The Cavendon Women (48 page)

“And he's agreed?”

“Absolutely. You know he adores her. In fact, he helped her design it.”

There was a knock on the door, and Dulcie looked into the room. “You have a client downstairs, Cora Ward. And she's very upset, sobbing. I tried to calm her. But you'd both better come.”

*   *   *

The three women went downstairs to the next floor, where the two dressing rooms were located, one at each end of the room. The middle of the floor was furnished simply, with a few chairs, and in the center, there was a platform where the client stood for fittings.

Cecily was alarmed at the sobbing which emanated from the dressing room at the far end. She hurried to it and tapped on the door. “Mrs. Ward, it's Cecily Swann. May I come in?”

“Yes,” Cora Ward answered, between sobs.

Opening the door, Cecily stood there looking at her. “You're awfully upset. I would like to help you if I can. Do you have a problem? Or are you ill?”

The young woman lifted her head, gazed at Cecily, and shook her head.

Cecily had always thought her rather beautiful, with a mass of glorious auburn hair; dark brown eyes, almost black; and a pure white skin. Black Irish, Cecily thought yet again, as she had in the past. Descended from one of those Spanish sailors whose ship had sunk in the Irish Sea during Elizabethan times, and the Spanish Armada invasion.

“Come and sit with us out here, Mrs. Ward. Dorothy will make us some tea. And then perhaps you can tell me what's wrong, if I can help you in some way.”

Nodding her head, Cora stood up, and followed Cecily to the grouping of chairs. Turning to Dorothy, she said, “I didn't try the clothes on, Miss Dorothy. I didn't want to get them soiled. You see, I can't have them.”

“Don't worry about that,” Dorothy answered. “Just sit down and talk to Miss Swann and Lady Dulcie. They're very good listeners. Do you like milk and sugar in your tea?”

“Please,” the young woman said, and sat down in a chair. For a moment she was silent, biting her lip.

Dulcie took the chair next to her. “Do you have a problem with your husband about the clothes, Mrs. Ward? Sometimes men do get a bit tired of paying large sums…” She purposely let her sentence trail away, and looked at Cecily, raised a brow.

Cecily took over, and said in a kind voice, “If that is the case, please don't worry. The clothes were made for you, but your size is fairly standard. Someone else will buy them. I certainly won't force you to take them.”

“Thank you, Miss Swann,” Cora said. She stood up, hurried over to the dressing room, came back with her handbag. Lowering herself into the chair, she opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, and patted her eyes and her face.

“I'm so sorry I've upset everyone, made a scene here,” she said. “But things just suddenly overcame me. I just—” She struggled not to start crying again, swallowed hard and pulled a sheaf of papers out, clutched them to her.

“These are the last bills from you. He won't pay them … I can't. You see, he took the jewelry he'd given me.”

Her black eyes pooled with tears, and she jammed the handkerchief against them, pushed back the sobs rising in her throat.

“From what you're saying, Mrs. Ward, I have the feeling that perhaps your husband may be having financial difficulties. I do understand your problem. Let's not worry about the last bills for the moment. I'm sure things will straighten out for you, and when they do you can pay them at that time.”

“Thank you,” Cora said, and put the bills back in her bag. “You're being extremely nice, Miss Swann.”

A moment later Dorothy came in carrying a tray of tea. Placing it on a table, she filled four cups, added milk and sugar, handed them around.

After sipping her tea, and calming herself, Cora said in a less agitated voice, “I will get a job, Miss Swann, and pay what is owed. Over time. Because he won't. He can't. You see he's lost all his money; things have gone wrong for him.” There was a pause, and she cried angrily, “He's thrown me away, like he has other women in the past…” Feeling the tears rising inside her, Cora paused and drank the tea. She was shaking inside, and hurt. He'd abandoned her without a second thought.

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 Olive 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.