The Cavendon Women (19 page)

“He too died in the war, Lady Gwendolyn.”

“So that theory doesn't work. I would like to get to the bottom of this situation. Obviously Diedre doesn't have any idea who might be endeavoring to harm her with Chinese whispers, so there's no point talking to her. What do you think we should do, Inspector?”

“Keep digging. I do know that Mrs. Palmer had a sister, or perhaps it was a cousin, who helped to care for her when she first became ill. I ought to look into family ties, Lady Gwendolyn. Perhaps a relative may have information that helps.”

“You're right, Inspector. For example, did Laura have a brother? Someone who wants to hurt my great-niece? Or maybe Ralph's family want to punish Lady Diedre, probably in the belief that she ruined Ralph's marriage.”

“I shall work on the matter on my day off next week, m'lady. We'll solve this riddle. Trust me.”

“I do, Inspector. I truly do.”

*   *   *

Once Inspector Howard Pinkerton had left, Lady Gwendolyn went into the small parlor which opened off her bedroom. She immediately picked up the telephone and dialed Vanessa's number, then seated herself at the small writing desk.

After the third ring, the phone was answered, and it was Vanessa herself at the other end of the line.

“It's Aunt Gwendolyn,” she said in her warmest voice. “I just wondered how you were, my dear, and whether or not your official engagement to Richard was imminent.”

“How nice of you to phone me, Aunt Gwen. Actually, Richard and I are planning to announce it next week. In
The Times,
of course.”

“That's wonderful news, congratulations, my dear. I would like to give an engagement party for you, Vanessa, unless someone else has already offered to do that.”

“Oh my goodness, Aunt Gwen! That's so kind of you, and I know Richard would like that as much as I would. Thank you.”

“Then it shall be done. I just need to have a date from you, and then we will plan the party together. Now tell me, how is Lavinia? Is she feeling any better?”

“She is, from what I gather. That little romance, which started at Charles's wedding, is still going strong … with Mark Stanton, you know.”

“Oh yes, I do remember. Daphne pointed that out to me. She also said that Diedre and Paul Drummond appeared to be somewhat attracted to each other that same evening.” Gwendolyn forced a chuckle, and asked, “Did that romance blossom too?”

“I saw Daphne for lunch yesterday, and she told me that Diedre had been out with Paul several times. But she didn't know if it was anything more than a friendship. It would be nice if Diedre had met the right man at long last.”

She spoke for a short while longer with Vanessa before hanging up. She was pleased she had all the information she needed to understand what was happening in the family.

Gwendolyn remained seated at her French
bureau plat,
staring out of the window, thinking about Diedre. She came to the conclusion that she must get Diedre married off, no matter what. That would be Diedre's salvation, and secure her future. But was Paul Drummond the right man?

Her thoughts stayed with her great-niece, whom she had always loved, almost as if she were her own daughter. They were alike in various ways, of similar build and coloring, and, of course, Diedre had the same acerbic wit, and was ready to offer her opinions as boldly as she herself usually did.

Although she had managed to conceal her feelings, Gwendolyn had been somewhat startled by Howard Pinkerton's revelations about Diedre and Laura Upton. However, being nonjudgmental, she was not concerned with Diedre's love affair with Laura. What saddened her was that Diedre had not trusted her enough to confide after Laura's untimely death. At the time she must have needed love and support in her sorrow. How isolated and alone she must have felt, and then again after Maxine's sudden death, and the strange circumstances surrounding it.

Gwendolyn's thoughts went to Paul Drummond, who handled Hugo's business in New York. She had met him with Hugo and Daphne. He was a fine man, likable, and full of charm. Anyone whom Hugo valued as much as he did Paul had her stamp of approval.

She reached for the phone, having the sudden compulsion to telephone Diedre, but changed her mind. She must let things take their natural course. In the meantime, she would start to make plans for Vanessa's engagement party.

