenly realized that the girl was glowing, radiant, in fact, and her green eyes were sparkling.

  Oh my God, Greta thought. She’s fallen for him. There’s big trouble brewing. She decided to end the conversation right now. “I’m going upstairs to have a bath, Vicki. See you shortly.”

  Twenty-six

  Later that week, on Friday morning at exactly ten minutes to nine, Victoria put her head around the kitchen door and said, “Good morning, Greta.”

  Greta smiled at her. “And good morning to you. I see you’re all ready for your trip to Biggin Hill. I must say you’re very smart. That old Swann jacket looks good on you.”

  Victoria nodded. “I’ve had it for ages, but I love the back, the swing of it, and I think the cream works well with the purple blouse and black trousers, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. You know, you could have been a model, Vicki, if you hadn’t discovered your talent for photography.”

  Victoria said, “I prefer to be taking the pictures, not posing for them. Do you want to come out to say hello to Christopher and his crew?”

  “I’d love to, and when you say ‘crew,’ do you mean Noel Jollion and the other men who’ll be in the pictures?”

  “No, no, they’ll be meeting us there, and Noel did accept Christopher’s invitation, by the way. Rather pleased to be a part of it, I think. By crew I meant Rory Delaney, his personal assistant; Freddy Angier, his physiotherapist; and Bruce Collett. I’ve only met Rory so far, and I’m not certain what Bruce does. He’s probably another assistant or physiotherapist.”

  Greta stood up. “I’ll just pop upstairs and get my jacket and bag. I’ll be going to the office after you leave.”

  “And I have to carry my camera bags to the door, so see you in a minute.”

  Victoria kept her cameras and two large leather bags in a cupboard in the dining room, and she had just finished packing the cameras when Greta returned, stood in the doorway.