The Cavendon Women (26 page)

“And she's very lucky that you do, Mark. I will make a great attempt to get you both to the altar.” Her smile was a little quavery, but she took herself in hand, pushed back her flaring emotions. She said, “What else did you wish me to do? You said it was twofold?”

“I want you to talk to the family. It's broken her heart that they sent her to Coventry, cut her out of the inner family circle. She did apologize to everyone at the time, and tried hard to make amends. But it didn't work. Please, Lady Gwendolyn, you are the matriarch of this family. Tell them they must allow her to come back. She does not have all that long left on this planet. It would be so cruel to keep her at arm's length as they've been doing.”

“It would, most especially under the circumstances. I will talk to them, I promise. If necessary, I will telephone Charles in Zurich. I will speak to Daphne tomorrow, and she rules the roost, so to speak, at the moment, with her father away.”

“Thank you so very much, Lady Gwendolyn. I can't tell you how relieved I am that I confided in you.”

“There's just one thing, Mark,” Lady Gwendolyn said, shaking her head, letting out a small sigh. “I will have to tell them she's ill, you know. Otherwise, they may not agree to forgive her and bring her back.”

There was a long silence. “So be it,” he said at last.

“Speak to Lavinia; tell her I would love to see her, be friends. I'll take her to lunch, or she can come here, whichever she prefers. Mark, please tell her I am truly on her side. That I will pray for her.”

“Thank you,” Mark responded, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted now that he had the matriarch of the Inghams on his side.

Lady Gwendolyn ventured, “I wonder if I can ask
you
something now?”

“But of course, anything. How can I be of help?”

“I heard a rather strange thing … that certain aristocrats who are having financial problems are opening their stately homes to the public, to have guided tours. Have you heard of this?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Well, a sort of whiff of it. I know John Bailey slightly. He's the chairman of the National Trust, which was founded mostly to protect open spaces. But now the Trust is talking about helping to preserve country houses and gardens. Not a bad thing, in my opinion.”

“I suppose the guided tours do make money?” Lady Gwendolyn threw him a questioning glance.

“I think so. If you wish, I could endeavor to find out more.”

“I would like that, Mark. But please, let's keep this between us. Don't mention it to anyone, not even Lavinia.”

“You have my word.”

*   *   *

After Mark Stanton left, looking more cheerful than when he had arrived, Lady Gwendolyn went back to her Georgian desk. For a long time she stared at her notebook, but did not pick up her pen. Instead her thoughts took over, and she sat staring out of the window, lost in contemplation.

It had started to rain but she barely noticed it. Her mind was on Lavinia. Knowing her niece the way she did, she realized that Lavinia would not want to be a burden to Mark. It was the way she was made, the Ingham way, actually.

The man plainly loved her, very much so. Surely his love, kindness, and devotion would help her through this terrible ordeal. Perhaps I can make her see this more clearly, she thought, sighing under her breath, filled with love and compassion for her niece.

Lady Gwendolyn fully understood how hurtful it must be for Lavinia to have been cut out of the inner circle of the family. She had been in the center of it all of her life. On the other hand, Lavinia had said things about Charlotte which weren't acceptable. Everyone had been shocked and highly offended by those awful remarks.

A thought struck her. Maybe Lavinia's illness, and the pain she was most likely suffering, had been responsible for the curious nastiness she had displayed. Whatever Lavinia was, she had never been a mean or unkind person. Quite to the contrary.

Now she wondered how she would manage to persuade the family to relent.
Only telling them the truth
. They would have to know that Lavinia was ill, suffering from cancer. Mark had agreed to that; understanding there was no other way, he had given her his permission to reveal the truth.

Slowly it came to her. A plan. She would have to make a point of speaking to every member of the family, but alone. One by one. They would fall in line, she hoped and prayed. She had to be persuasive.

She knew that Lavinia needed a little tender loving care at this time in her life … surely the last part of her life.

Tears suddenly flooded Lady Gwendolyn's eyes, and she wept inconsolably for her niece, no longer able to hold them back. Far too young to be struck down like this, far too young to die. Unable to stem the tears, she rose and went into her bedroom, closed the door, and lay down on the bed. And she continued to weep into her pillow as if her heart would break.

