“That’s true.”
Lady Gwendolyn picked up the leather case, opened it, and took out some old photographs. “This is Mark Swann. And this is a picture of me with him.”
“How good you look together, and Mark resembles Walter,” Charlotte exclaimed. “And he’s very handsome.”
“Aren’t they all?” Lady Gwendolyn murmured with a wry smile. She handed Charlotte another old photograph, also well preserved. “And this is Margaret—” She cut off the end of her sentence, fell silent.
Charlotte was staring at a picture of a beautiful baby in an expensive-looking christening gown and a small lace cap. She glanced up and gaped at Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes full of questions.
“Our child. Mark’s and mine. You see, we had another baby and she lived. We had been very careful, and I was in my mid-forties by then. I didn’t believe I could get pregnant. No one was more terrified and shocked than I was. After all, I was almost forty-eight.”
So startled was she, Charlotte couldn’t speak for a moment, and then she said in a low but vehement voice, “Oh my God! What did you do?”
“The only thing possible at that time, at least for us. We had to give her up for adoption. I told my brother, David, the truth. Anyway, he had always guessed about Mark and me,” Lady Gwendolyn explained. “As you well know, David and I were very close. He was genuinely sympathetic, but adamant that we could not keep the child. Had I been married, we could have explained it away, I suppose, like so many married women did, claimed it was the child of my husband. But I was a widow.”
“I do understand.” Charlotte’s voice was full of sadness. “It must have been so hard for you. Who adopted your baby?”
“Mark and I were never told. That was the way it was in those days. Adoption was very private, secretive, in a certain sense. David had a solicitor in Harrogate, whom he used for some estate matters. It was this solicitor who handled the matter. David assured me that the baby was going to a good middle-class family, a couple who were desperate for a child. I went out and bought lovely clothes for her, and a certain amount of money was given to the family for her care. And that was the end of it—” Again Lady Gwendolyn stopped mid-sentence and sat back in the chair, a sorrowful feeling sweeping over her. She was full of tears, wanted to sob her heart out.
Charlotte, observing her intently, saw that she was extremely upset, and remained silent, fully understanding her pain as she relived those memories of long ago.
Gwendolyn must have been beautiful, Charlotte thought. With a look of Diedre in her late thirties, early forties. The white-haired woman sitting opposite her was still lovely, with the clearest of blue eyes and a fresh complexion.
Suddenly, Lady Gwendolyn sat up straighter in the chair, pulled herself together. “I said that was the end of it, but of course it wasn’t. I have thought about that child, my daughter, every day of my life, wondered about her, worried about her. The good thing was that Mark and I stayed together. We were so in love with each other we couldn’t part. But we did become very careful in every way. Ingham women seem to get pregnant very easily.”
“I’m glad you continued your love affair, Aunt Gwendolyn. You needed each other.”
“We did, and he was always loving and consoling. Somehow we did manage to cope. And we believed we had done the right thing … for the child. And we both were certain that David had handled it well.”
“So somewhere out there, in this world we live in today, there is an Ingham-Swann woman called Margaret.”
“I’m sure she is alive and well. I hope so. However, I am not certain that her adoptive parents kept the name Margaret. They probably had her christened something else.”
“Did they know where she came from?” Charlotte asked.
“No. The solicitor assured them she was from a good family, gave them a few scraps about the circumstances, and that was that. However, I have to believe that they brought her up well, for my own peace of mind.”
“Thank you for confiding in me, I appreciate your trust.”
“Charlotte, I would trust you with my life.”
“And I am always here for you, whatever you need, whenever you need it, Aunt Gwendolyn.”
“Thank you. Charlotte, I want you to know something else … I fibbed when I told you that the golden swan brooch had been passed down by my mother. That wasn’t true. Mark had it made for me. He said if things had been different, we would have been married, and I would have been a Swann. Since you are now both Swann and Ingham I thought it should be yours. You enjoy wearing it, don’t you?”
