The Cavendon Women

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Cecily looked first at Dorothy and then at Dulcie, frowning. She said, “I’m not quite understanding, Mrs. Ward. Are you getting a divorce?”

  “No, I’m not Mrs. Ward. I’m not a missus. And my name’s not Ward. It’s O’Brian. I was born in England, but my parents are Irish. And I’m not a married woman, I’m single. I have never been married. I had a gentleman friend … for four years. But now it’s finished. I have a week to find somewhere to live.”

  “Can’t he help you at all?” Dulcie asked in a sympathetic voice, feeling sorry for her.

  “No, he can’t. And I know it’s all true, because I was quite friendly with his chauffeur, Bert Robinson, and he gave Bert the sack a week ago,” Cora exclaimed, and rushed on. “Bert came around to see me, told me to get ready for the shove. He said my gentleman friend wasn’t a gentleman, that he was a bad man, that he was a crook, had lost everyone’s money for them, not only his own. He said terrible things about my friend. And I know some things are not true. You see, Lord Meldrew’s just not like that. Whatever he is, he’s not a crook. He’s not going to jail for fraud, like Bert said. I know he’s not.”

  There was a total silence in the room after Cora’s unbroken rush of breathless remarks, uttered clearly but nonstop. It was obvious she was telling the truth.

  Cecily and Dorothy exchanged startled glances, and Dulcie gaped at them, shock registering on her face. She started to say something but caught herself in time. She stopped before the words came out, her eyes riveted on Cecily.

  Taking a deep breath, Cecily said, “Perhaps I can be of help in some way, Miss O’Brian—”

  “Please call me Cora, Miss Swann.”

  Cecily inclined her head. “I’m sorry your friend has trouble. And I see now you need help. What kind of job are you looking for, Cora? What qualifications do you have?”

  “I’ve worked in a shoe shop, and at a milliner’s. I’ve been a junior nanny, looked after a little girl for a year. I can do a lot of things. But I like shops the best.”

  “I shall think about this for a couple of days, and come up with some suggestions regarding a job. In the meantime, do you have friends who can give you a bed? Just for a week or so, until you get on your feet?”

  “Yes, I have a friend, Marie,” Cora responded, now more controlled. “She was recently widowed. She has a small house in Chelsea. It’s tiny but she’ll let me sleep on the sofa, and she’s lonely, she’ll like the company.”

  “Good. You must try and find somewhere to live within the next week or so. Today is Tuesday, the eleventh. If you telephone Miss Dorothy on Friday of this week, she’ll perhaps have news for you about a job.”

  “Thank you, Miss Swann, ever so much. You’re being so kind. And I will pay these bills. I promise.”

  Cecily smiled at her. “Don’t worry about those at this moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Dulcie and I have work to do in the studio.” Addressing Dorothy, Cecily added, “Perhaps you can help Cora to collect her things, please.”

  “No problem,” Dorothy said, her face a total blank.

  * * *

  Cecily and Dulcie went upstairs, walking slowly and with great decorum. But they were both ready to explode.

  Once inside Cecily’s office, Dulcie cried in a vehement but low whisper, “She’s Clarissa’s father’s mistress! My God! What a whole heap of information she has just dropped in your lap, Ceci. What a bargaining tool Miles has now.”

  Pushing back her hair, Cecily nodded. “Yes, indeed he does. Clarissa is soon about to lose the source of her wealth. She’s going to need money. She’ll come to Miles. And she certainly needs the roof over her head that she has at the moment. Because Daddy can’t fork out for anything.”

  “Do you believe Lord Meldrew’s going to be prosecuted for fraud, going to jail?”

  “I think it’s more than likely true. Chauffeurs hear an awful lot, know a lot. He’s probably bitter about being sacked, but truthful.”

  Dorothy came into the office a few minutes later. “She left, looking happier. I locked the front door of the shop. I think we’ve things to discuss, don’t you?”

  Dulcie stared hard at Dorothy. “Do you realize what the newspapers would do with all this information? I can just see the headlines … Financial tycoon peer of the realm Lord Meldrew indicted for fraud. Keeps young mistress in lap of luxury. That’s just one double-header that comes to mind.”