Eventually she calmed herself, got off the bed, and went into the bathroom. She wiped her eyes, washed her face, combed her hair, and put on fresh lipstick. She always wore lipstick in defiance of her age. And life.

Returning to the parlor, she sat down at the old desk and wrote her notes, answered letters, and made several phone calls.

Life must go on, she reminded herself. Later today she would be having tea with Diedre, and then Inspector Pinkerton was coming to see her. With new information about Diedre's problem. She must be on her toes, on top form to deal with them both.

 

Thirty-four

“Dulcie! I didn't expect to see you here,” Diedre exclaimed as she entered Cecily Swann Couture in the Burlington Arcade and closed the door behind her.

“Oh, hello, Diedre. I'm working here for a while. You see, I will soon be opening my own shop, or rather, an art gallery. Ceci's teaching me the ropes, you know, how to handle customers, all that sort of thing.”

Diedre was genuinely surprised. “Opening an art gallery! Goodness, that's awfully ambitious of you, darling. Do you think Papa will approve?”

“I hope so. But it won't be opening until next year, when I've finished my art history course. In the meantime, I'm making my plans and raising capital.”

“
Capital?
” Diedre was even more startled, and a brow lifted eloquently.

“Yes. I have to have funds. To run the art gallery. Cecily has already given me quite a lot of money, and even Great-Aunt Gwen hinted that she might put something up. What about you, Diedre? Do you want to throw in a few quid?”

Diedre laughed; Dulcie had that effect on her these days. “I don't know. How much are we talking about?” There was a pause, then she said, “I might. What's your idea of a few quid?”

“A thousand. Or even two thousand. Pounds.”

“Good God! You can't be serious.”

“Of course I'm serious. This is a business I'm opening, not a silly game I'm playing. Anyway, that amount would certainly expunge the last vestiges of dislike I've harbored for you all these years. Let's not forget, you made my life hell when I was little. Sometimes you even frightened me to death. Two thousand pounds is about right to settle the matter, don't you think?” Dulcie grinned at her cheekily.

Diedre was gaping at her youngest sister, and then she began to chuckle once again, thinking what a nerve Dulcie had. No, it was spunk. And she couldn't help but admire that. Dulcie was an original, no doubt about it.

“So, are you going to invest with me? You'll get shares. And I do intend to make money. Pots of it.”

“You're still a little brat, do you know that? But yes, I will invest with you. Not to clear my reputation with you, but because I admire your ambition. And I also love you. How about three thousand pounds? Is that all right?”

Dulcie jumped up and down, laughing, flung her arms around Diedre, and hugged her tightly. “Thank you, thank you, and your bad reputation has now been expunged from my mind. Forever. I harbor only abiding love for you.”

Swallowing her laughter, Diedre said, “If it's not a rude question, how much did Cecily invest?”

“Ten thousand pounds,” Dulcie replied truthfully, and endeavoring not to look smug. “She said she would give me more, if and when I need it.”

“Ceci must believe in you, and now so do I.” Diedre opened her bag, took out her checkbook, and asked, “Who shall I make this payable to?”

“Me. Cecily's in the process of forming a company for me. In the meantime, it will go into the escrow account. Next week I shall acknowledge your investment properly, and send a letter.”

“I understand,” Diedre murmured, realizing that Cecily Swann had been diligent when advising her little sister about business.

At this moment Dorothy Swann Pinkerton came out from the back office, smiled when she spotted Diedre, and came to greet her with cordiality. “Cecily's waiting for you on the next floor, Lady Diedre, whenever you wish to come upstairs. I think you're going to love the outfits she's picked out for you.”

“I'm sure I will, thank you, Dorothy. I shall come now.”

Looking at her sister, Dulcie asked, “Can we have tea together later, Diedre?”

“Oh dear, we can't. I'm sorry, Dulcie. I'm going to visit Great-Aunt Gwendolyn when I leave here.”

