Cavendon Hall (23 page)

Hearing a small mewling sound, Cook now turned away from the stove, where she was boiling pots of leeks and potatoes for a vichyssoise soup, and spotted Polly standing near the pantry door, weeping.

Hurrying over to the little kitchen maid, she looked down at her and said in a kindly tone, “Whatever is it, Polly? What’s upset yer?”

“It’s Malcolm. He says t’house is goin’ ter burn ter cinders next. When we be asleep. Is it?”

“No, it’s not. Malcolm’s daft. Wait ’til I see him, he’ll soon know wot’s wot around here. Come on, sit down, and I’ll get yer a glass of lemonade.”

Several moments later the footman came into the kitchen carrying several silver trays, which he placed at the end of the long kitchen table. He was turning to leave, when Cook said, “A word, Malcolm, if yer don’t mind.”

He swung to face her, muttered in a surly voice, “I do mind. Hanson’s on me back. He needs me upstairs. I don’t have time to mess around here.”

Nell Jackson moved across the kitchen floor at great speed, stood looking up at the footman, her face set in grim lines. “Listen ter me, my lad. And that’s all yer are, just a lad. So drop the airs and graces. If yer don’t stop scaring Polly, I’ll have yer guts for garters. Worse, I’ll tell Hanson, then he’ll
really
be on yer back. Then you’ll know what trouble is. Leave the little one alone, or yer’ll be sorry, my lad.”

“Who the hell do yer think yer are?” Malcolm growled in an angry voice, his face suddenly flushing. “Yer just a cook. I’ll do what I want, when I want to do it.”

“You certainly will not. Not here. This bit of Cavendon Hall is
my
domain, and I run it. I make the rules. Don’t ever think otherwise. Go on, do what yer have ter do, but leave the little lass alone in future.
Understand?
”

Still bright red in the face, the footman left, ignoring Elsie and Mary, who were coming down the stairs. They were giggling when they walked into the kitchen, but immediately sobered when they saw the stern look on Cook’s face.

Cook paid no attention to them. Instead, she went over to her small desk, picked up the menu the countess had made yesterday for today’s lunch. First course, vichyssoise cold soup. Second course, cold poached salmon with mayonnaise and potato salad, and for dessert, a summer pudding made of red fruits with clotted cream. She nodded to herself. It was a lovely lunch for a warm day. Good choices.

*   *   *

Upstairs in the dining room, Gordon Lane glanced up and down. When he saw that he and Peggy were alone, he hurried over to her. “What sort of questions did Inspector Armitage ask you, Peg?”

“He was mostly interested in trespassers on the property, any strangers loitering. I told him I hadn’t seen anybody.”

“You didn’t mention the woods then? The night we heard someone rattling around. You know, the Peeping Tom, you called him.”

“I didn’t. We’d decided to keep quiet about that. You remember, don’t you? We’d have been in trouble with Hanson if he’d known we’d been out that night, and we’d still be in trouble if word got about.”

Gordon nodded. “I know, it’s against the rules of the house. Anyway, the inspector asked me the same thing.
Arson
. That’s what they’ve been thinking. The bobbies, I mean.”

“The bobbies might be right, Gordon. I grew up on a farm, and I’ve never seen a bale of hay catch fire unless a match has been put to it.”

She stopped abruptly when she saw Hanson hurrying into the butler’s pantry, just outside the dining room. Immediately she picked up some service plates, started to place them around the table.

Gordon took his soft, white cloth and began to polish a crystal wine glass.

After Hanson had uncorked a bottle of good white wine, a Pouilly-Fuissé, to let it breathe, he walked into the dining room. “Thank you, Lane, and you too, Swift. You’ve both carried out your duties in a most appropriate manner. Anyway, no trespassers have been seen, according to the inspector, so we must assume the fire was an accident.”

Peggy was silent, wondering if he was correct.

Gordon said in a quiet voice, “You know something, Mr. Hanson, one of the chauffeurs might have gone to the stable yard for a smoke. It was a long night. Maybe a smoker was gagging for a cig, had one, then threw the tab end away when it was still alight.” Gordon shrugged. “You never know what people can do. Careless, that they are.”