 

Twenty-five

They sat together at a table near a window overlooking the Thames. The dining room at the Savoy was busy, and as Miles glanced around he saw that everyone was smartly dressed, especially the women, who wore stylish gowns and jewels. It was quite a glittering evening this particular Friday.

But to him there was not one woman in this room who could compare to Cecily. She was lovelier than ever tonight, her complexion peaches-and-cream perfect, her dark hair burnished with auburn lights. She wore a gray lace frock, with silver threads running through the weave, and crystal drop earrings that sparkled like her lavender-gray eyes. She was incomparable.

“Miles, you're staring at me so hard, as if you'd never seen me before,” she murmured, smiling at him, shaking her head.

“I know … it's because I don't think I've ever seen you looking as beautiful. Oh, you've always been beautiful to me, I even thought that when we were little. But you've never been like this, not really. You are radiant.” He reached for her hand, and brought it to his lips, kissed it. “You are the most perfect woman.”

At this moment the waiter stepped over to the table and refilled their champagne flutes. Miles picked up his glass and so did Cecily. “Here's to you. And me. And us,” he said, clinking the rim of his flute against hers.

She smiled at him and took a sip of champagne.

He held his breath for a moment as he saw the orb of the full moon floating high in the dark sky, just immediately above her head. He couldn't help exclaiming, “Someone's hung the moon for you tonight, Ceci. It's shining right above you.”

She turned her head to look through the window, saw it for herself. And felt a cold shiver run through her. She recalled what Genevra had said to her once years ago:

Full moon shines on glass.

Shines on water.

Shines on you.

She had asked the gypsy girl many times what she meant, but Genevra would never explain.

He gazed at her, reached out, and took her hand in his. After a moment, he murmured, “It's so nice, just sitting here like this, listening to Carroll Gibbons and his romantic music … I could sit here forever.”

Cecily leaned back in her chair, studying him, thinking that he looked less tense. Certainly he was more relaxed tonight, even though the meeting had gone badly with Clarissa. And especially since he had believed his wife would agree to a divorce. For some reason, she had believed the opposite. Poor Miles, she thought. Six years of hell, with nothing to show for it. A bleak future ahead without his freedom.

No, it doesn't have to be bleak, she suddenly thought. Aunt Charlotte was right. He was only doing his duty when he married Clarissa, doing what had been planned for him since before he had been born.

Even though Cecily had been more friendly, warmer to him, a bit of a grudge had lingered in her. Now, unexpectedly, it was gone; even the hurt had evaporated. She felt lighter, happier, and she gripped his hand tighter.

He looked across at her. “What is it? What are you thinking? You've been so quiet.”

“I was wondering what I could give you as a present, and now I know. I am going to give you the books! The leather-bound books in my flat. They're the kind of history books you love.”

Miles was taken aback. “You can't give them to me, Cecily. They're worth a fortune.”

“Yes, I can. I can. They're mine. I want you to have them. They're all about Julius Caesar … they're meant for you.”

*   *   *

Miles asked Cecily to dance, and she agreed. Now he led her out onto the dance floor, held her tightly, but not too close to him. He was afraid she would be annoyed if he did that. He didn't want to step over the line.

She had been so much more relaxed with him lately, not so cold and aloof. And tonight she had almost been like her old self, obviously attempting to make him feel better. He must maintain the status quo.

“Thank you for being so nice,” he murmured against her hair. “It's been a lovely evening with you, Ceci.”

“I wanted it to be fun,” she whispered back. “And you needed a happy evening. So did I.”

The slow foxtrot finished and abruptly the tempo of the music changed. Suddenly everyone was dancing the Charleston, Cecily included.

Miles stared at her. She was laughing, full of gaiety. He felt so heartened that he too took up this latest craze, and adroitly moved around Cecily, hopping and swaying as if his life depended on it.

*   *   *

Later, when they returned to the table, Cecily leaned forward and said, “I had some wonderful news from Dorothy today. I've had my biggest year ever in business.”

A huge smile spread across Miles's face, and he exclaimed, “Congratulations! And why didn't you tell me earlier?”

