Читать книгу: «The Cavendon Luck», страница 2
TWO
When Cecily turned the bend in the dirt path, she immediately saw Genevra, who was sitting on the steps of the wagon, waiting for her. As usual, she was wearing an old Cecily Swann frock, given to her by Cecily’s mother. It was red-and-white striped cotton, a summer frock, and it suited her.
The gypsy raised her hand and waved.
Cecily waved back, smiling. She noticed that there was a wooden chair waiting for her. This thoughtfulness pleased her.
Genevra had an excited expression on her face, an expectancy about her. She was thirty-nine, the same age as Miles, though she did not look her age, appeared to be much younger. She was still a good-looking woman – dark, exotic – and her abundant hair was as raven-black as it had been in her youth.
When they had moved their wagons to the lower field five years ago, Genevra had invited Cecily into her wagon for the first time for a glass of mint tea. Not wishing to hurt her, feeling bound to accept this invitation, Cecily had gone inside and had discovered, to her enormous surprise, a treasure trove.
Genevra was an artist, and a talented one at that. The paintings on the walls of the extremely neat living area had astonished Cecily. They were landscapes of Cavendon for the most part, and executed in brilliant, vivid colours. Later, DeLacy had told her they would be categorized as Naïve art.
Yet they had a style, a genuinely unique style of their own. Genevra’s style, Cecily called it. The paintings were bold, commanding, caught the eye at once. But it was the shimmering look of the bright colours, the odd sheen on the canvas that captivated everyone, and at once.
Cecily had soon found out that Genevra had been painting since her childhood. Her brother Gervaise had encouraged her, and when she was older he had bought her canvases and oil paints when he could afford them. She was totally self-taught, a natural and gifted artist.
Cecily had instantly asked if she could buy one of them. Genevra had refused that day. Instead she had offered her a painting as a gift. In the end, Cecily had chosen one that was evocative, and very meaningful to her. The painting showed a corner of the high wall in the rose garden, and a profusion of late-blooming roses, a fusion of many different pinks and faded reds against a portion of the grey stone wall.
Genevra came down the steps to greet Cecily; as always she did a little bob, a sort of curtsey, as she took Cecily’s outstretched hand in hers.
‘I put out a chair, Mrs Miles,’ Genevra said, indicating the wooden chair.
‘Thank you,’ Cecily murmured, and sat down.
Genevra returned to her place on the steps.
Cecily stared at Genevra, frowning. She thought she looked a bit pinched, tired. ‘You haven’t been sick again, have you?’ she asked worriedly. She had not seen her for ten days.
Genevra smiled faintly. ‘No. Not sick. Good.’
‘You look a bit peaked to me.’
‘I’m not sick, liddle Ceci,’ Genevra muttered, eyeing her knowingly. ‘I’ll be first ter knows that. Then I’ll tell yer, and yer’ll be the second ter knows. Not dying. Not yet.’
‘Don’t be cross. I care for you, Genevra.’
‘Aye, I knows that, Mrs Miles.’
‘I’m going away on Monday with Miles. We’re going to visit Lady Daphne and Mr Hugo in Zurich. If you need anything whilst I’m gone, my mother will help you.’ She smiled at her. ‘You just have to go and see her.’
Genevra nodded. ‘Yer going on holiday. Mrs Alice tell me that.’
‘Just for two weeks. Miles needs a rest …’ Cecily’s voice trailed off. She had suddenly noticed a strange look on Genevra’s face. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’
‘The sight. It just comes over me. Yer knows that.’
Cecily nodded, remained quiet. After all these years, she knew she had to be still. And mute.
‘Yer’ll have ter be brave, liddle Ceci, as yer’ve allus been. There’ll be deaths. War is coming. Big war. Bad times. Terrible things coming.’ The Romany woman halted, closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them, added, ‘Yer’ll rule at Cavendon. I’ve allus knowed that.’
‘Why now?’ Cecily asked, a frown settling on her face.
‘What do yer mean?’ Genevra sat staring at Cecily.
‘Why are you telling me this now? Usually you’re rather secretive, not always so open.’
‘Cos I knows yer believe me, tek me predictions as truth … understand ’em.’
‘I do, yes, that’s true, Genevra.’
‘The future. Yer’ll have that, Ceci. And yer will rule.’
‘With Miles?’
Genevra did not answer, staring up at Cavendon Hall, towering on the hill high above them. The golden house, shimmering in the sunshine. A blessed house.
‘When you sound strange like this I don’t really understand what you mean,’ Cecily protested, returning Genevra’s hard stare.