Hanson ignored these words. He went over to the table, surveyed it with an eagle eye, then nodded in approval. “Nine for lunch, Lane, so you and Smith will have to be on your toes.”

“Yes, sir,” Gordon answered, glad that he was in the butler’s good books at the moment.

*   *   *

Walter Swann was putting order in one of the earl’s wardrobes in the dressing room when Olive Wilson poked her head around the door.

Walter smiled the moment he saw her laughing green eyes, bright auburn hair, and cheeky grin.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

Walter nodded. He liked Olive. They had always worked well together and she was reliable and diligent. Furthermore, she didn’t have one bad bone in her body.

“I need to be filled in,” Olive explained, slipping into the room.

“What do you mean?” Walter asked, a brow lifting.

“I’m curious … what’s been happening while I’ve been in London?”

“As you know, Mr. Hugo finally came back, and he’s had a very warm welcome. The most tragic thing is that the countess’s sister is very ill. I’m sure you know that, Olive. The countess must have told you already.”

“Yes, she has, and it’s very sad indeed. Her ladyship indicated to me that her sister doesn’t have much time left on this earth.”

“So I’ve heard.” Walter carried a blue suit to the window, where the light was better, to inspect it. He said carefully, “No other news, though, all has been normal. How was London?”

“I didn’t get to see much of the city, I’m afraid. I was stuck in Croydon. After burying Mum, I had a lot to deal with, selling her house, all that sort of stuff. But her affairs weren’t too complicated after all. And to be honest I was pleasantly surprised by the legacy she left me.”

“A windfall?” Walter said, smiling at her.

“Yes, and a good one.”

“Dare I ask how your chap is, Olive? Mr. Dayton?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Olive said in a low, somewhat saddened voice, “You’ll never believe this, Walter. Ted left me. He ran away. With a married woman. They went to Canada … emigrated.”

Walter was flabbergasted, and couldn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, “What a rotten thing to do. I’m sorry, Olive, very sorry. You must be really upset.”

“No, I’m not, to tell you the truth, Walter. I’m relieved, actually. Can you imagine if we’d been married? Since we’re not, I can say good riddance to bad rubbish. And mean it.”

Thirty

T
he house was Georgian. It had been built over 250 years ago, and it was beautiful. It was designed in the style of Andrea Palladio, the great Italian architect, and was the perfect Palladian villa standing on top of a small hill. Immediately below the house there was a man-made ornamental lake in which was reflected an image of the house.

“How clever they were, those architects of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,” Hugo said as he and Daphne walked around the lake. “They usually did put a great house on top of a hill, if the topography was correct, and then made a lake to create a reflection, a mirror image. A bit of clever trickery. Two houses for the price of one. Well, let’s say a house and the perfect image of it.” He laughed, added, “So imaginative.”

Daphne looked closely at Hugo, thinking how intelligent he was. She had never heard anyone say this before about Whernside House. People only ever talked about the beauty of the interiors. She told him this, and went on, “The rooms are lovely, perfectly proportioned, spacious and airy, but the outside is important too, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely, and especially for me,” Hugo confided. “I love an English park like Cavendon, and this park is very similar, although not as large. Let’s go inside, shall we? I can’t wait to see what’s behind those walls. Maybe this place will be my new home.”

Together they walked the short distance up the hill, and were met on the terrace by the caretaker, Mrs. Dodie Grant. “The park’s gorgeous, isn’t it, Mr. Stanton?” she said as Hugo and Daphne walked with her down the terrace to the French doors.

“It is indeed,” Hugo replied. “And I’m impressed with the many ancient trees. They’re just magnificent, most especially the oaks.”

“Yes, they are, and the only other trees I’ve seen like them are in the park at Cavendon,” the caretaker remarked.

“That’s so,” Daphne murmured, walking after the caretaker, going into the library, which opened off the terrace.

“I shall leave you alone to explore,” Mrs. Grant now said. “Lady Daphne has been here before, and I think she knows her way around the house. I’ll be in my little office, off the kitchen, if you need me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grant,” Hugo answered, offering her a pleasant smile. “I plan to take my time, though. I hope that’s all right?”