Charlotte smiled. “I do. I’ve been wearing it a lot. In fact, when I told Charles you had given it to me, that it was an Ingham heirloom, he was surprised. He said he’d never seen it before.”
“Don’t enlighten him, Charlotte, please. I want my little secret to remain a secret.”
“It will, I promise.”
Fifty
“So how much did the wedding cost, in the end?” Hugo asked, looking across his desk at Miles.
“A lot. But actually Papa didn’t have to pay anything, as it turned out. In fact, I think he might have made some money on it.”
“How?” Hugo asked, sounding surprised by this comment.
The two men were sitting in Hugo’s London office, working together on a project, an idea of Harry Swann’s. And as usual, Hugo was worried about money.
Miles took a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it, refreshing his memory. “Now, let’s see. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn gave Papa a check for five thousand pounds, as you know. It was a gift, because he’s her heir, apparently. However, not all of that money was spent, for the following reasons.” He glanced at his list, and continued, “Dulcie said she didn’t want any gifts from the family, but if they did want to give her and James something, she suggested they contribute to the cost of the wedding.”
“That was a nice thought, and practical, as she usually is.”
“I paid for the band, that was my gift,” Miles went on. “Charlotte paid for the two caterers from Harrogate, who did the Saturday lunch, the wedding reception, and the wedding dinner, alongside Cook. And Charlotte’s bill did include the food for those occasions.”
“I think that must have been a big savings for Charles,” Hugo murmured, feeling better already. “So, continue, Miles.”
He did. “Cecily gave Dulcie her wedding gown and cape. They were her wedding presents. She also paid for the extra orchids and all the other white flowers which came from Harte’s department store. She’s become quite friendly with Emma Harte, you know, and, in fact, Ceci’s opening a shop within the store. It’s going to be called the Cecily Swann Boutique, and will sell all of the accessories she designs.”
“What wonderful news that is, Miles. I must congratulate Ceci. She’s turned out to be a fabulously successful businesswoman.”
“She has. So let me tell you the rest. Daphne paid for the two bridesmaids’ dresses from her trust, she told me, and the little soldier outfits for the twins. And Papa used some of the money from Great-Aunt Gwendolyn to pay the women from the village who came up to help. Oh, and the photographer. But Papa told me the other day he hadn’t spent it all.”
“That’s good news. We can always use a little extra cash.”
“Hugo, is there something I should know? Something wrong?” Miles now asked.
“No, no, nothing. I guess I’ve just become a terrible worrier these days. And there are now those leaks in the West Wing bathrooms.”
“Bathrooms! I thought it was only one.”
“Seemingly another one has sprung a leak. They’re working now to get them fixed.”
“Oh God.” Miles pursed his lips, leaned forward, and said, “Not to change the subject, but I do want to discuss something else, and have a need to know.”
“What about? Now you sound concerned,” Hugo exclaimed.
“I’m not. But I’ve never quite understood everything about the Transatlantic Air situation. I don’t mean abou
t them going belly-up, I mean about exactly how much money we, meaning the Ingham Trust, got back.”
“Ten million dollars. I gave five million of my own money, and Paul the same amount. In other words, the trust got back its entire investment. The money we invested on behalf of the trust, which is why we felt responsible.”
“That I know, and it was very generous of you both. What no one has explained is how much ten million dollars is in English pounds.”
“It’s two million pounds, give or take a few pennies,” Hugo answered at once.
“Good to know. What’s the rate of exchange, Hugo?”
“At this moment it costs four dollars and eighty-seven cents, give or take a cent, to buy one English pound.”
“Good God! Why so much?” Miles was surprised.
“The pound has a high value; not necessarily a good thing, by the way. And the dollar has been devaluated. It’s all to do with the gold standard, as far as the pound is concerned, and too complicated for me to explain in a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to, Hugo. And thanks, I now have a better picture. Papa did tell me you and he had been careful about investing some of the money that came back into the trust, had chosen very conservative and solid English companies.”