  There was laughter, which came as something of a relief after the last hour. Sobering, Cecily said, “It’s true what Dulcie’s saying, Dorothy. Any paper in Fleet Street would love to get their hands on this. It’s real muckraking, I know, but the public lap it up.”

  “We could leak it, Ceci,” Dulcie said. “James knows a lot of press people, and so does Felix. And just think how embarrassed Clarissa would be. All of her friends would shun her. She’d come crawling on her hands and knees to Miles, wanting money and whatever. She’d agree to a divorce just to keep it out of the papers. He could go and see her, threaten to tell the newspapers about Cora.”

  “That sounds like blackmail to me,” Cecily said, and then laughed again. “But you’re right, Dulcie, what you say is absolutely true. Clarissa no longer has control of this situation. And suddenly Miles has acquired a big stick.”

  Dorothy said, “I thought of taking you out of the room earlier to talk for a minute, Ceci, because I considered offering her a job. But then I decided against it.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Cecily murmured. “But I changed my mind. I don’t want her anywhere near us. I do want to use her for information, if we can. But I do not want any association with her. She can’t be linked to us. Because it could backfire. I will help her, because I think she’s a nice girl who’s been treated in a rotten way by a bad man. I’ve never liked him, and I know Hanson, who sees through everyone, can’t bear him. That’s beside the point, of course. I’m certain I can get her a job at Harte’s. Although even that’s a bit too close.”

  “Let me think about it,” Dorothy said. “I might get inspired.”

  “Are you going to say anything to Howard? Tell him about Cora’s comments?”

  “No, I’m not. Anyway, if there is a case pending against Lord Meldrew, it wouldn’t be under Howard’s aegis … more like the fraud police. But I’ll stay quiet for a while, unless you want him to give us a helping hand in some way.”

  “No, not yet. But thanks, Dottie,” Cecily said gratefully.

  “I’ve got to pop over to see Diedre,” Dulcie now said. “And you should come with me, Ceci. Oh, and by the way, I love my two coats. Do you want to see them on me, Dorothy?”

  “I certainly do, Lady Dulcie. Come along, let’s go downstairs. Give Cecily a few minutes to clear her desk.”

  Fifty-seven

  Diedre stood in the middle of the drawing room of her mother’s house in Charles Street, glancing around yet again. She had been coming to the house for the last two weeks, endeavoring to sort out all the possessions housed here.

  Felicity had lived for only a year after Lawrence Pierce’s murder, had had a stroke in July of 1928, and never recovered. To Diedre’s surprise she was the only one of her mother’s children to be left anything in the will: this house and everything in it. The only thing she wanted was the fabulous portrait of DeLacy, painted by Travers Merton, hanging over the fireplace.

  Embarrassed to be the only child to inherit from their mother, Diedre had recently sold the house, and planned to divide the money among the five of them. Miles said he would give his portion to the Cavendon Restoration Fund, and in the end they had all decided to do that, herself included.

  None of them had been surprised by the contents of the will. Felicity’s vast fortune, inherited from her father, Malcolm Wallace, and all of her jewelry from him, had been left to Grace, her sister Anne’s daughter, and Felicity’s niece.

  Diedre let out a long sigh. She was tired of coming over here to sort through her mother’s things. Daphne had helped a little, bringing O
live Wilson with her, and so had Cecily. DeLacy was living at Cavendon, and never came to London; Dulcie had such disdain for “that woman,” as she called her mother, that she had not volunteered to help.

  But Dulcie was coming this afternoon, bringing Cecily with her to choose paintings for Dulcie’s gallery, along with other objects. Then the furniture and everything else would go to auction next week. Glancing at her watch, she saw that they would be arriving shortly.

  Leaning back in a chair, Diedre thought of the events of the last year. She and Paul had finally returned to London permanently in the spring of 1928. His mother had died six months before. Hugo had cleverly taken his investments out of Wall Street, and so had Paul. They had both moved everything to London; there was no need for a New York office anymore.

  Paul had managed to sell the large mansion and land in Connecticut, and his mother’s apartment on Fifth Avenue, and had repaid part of the bank loan. And once they were settled in her flat in Kensington, his brother Tim had helped him to sell the triplex on Park Avenue, and these proceeds had also gone to the bank.