‘Bad times are coming.’
‘Do you mean the war?’
Genevra inclined her head. ‘Life. Hard times. Bad times. Death, destruction, sorrow, pain. Much suffering. All coming.’
Turning her head, Genevra looked at Cavendon once more. Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. The golden sheen which usually gilded the walls had vanished. It was no longer golden. It was doomed. The great stately home was covered in shadows … shadows growing darker and darker. In her mind’s eye she saw huge black clouds floating around its rooftop. She heard thunder; there were streaks of white lightning.
After a while, Genevra finally opened her eyes, said in a low tone, ‘Turmoil. Chaos.’ She shook her head, became silent, and wiped the tears from her face with her fingertips.
There was a long silence.
Genevra smiled faintly. ‘Swanns rule.’
Cecily said, ‘Cavendon has been lucky over the past few years. The luck will last, won’t it? Nothing will change, will it?’
‘It allus does. Good luck. Bad luck.’ Genevra shook her head, and leaned forward, her gaze penetrating. ‘It comes. It goes. Nobody knows … Luck belongs ter nobody … luck belongs ter life. Nowt yer can do about it, liddle Ceci. Do yer understand me?’
‘I do, Genevra, and I thank you.’
THREE
When the front door suddenly flew open, Alice sat up with a start, and then instantly jumped to her feet as Cecily walked in, a huge smile on her face. Hurrying forward, Cecily took hold of her mother and kissed her, hugged her close.
‘Sorry I’m late, Mam,’ she said, and then turned and closed the door behind her.
‘I was just doing paperwork; no problem, Ceci,’ Alice murmured, and mother and daughter walked into the room together. They sat down in two armchairs facing each other, and Alice said, ‘You look bonny today, love, but pale pink has always suited you.’
‘I know, and thanks. You look pretty good yourself, Mam.’
‘Of course I do, I’m wearing a dress my daughter made for me. I like it, and it’s comfortable and cool on a hot day like this.’
‘I’ve made another version of it, also in cotton,’ Cecily confided. ‘It’s a sort of wrap dress, almost like a robe, and it ties at one side. I’m doing the same style for the winter collection made of light cashmere. I’ll bring you several when they’re ready.’
‘Thank you, love, you’re always so thoughtful.’
‘Don’t be silly, you’re my mother, you can have anything you want from me. Anyway, when we spoke on the phone yesterday you said you were making a plan. But for what?’
‘I came up with an idea. Creating a communal allotment for the village. I went straight to Charlotte and asked her for a field. And she asked the Earl, and he agreed it was a wonderful idea, very practical, and he immediately gave me a field.’
Alice nodded as she finished her sentence, looked a little pleased with herself. ‘That’s how it came about, and it was as simple as that … just asking.’
Alice stood up and beckoned to Cecily. ‘Come over to my desk, and pull up a chair. I want to show you my plan.’
Within seconds the two of them were sitting side by side at Alice’s desk, where her Women’s Institute papers were spread out, along with the detailed plan of the field that was going to be the communal allotment. This would be planted and tended by the women who wished to do this work.
Turning to Alice, Cecily said, ‘It is a practical idea. Food will be a problem if war comes.’
‘When it comes,’ Alice corrected.
‘Too true,’ Cecily agreed, and then said in a slightly odd tone, ‘you could just as easily have asked Miles for a field, or even your son. Harry does run the estate with Miles, you know.’
‘You’re right, I could have done that, Ceci. But I don’t think that would have been the correct thing. The Sixth Earl is still the Sixth Earl; he’s not dead yet, and it is his land. I thought it only proper to approach him, via Charlotte.’
‘I understand now, Mam,’ Cecily answered, offering Alice a warm smile.
Looking down at the large sheet of paper, she saw how cleverly the field had been designed to work as an allotment.
Each square patch was marked, and the name of the vegetable to be grown there written in. ‘Potatoes, carrots, parsnips,’ Cecily read out. ‘Onions, sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower …’ She stopped, suddenly laughing, and shook her head. ‘You’re a master planner, Mother! Harry must get his talent for gardening and landscaping from you.’
‘Goodness me, he’s much cleverer than I am,’ Alice murmured, and turned in her chair. She gave her daughter a knowing look. ‘Did you manage to speak to Harry? You know … about that … person.’
Shaking her head, Cecily replied in a low voice, ‘No, I didn’t. We were supposed to have a chat earlier this afternoon.’