“We did, Miles. Don’t worry, the money is safe. We kept back cash, of course, in order to pay those bloody awful income tax bills the government is dishing out these days. And for the maintenance of the estate, plus the renovations, repairs, and maintenance of the house.”
“So we’re basically all right?”
“We are. But let me say again, there are the costs of the new roof on the North Wing and also the plumbing repairs now going on in those bathrooms. Big bills.”
Miles nodded. “Let’s get back to Harry’s idea. I want us to go with it, Hugo. I think it might work, bringing in some much-needed income eventually.”
“I agree. But what we must consider is that if we rent out those empty farms, we will have to train the men who take them on. That takes time.”
“I know. Listen, let’s go over it with my father this weekend, get his views, and go from there.”
“We’re going to manage all right, Miles,” Hugo said, sounding more confident in general. Miles always cheered him up because he was positive, had a good attitude.
Rising, Hugo said, “Come on, let’s go and grab a bite of lunch. Then I’m driving up to Cavendon tonight. When are you coming up, Miles?”
“I’m not sure. Tonight Cecily and I have a dinner. With Felix and Constance Lambert. I’m looking forward to it. They’re good company.”
“What news of the newlyweds? How’re they doing?”
Miles smiled, had a twinkle in his eye. “They’re head over heels in love, having a great time in New York. Diedre and Paul are thrilled Dulcie and James are in Manhattan. And Diedre’s feeling better, by the way. The bed rest was good for her, and the baby is safe. Due in April, I hear.”
“Thank God for that. I wonder if Daphne knows?” Hugo murmured. “She’s been so worried about Diedre.”
“I only got the news from Ceci this morning. She’s had a letter from Dulcie about something, and gave Ceci all this news in it.”
* * *
Walking down to Shepherd Market to have lunch at a small Italian restaurant they liked, Hugo suddenly looked at Miles and said, “Where does Charlotte get her money from? She’s very generous to the family.”
Miles smiled, rather proudly, in fact. He said, “Over the years when she worked for my grandfather, David, the fifth earl, he bought her quite a lot of jewelry, and he also created a small trust for her. Also, she’s been very frugal over the years. Cecily told me Charlotte gave her a whole lot of brooches and bracelets to sell for her, which Ceci did. And I understand she paid for the caterers with her savings. After all, she is now the countess, and certainly my father will always see she is taken care of. But she’s a good woman. Good to all of us.”
Hugo exclaimed, “I’ll say! And frankly I’m glad she has taken over the running of the house. She’s so efficient, and now I see Daphne more than ever. And that’s so much joy for me.”
Fifty-one
Constance Lambert stood in the dressing room of their spacious flat in Eaton Square, regarding herself in the long mirror. She was wearing her latest Cecily Swann, and liking what she saw.
The suit was made of white wool, trimmed with black rickrack, and had black buttons on the short flared jacket. The skirt was shorter than she normally wore, just below the knee. But Cecily had convinced her she should show off her legs, and had added that these days shorter was sexier.
Her shoes were also by Cecily; she had bought a number of pairs in different colors. They were called the Swann Quick Step. They were a simple court shoe but had a rather high heel, which was flattering to the leg. Tonight she was wearing a black pair which had white high heels. She decided she would carry the Golden Box bag by Cecily, which James had given her for her birthday last year, and since it was still February she would wear her white cape, which matched the suit.
She stood back, her head on one side, thinking she looked elegant and yet up to the minute, as far as style was concerned. That was the beauty of Cecily Swann’s clothes. They made women look younger and much more modern. No wonder she had become the most important fashion designer in England. All of the fashion editors in Fleet Street loved her, wrote about her constantly, and most flatteringly. Her publicity was fantastic.
At the sound of the front door closing, Constance went out into the corridor, headed for the hall. Felix was taking off his overcoat and putting it in the closet, along with his scarf.