  Paul had been as happy as her to move to England; he missed her family as much as she did, had understood how homesick she was. He also liked the idea of bringing up Robin in London, surrounded by Inghams. They would soon be moving into their new flat in Eaton Square; her father had given them a suite of rooms at Cavendon where they spent many weekends. Their little son was flourishing, and Diedre was the happiest she had been in a long time.

  A moment later Ratcliffe, whom she had kept on to look after the house, was showing Dulcie and Cecily into the drawing room. He asked Diedre if they wished to have tea, but they all declined.

  Once they were alone, and had greeted each other, Dulcie looked at Cecily, and cried, “Tell Diedre! Get her opinion, Ceci!”

  “Tell me what?” Diedre asked, noting the excitement on Dulcie’s face, the sparkle in her eyes.

  Cecily told her about Cora O’Brian and what had happened at the shop in the arcade, and the young woman’s connection to Meldrew, and his financial woes.

  Diedre listened attentively, surprise flashing across her face. She was as startled as they had been earlier. “Without knowing it, this young woman has handed you vital information about Meldrew. It would be fatal if it does leak to the press. Financial ruin is bad enough, but public humiliation is also a killer.”

  “We could leak it!” Dulcie exclaimed, sitting down on a sofa.

  “We could, but I don’t think we will,” Diedre replied. “Papa would be appalled at us.”

  “But Clarissa would be highly embarrassed. Also, she’s going to need money, since Lord Meldrew, her horrible father, is out of cash.”

  “Seemingly so, according to Cora O’Brian. But perhaps he isn’t. Men like Meldrew usually have money hidden, often in foreign countries, and especially in Switzerland. Money that would be hard to find,” Diedre explained. “Men who specialize in financial finagling usually anticipate possible consequences, and provide for the future, their future. Anyway, when is this situation going to become public?”

  Cecily said, “I don’t think Cora knows; at least she made no mention of it.”

  “Let’s not forget she was quoting the chauffeur, Bert Robinson,” Dulcie reminded Cecily, and added, “Maybe the authorities aren’t onto him yet.”

  “That’s quite possible,” Diedre agreed. “What we know is only what the chauffeur told her, plus the fact that Meldrew has left her, and refuses to keep her in style any longer, or pay her bills. He might just want to get rid of her.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true. However, I think Meldrew is the kind of man who could easily be a financial wheeler-dealer, as Miles would say.”

  “Have you told Miles yet?” Diedre asked.

  “I can’t tell him. He’s on the train to London at this moment. He’ll be arriving in a couple of hours.”

  “Good. Having this information does give him the means to bargain with Clarissa Meldrew, if he decides to tell her it might get into the newspapers.” Diedre laughed dryly. “That sounds like blackmail, in a way, but why not? I’m only worried about Inghams, not Meldrews. Miles has been treated very badly by them. And Clarissa’s attitude is unconscionable.”

  “I think Miles should do that,” Dulcie announced, and then exclaimed. “Oh my goodness, what a wonderful portrait of DeLacy over the fireplace. It’s the one by Travers Merton, isn’t it?”

  Diedre nodded. “I thought I would give it to DeLacy; she should have it. And incidentally, how have you been doing with the paintings Travers left her in his will? Have you sold any yet?”

  “Several. Although she was so reluctant to let go of them at first, she changed her mind when I said Cavendon needed the money for the restoration work. That convinced her. She said Travers would have approved because his grandfather had loved Cavendon.”

  “You can have anything you want from here, Dulcie,” Diedre said, needing to move things along, get home to Robin. “There are some very good paintings by well-known artists, and there are more upstairs. And you can have all of the art objects as well, if you wish.”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t touch her stuff with a barge pole,” Dulcie answered. “But when they’re sold, the money will go to Cavendon. Shall we wander around together and pick out the best?”

  “Let’s do it,” Cecily said, looking at her watch. “I want to be at the flat when Miles arrives.”

  * * *

  “Well, well, well,” Miles said when Cecily told him about the encounter with Cora O’Brian, and gave her a huge smile. “It doesn’t actually solve my problem, but it does give me a certain amount of leverage, don’t you think? With Clarissa.”