‘His affair with that scandalous woman has started to leak out!’ Alice exclaimed, her tone suddenly turning angry. ‘He thinks it’s a big secret, but it isn’t, and your father now knows about it. He’s furious. You know how much His Lordship abhors scandal. And scandal is about to flare around your brother.’
‘I agree with everything you’re saying, Mother, but he is a grown man. Forty years old to be exact. He’ll tell me it’s none of my business.’
‘But you will speak to him?’ Alice sounded anxious, and there was a concerned look in her eyes.
‘I will, I promise. I’ll do it tomorrow morning,’ Cecily reassured her mother.
Alice nodded, and pursed her lips. Her voice was more even and steady when she said, ‘He ought to know better than to get involved with her. Pauline Mallard is a married woman. Furthermore, she’s an American heiress, a socialite, living the high life in London and New York. And now in Harrogate. But I suppose you know all this.’
‘Well, yes, I do, Mam.’
‘In the end she’ll make a fool of him, you’ll see. And, not only that, she’s a lot older than he is.’
‘But rather beautiful, I hear. A stunning redhead,’ Cecily interjected.
‘And rather promiscuous … that’s what I hear,’ Alice shot back, obviously wanting to have the last word.
‘After Genevra gave me the message, she said something rather odd right out of the blue. She told me not to say anything to Harry about the woman. I was really taken aback. Genevra then added that she would drop him, that she was not his destiny, some other woman was.’
Alice stared at her. ‘How could Genevra know about Pauline Mallard? Do you think he brought her here to the house? And that Genevra saw them together?’
‘No, I’m sure not. However, I was struck by the way she said it, so sure of her sight, as she calls it, her visions of the future. And then there was her use of the word “destiny”.’ Cecily’s voice was puzzled.
She cleared her throat, and went on slowly, ‘Genevra has her own particular speech pattern, Mam. It’s jerky, rather staccato, and mostly her sentences are composed of small words. So I found it curious that she even knew a word like destiny, since she doesn’t read.’
‘Oh but she does!’ Alice exclaimed.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I taught her.’
Cecily was so surprised she gaped at Alice. ‘When did you do that and why didn’t you ever tell me?’
‘It never occurred to me. It was just sort of … happenstance. After you’d gone off to live with Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Howard in London, I’d dropped off some of your old dresses for her. She came over to thank me, and asked about you. She was very intense, and it struck me then that she had a strong connection to you, Ceci, and was concerned about you and your wellbeing. I showed her some of those first little stories about your designs in the fashion magazines. That’s when she confessed she couldn’t read. I taught her. She learned to read at my knee.’
‘How lovely of you to do that.’ Cecily was impressed and it showed on her face.
‘She was very appreciative.’ Alice hesitated for a few moments before finally asking, ‘Did you ever feel there was this … connection between you, Cecily?’
‘I did. I still do. She told me twenty-five years ago that Swann will rule. So yes, there is this connection between us.’
‘What did she actually say twenty-five years ago?’ Alice asked, filled with curiosity.
‘It wasn’t actually what she said … I ran into her one day on the dirt road. She took a long twig and drew a square with a bird perched on top of it in the dirt. I asked her what it meant, and she wouldn’t tell me. Then she said it was nowt, nothing, and skipped off.’
‘And today she told you what it meant?’
‘No, she didn’t. I sort of figured it out years ago. The square represented Cavendon Hall and the bird a swan. What she was saying in the drawing was that the Swanns and the Inghams would link up.’
Alice did not respond for a moment and then murmured quietly, ‘She couldn’t have known then that your life would turn out the way it did. That you, a Swann, would marry the son of an earl. So there must be something to her claim to have the sight, to have the ability to foresee the future. You believe her predictions, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I have always believed them, and I always will.’ Cecily took hold of her mother’s hand. ‘She’s proved it to me. She gave us a piece of paper at our wedding. Swann Rules, it said, with the drawing next to it.’
After Cecily left, Alice went out to the garden, carrying her watering can. As she moved around the beds, giving the flowers water, her thoughts remained on the Swanns and Inghams.
Blood. It was her three grandchildren who had the mixed blood: Ingham and Swann. Like Cecily, she sometimes wondered if there really had been other members of the two families who had produced an offspring. Or maybe two. She had no idea.
Only Charlotte Swann Ingham would know that. She had the record books that dated back for centuries, locked up in a safe, a safe now at Cavendon Hall. It was in her dressing room. After telling her this, Charlotte had handed her a sealed envelope, and told her the new code for the safe was inside. ‘Please give it to Cecily and tell her to lock it up,’ Charlotte had then instructed her, and this Alice had done.