She shrugged and laughed. “I wanted to just be … with you … enjoying being together.”

“Well done, my darling Ceci.”

“Thank you. I was startled because Dottie told me we made a lot of money from the accessories, which I've been designing for the last six years, but more like a hobby.”

Looking into her eyes, he murmured, “You are the most remarkable person I've ever known, Cecily Swann.”

 

Twenty-six

Miles sat in front of the fire in the sitting room, holding the book. Earlier he had put a match to the paper and wood chips in the grate, since it had turned cold, and the fire burned brightly now, taking the chill out of the air.

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and finally looked down at the book, his right hand moving across the beautiful burgundy leather. Then he opened it and turned the pages. It was in perfect condition, a valuable book, and he did not want to take it, especially since it was part of a set. He knew he had no choice. She would be hurt if he refused to accept it.

She had put it in his hand when they had returned to her flat in Charles Street, after their lovely evening at the Savoy. Now she was in the kitchen making tea. She had given him a cognac when they had first got back, because he had told her he felt chilled to the bone. He reached for the balloon, took a swallow of the Napoleon brandy, then put it back on the table next to him.

He realized she had given him the book because she wanted him to have a special memory of tonight. They had often done that as children. And it was a good memory after a bad day. The evening had been unique, had made him feel happy, an emotion long absent in his sad life.

He smoothed his hand over the book again, liking its silkiness. It was about the childhood of Julius Caesar, a childhood he knew by heart. But he would read it again, because he couldn't help himself. History had been his best subject at Eton; it was a hobby these days, one he shared with Harry. Her brother also found comfort, solace, and wisdom in the histories of great men, long dead. It was a bond between them.

Hearing her footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. She had changed her clothes, was wearing the loose casual trousers she had made so popular with women the world over, and a floaty matching top, and he saw why they were such a favorite. Comfort, he thought.

“Here I am,” she exclaimed. “And I've brought lemon slices and a pot of honey for the tea. You know how prone to colds you are.”

He smiled inwardly at her comment, a line she had learned from Mrs. Jackson throughout their childhood. Cook had fussed over him like a mother hen. Seemingly it was Cecily's turn to do the same.

Placing the tray on a circular table near the window, she poured cups of tea, plopped in teaspoonsful of honey, and brought the cups over to the fireplace.

“It's warmer now, with the fire,” she murmured, and sat back in the chair. Her eyes fell on the book. “Every time I think you need a gift to cheer you up, I shall give you another book. There are ten in the set.”

“I know that, Ceci, and that's why I didn't want to take this one. They are too valuable, really they are. You must keep them.”

“Oh pooh! They're meant for you. And I didn't pay much for them anyway.”

“Because the woman probably didn't know their true value.”

“But they are mine now, and I can do what I want with them.”

Miles sighed, placed the book on the table, and drank some of the tea. After a moment, he asked, “Why did you buy this flat in Chesterfield Street?”

Looking puzzled, she frowned. “It was the right size for me, with four bedrooms. I can have Harry and my parents to stay, and I still have the fourth bedroom, which I use as an office. Don't you like it?”

“I do, yes, very much. It's a nice size, you're correct, Ceci.” A small smile flickered on his mouth. “I remember how you often said you wanted to live in Mayfair when you were living with your aunt Dorothy in Kensington.”

She laughed. “And now I do.”

“I also recall one night, years ago, when I walked up Curzon Street, feeling morose, somber, and ready to run as far away from Mayfair as I could get. And suddenly I was in South Audley Street, and standing outside your little hole-in-the-wall. I think I'd gone there purposely, just to feel your vibrations. It was late at night; I knew you weren't there. But I hoped your spirit was floating about. I just wanted to be near you. There was a sign on the door. It said ‘Shop for Rent.' I couldn't believe it. I panicked, couldn't imagine where you'd gone, I was so worried about you. I knew then, without the slightest doubt, that I would worry about you for the rest of my life. And love you for the rest of my life—”