  “I do,” Cecily replied, moving closer to him on the sofa. The two of them were sitting in front of the fire in the living room of her flat, and drinking a cup of tea. Miles had asked for it ten minutes ago when he had arrived from King’s Cross railway station.

  “You will go and see her, won’t you? And as soon as possible, Miles?”

  He nodded, and looked at his watch. “Too late to get in touch with her now. I shall give her a ring tomorrow morning, and try to set a date for a meeting.”

  “Won’t she ask why you suddenly want to see her?”

  “I expect so,” he replied, looking suddenly reflective, staring into the flames roaring up the chimney. “I shall be honest, and say I need to discuss something very private, which I can’t talk about on the phone. Leave it to me—I know she likes intrigue.”

  “I will, but I don’t mind going to see her, you know.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t let that happen, my love. You’ll make mincemeat out of her. Or antagonize her. I have to think of something to hook her … perhaps I’ll say I heard a rumor about her father having certain problems, and is there something I can do to help him…” His sentence floated away as he put his arm around her and drew her even closer. “I’m suddenly quite optimistic. You’ll see, 1929 is going to be our year, Ceci. Our good luck is just around the corner, darling.”

  Fifty-eight

  “That was a very special piece of roast beef, love,” Howard Pinkerton said. “I think I enjoy Sunday lunch better than any other meal of the week. Except for your duck on Christmas Day. And your Yorkshire pudding is the best in the world.”

  “Well, it better be, Howard, I come from there.” Dorothy laughed, and picked up his plate. “And I have your favorite dessert. Apple crumble.”

  “Spoiling me, that you are, Dottie. And with warm custard, I’ve no doubt.”

  “That’s right. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Howard sat back in his chair, staring at the window. It was a cold December, and snowing outside, the flakes sticking to the glass panes, making little patterns. Intricate, like fancy lace. Life was intricate. And complex. And sometimes he couldn’t help shuddering when he thought of the duplicity and evil in this world, and the bad men, wicked men who committed all kinds of sins and crimes. On the other hand, there were good men
too. Brilliant men. Like that wonder boy who’d flown the Atlantic in a wispy little airplane last year. Charles Lindbergh, his name was, and he had become quite the hero, not only in America, and France, where he’d landed, but here in England and around the world. And Mr. Henry Ford, one of his favorites. Howard enjoyed his Ford cars. And one of their own, James Brentwood, the country’s greatest classical actor, a man of decency and integrity.

  Then there were men like Lawrence Pierce. He stuck in Howard’s mind. He thought of him often, convinced that he had murdered Travers Merton. And that he might have been intent on murdering his wife, Felicity Pierce. The night he was on his way home from his club, and obviously got nabbed by somebody who was an enemy, there had been a bottle of potassium chloride in his jacket pocket. An overdose of that was lethal. And who was it intended for that night, if not for his unsuspecting wife? But he had never made it home and a life had been saved.

  And then there were men like John Meldrew. Unscrupulous, duplicitous, and clever swindlers who took money from ordinary people, lined their own pockets with it. Those were the worst buggers … stealing from the poor to make themselves rich.

  “Here we are, Howard, apple crumble and custard,” Dorothy said, putting a plate in front of him.

  Before he could thank her she had disappeared again, gone to the kitchen. A few seconds later she was back with her own plate, and sat down at the dining table with him.

  The apple crumble was delicious, and he didn’t speak as he ate it slowly, savoring it. But he was going to talk to her shortly. She was troubled, had something on her mind, he knew that. After all, they’d been married for a long time. He knew his Dottie inside and out, and upside down.

  It was over coffee in the sitting room that Howard finally spoke out. After a few sips of his coffee, he put the cup down in the saucer, and said, “You’ve been very preoccupied all weekend, love. You have something on your mind, I just know it. Perhaps talking to me might help?”

  Dorothy let out a really long sigh, but remained silent. She sipped her coffee, puzzling out what to do. To confide in Howard or not? She made the decision. She was going to ask him if he knew about Lord Meldrew, and when he was going to be arrested. Cecily and she needed to know what was going on. Ceci wanted to be in control of her own destiny.