He smiled when he saw her, and took hold of her arm, walked with her to his study, explaining, “I need to talk to you before we go to dinner. You do have a few minutes, don’t you? You are ready, aren’t you? Well, you are, I can see that, looking as beautiful as always.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Of course we can talk.” Although she had kept her voice even, Constance was alarmed, wondering what had happened. Felix was never brusque with her, nor did he ever sound strained, as he did now. “Rattled” was perhaps a better word. She had been married to him for so long she knew every facial expression, every mannerism, every quirk, could read him well. “You’re upset, darling, what’s bothering you?”
Felix put his briefcase on a chair, and sat down on the sofa. Looking across at Constance, who was still standing, he said, “Come and sit, Con. I’ve something to tell you. But first I have to warn you about tonight. You must be careful what you say in front of Miles and Cecily. And you can’t repeat anything I’m about to tell you.”
“I never would anyway. But please explain what this is all about. You’re frightening me.” She lowered herself into a chair, but sat on the edge. “This doesn’t have anything to do with James, does it?”
Realizing she did sound afraid, he said quietly, “No, no, it doesn’t, I promise you. Let me start at the beginning.”
She nodded. “But James and Dulcie are truly all right, aren’t they?”
“They are fine, wonderful, having a ball, as they say in New York. This has to do with Helen Malone and her death last week.”
“Oh. I see. I’m listening, Felix.” She sat back in her chair, relieved. James was like the son she had never had, and she adored him, was forever worrying about him. And now there was Dulcie to worry about, too. How lucky he had been. That girl was a treasure.
“Long before she died, Helen had not been herself, as you well know, since we managed her,” Felix said. “The rumor circulating in theatrical circles was that she was having an affair, that he was posh, or a toff, as Sid kept saying. But that’s about all any of us knew. However, seemingly he was a married man. And that was the root of Helen’s problem. He had a wife. She was the mistress. There was no possibility of a divorce. I’ve been told it was breaking her heart. Also, it seems the man was not a particularly nice type, a bit of a brute.”
“So this is to do
with that man? Helen’s lover? Is that it?” Constance threw her husband a questioning look.
“Partially. Since the gossip was rather accurate, I had to believe that the man was indeed from the upper class,” Felix explained. “However, I had no idea who he was. Nor did I care. Helen was old enough to do what she wanted. Anyway, to get back to the present. Sid came to see me today at the office. He had a suitcase belonging to James, asked me to keep it for him. It was full of scripts, books, notebooks. Because Sid is in the middle of a move to a new flat, he was afraid the suitcase might get lost. It had been in James’s dressing room at the Old Vic, and James had given it to Sid to look after.”
Pausing for a moment, Felix took out a gold Cartier case, lit up a du Maurier cigarette, and took a few puffs. Then he continued his story.
“In the course of our chat,” he said, “Sid told me that Helen had actually died of septicemia. Caused by a botched abortion. She had also lost much of her blood by the time she arrived at the hospital.”
“Oh no, Felix!” Constance exclaimed, her face turning pale. “How terrible for her. If only she had confided in us, we might have been able to help her, avert such a tragedy.”
“That’s true. I was most upset when Sid told me. Devastated actually, Con, she was so talented. And so young.”
“How does Sid know all this?”
Felix shook his head. “The grapevine, I suppose. You know how fast gossip and bad news travels in our world; any world, for that matter. Once Sid had relayed this horrific news, he confided that the man she was seeing was a famous surgeon. His name is Lawrence Pierce. Who is married to Felicity.”
“Miles’s mother! Oh my God, don’t tell me he did the botched abortion.”
“I don’t think it would have been botched, if he had done it. It would have been perfect. Most likely she went to a woman in a back street, who had a knitting needle.”
Constance shuddered at the imagery, and closed her eyes for a moment, pushing back her tears as she thought of Helen Malone, only twenty-seven and far too young to die in such a terrible way.
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