Diedre followed Dorothy up the stairs to the showroom. And she couldn't help thinking that Dulcie could be really incorrigible at times. But no one ever took offense, because she made them laugh.

*   *   *

DeLacy was adding up her checkbook and doing paperwork at her desk when the phone rang. She answered it at once, to discover Lawrence Pierce on the other end of the line.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you, DeLacy,” he said, sounding extremely friendly.

“Not at all,” DeLacy answered. “How is Mama?”

“So much better, my dear. And I'm happy to tell you that Travers Merton is currently finishing a painting, and will soon be available to paint you. He took my word for it that you are a very, very beautiful woman and worth painting. I told him that he must put all his great talents to work.”

DeLacy smiled to herself, enjoying this unexpected compliment. She said, “Oh, I'm so glad. I think it was a lovely idea of yours, Lawrence. And Mama will be surprised; I haven't told a soul.”

“Please don't,” he said swiftly. “I don't want it to get back to her. Now, Merton wants to have a meeting with you, but he's not available this week because he's finishing that other portrait. And neither am I. So sorry about that.”

“That's all right. I know you're in enormous demand, Lawrence, a great surgeon like you. We all understand how brilliant you are.”

“Thank you, my dear. However, I'm going to Paris tomorrow. I have to attend a medical conference, a very important one, where I will be giving the main lecture. I shan't come back until Saturday. So let us make an appointment to meet with Merton next week. When are you available?”

DeLacy flicked through the pages of her engagement book. “I could be free on Wednesday or Thursday.”

“I'd better make it Thursday, just in case I get delayed in Paris. Let me give you Travers Merton's address in Chelsea. And shall we say six o'clock?”

“Oh, you want me to meet him in the evening, do you?”

Suddenly catching a hint of reserve and anxiety in her voice, Lawrence Pierce explained, “That is Merton's preference, actually. He is painting during the day, you see, because of the light. He thought it would be nice to have a drink, a toast to the beautiful Lady DeLacy with champagne, was the way he put it. How does that sound?”

“Lovely, thank you, Lawrence.”

“Do you wish me to escort you next Thursday?”

“Oh no, that's all right. But thank you. I will go there by myself, and meet you there. What is the address?”

He gave it to her, and said, “Until next week, then.” Lawrence hung up after murmuring a good-bye.

DeLacy sat staring at the phone, suddenly feeling nervous about the whole idea of sitting for the painting, although she wasn't really sure why. Travers Merton was famous, had an extraordinary reputation. Was it Lawrence? His friendliness?

Pushing these thoughts away, she realized that she had most important news for Daphne. But how to explain to her sister how she had got information about Lawrence Pierce and his trip to Paris? She couldn't say Wilson told her, because Wilson was in close contact with Daphne. Perhaps she should simply telephone her mother and suggest a visit later this week. It was the only thing she could do unless she confided about the portrait.

Before she lost her nerve, DeLacy dialed her mother's house in Charles Street. It was Ratcliffe, the butler, who answered, and he put her through to her mother immediately.

“Hello, Mama,” DeLacy said. “How are you?”

“I'm much better, DeLacy, and I'm actually up and about. It was so nice to see you, darling.”

“Mama, I was hoping I could come again this week. I have a present for you, and Daphne is longing to see you, and to bring the baby. Annabel is two now, and gorgeous. Please say we can come. Daphne's missed you, and as you know, I have.” DeLacy held her breath and crossed her fingers.

There was a moment of silence before Felicity said, “Why does Daphne want me to meet Annabel? She has refused in the past.”

“The child is two now, and is in London for the first time since she was born, Mama. What a treat for her and for you. Please say yes.”

Felicity, aware that Lawrence would be in Paris, doing God knows what, seeing another woman no doubt, made a sudden decision. “You always have good ideas, DeLacy. Why not? I'd love to end this estrangement with Daphne, and meet my newest granddaughter. Let us do it. Be friends again.”

“Shall we come around four o'clock on Thursday, Mama?”

“That will be fine.” There was a pause, then Felicity said, “How lovely of you to buy something for me, DeLacy. What is it?”