“It is. Take as long as you wish.”

Once the caretaker had hurried off, Hugo stood in the middle of the library and slowly turned around, taking everything in. “I understand what you meant about perfect proportions, Daphne; this is a wonderful room. The windows and the French doors let in such an amazing amount of daylight.”

“The paneling helps too, Hugo. Mahogany is always too dark, in my opinion. I prefer pale wood.”

“I agree.”

After strolling around the library, discussing various aspects of it, they moved on, went to the drawing room, then the dining room, and toured every room on the ground floor. It seemed to Hugo that they became better and better.

The bedroom floor also had many lovely rooms, as spacious and airy as those downstairs. At one moment, he couldn’t help thinking that the house was rather big … perhaps too big for one man. But then he wasn’t going to be alone forever, was he? He would have a wife.

Only Daphne,
he thought.
She is the only one I want. The house suits her. She looks perfect in it … but then she would be perfect anywhere. She’s so beautiful. A truly luscious woman.

He watched her intently as she walked down the master bedroom to the other end, and looked out one of the windows.

She said, “There’s a lovely view of the lake from here, Hugo. You could have swans, like we do at Cavendon. Yes, what this lake needs are two white swans. They mate for life, you know.”

“I did know that, yes,” he murmured, thinking
we
should mate for life. Totally preoccupied with his thoughts about her, he fully understood he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Would he ever?

This afternoon she was wearing a peach silk dress, similar in tone to the one she had worn when he first met her … yesterday.
Was it only yesterday?
It was. He had arrived here on Friday and today was Saturday. How was that possible? He felt as if he had known her for years. They had spent an evening together at the supper dance; they had breakfasted with the family this morning. There had been the chat on the terrace before lunch, then lunch, and later the drive over to Whernside House in the close proximity of the motorcar. And the long wander around these beautiful rooms for the past hour.

In a truly short space of time they had been in each other’s company rather a lot … and he wanted to be with her constantly. She was not only the most beautiful of women, but intelligent, caring, and charming. He felt completely at ease with her, but had no idea how she felt about him. However, she
was
comfortable with him, he was certain of that. Because he noticed she was relaxed.

He glanced around the bedroom. It was large, but then all of the rooms were. This was a house meant for a man and his wife and their family. Not for a lonely man, a widower, all alone and mooning over a woman far too young for him. A woman he was not likely to ever possess.

She turned around, came walking back, smiling. Sunlight gilded her golden hair, gave it a shimmer, cast a bright radiance across her face. The peach silk rippled around her long legs, was draped across her shapely bosom.

The dizziness returned; his mouth went dry. There had been women before he married; after all he was a virile man. But he had not felt like this about any of them, not even his lovely Loretta, whom he had loved and been faithful to throughout their marriage.

Hugo, fully aware he was besotted with Daphne Ingham, did not know what to do about it. He, a sophisticated, experienced man of the world, was flummoxed.

“Let’s go up to the nursery floor,” Daphne suggested, breaking into his thoughts about her.

Pulling himself together, Hugo said, “Why not?”

They climbed the stairs quickly, and once they entered the nursery, Daphne exclaimed, “Oh! A rocking horse! Just like the one we have at Cavendon.”

She rushed across the room and started pushing the horse. It moved back and forth, and Hugo suddenly remembered the one in the nursery at Cavendon, which he’d ridden on as a child.

“Your rocking horse was a friend of mine, too,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s called Dobbins.”

Daphne nodded and laughed. She stopped the horse moving, and unexpectedly she flung one leg over its back and sat down on it. She started to rock back and forth. Her dress was caught on the horse’s back and had ridden up to expose her leg.

He thought he would go mad with desire for her as she rocked to and fro. The movement had become highly suggestive to him, and he had to turn away. His desire was growing unbearable.

A moment later, Daphne left the horse and joined him near the window. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, “Thank you again, Hugo, for saving Greensleeves.”

“It was a good thing I remembered to put on my shoes when I was running out of my bedroom.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled.

“I was in my slippers when I saw the flames out of the window. I started to run, but stopped to put on my shoes. So when I couldn’t get the stall latch open, I used one of my shoes as a hammer,” Hugo explained.