Putting the watering can down, lowering herself on to the garden seat, Alice sat for a moment or two looking out towards the moors. It was the end of July on Sunday, the first day of August on Monday. That was when the heather would start to bloom; within a week or two the moors would look like a rolling sea of lavender.
David, Cecily’s first son, had eyes the colour of the moors, the lavender eyes so unique to the Swanns. Otherwise, he was the spitting image of his father, Miles, with his features. Walter had them too, but he had also inherited Cecily’s colouring and her chiselled features. As for five-year-old Venetia, she was a true Ingham through and through, with her golden hair and bright blue eyes. Alice smiled to herself, thinking how much Venetia resembled Lady Dulcie when she had been the same age.
Grandchildren. They were very precious, and she would love to have more. Harry wanted a family. He had said that a few months ago. He would like to be married, he had confided, so he could have a child – several children, in fact.
He had the makings of a good father; there was no doubt in her mind about that. But Pauline Mallard, believed to be forty-eight, was certainly past the child-bearing age. A spurt of anger erupted in Alice. Instantly, she pushed it away. She wasn’t going to dwell on that woman.
Within a few seconds her natural compassion overcame her anxiety about Harry, and her annoyance with him. She suddenly felt a rush of sympathy for her son.
FOUR
Greta Chalmers put the receiver down and let her hand rest on it for a moment. She felt as if she had a tight band around her chest and tears brimmed in her green eyes. She swallowed them back and blinked a few times.
She had never heard her father sounding so despairing and morose, and she knew the reason why. He saw no way out of his predicament, no solution to his dilemma. At the end of their conversation he said, ‘I’m trapped. We’re trapped. There’s nothing anybody can do, liebling.’ After telling her he loved her, that they all loved her, he had hung up.
And she loved them: her father, her stepmother, Heddy, her half-sister, Elise, and half-brother, Kurt. They lived in Berlin but, being Jewish, they had now come to realize that they must leave as soon as possible, escape the dangers of the monstrous Third Reich. They wanted to come to England; they knew they had a home with her until they found a place of their own. They had passports but no visas, no travel papers. They were stuck, as her father had just said.
Greta’s mind raced. So many ideas were jostling around for prominence. She glanced at her watch. It was now almost three thirty and Cecily would be coming back into the office at any moment. Taking control of herself as best she could, Greta let go of the phone, sat up straighter, arranged the collar of her cotton dress, and smoothed one hand over her dark brown hair.
Reaching for the last letter she had typed she put it in the folder, reminded herself that she must be composed when Cecily arrived. She knew that Cecily worried about her, and her father’s problems. But so far she had not come up with a solution. No one she knew had, and she did have a number of good friends in London. Her employer had also turned out to be a true friend who had her best interests at heart.
The moment they met Greta and Cecily had ‘clicked’, as Cecily termed it. They had taken to each other at once and had been on an even keel ever since. Never a cross word, never a step out of place on both their parts.
Cecily often joked about their compatibility, the way they were frequently thinking the same thing at the same time. ‘May babies, that’s why,’ Cecily had said after their first year of working together. They were both born in the first week of May, but Cecily was six years older than Greta.
She loved her job as Cecily Swann’s personal assistant, and even though there was a lot of work, her boss worked just as hard as she did. They found satisfaction in their careers, and sometimes Greta shuddered when she remembered how she almost hadn’t gone for the interview at the shop in the Burlington Arcade. Cold feet, timidity perhaps, or even her lack of experience had got in the way for a while. But in the end she had gathered up her courage and gone to meet the famous designer. And she had got the job. She had started working at Cecily Swann Couture the next day.
Following Cecily’s earlier advice, Greta took her small notebook out of her handbag and picked up a pencil. She would make a list, as Cecily had suggested, writing down everything she had to do to make her house ready for her family.
Yesterday, when she had arrived at Cavendon, Cecily had told her to be positive about the future, reassuring her that her family would make it out of Nazi Germany eventually, that she would have to take them in. Greta wanted to do that, and to cherish them.
Many times in the last few years, Greta had wished her husband, Roy, had still been alive. He would have taken care of this situation in no time at all, made short shrift of it. But he was dead and gone. Five years ago now, and he had been far too young to die.
Bending her head, Greta began to make a list of extra things she would have to buy to make her house in Phene Street more comfortable.
‘Here I am!’ Cecily cried, hurrying into Greta’s office. ‘Sorry I’m late when you’ve got your train to catch.’
‘I’ve plenty of time. Goff said we should leave at four thirty for me to get the six o’clock to King’s Cross.’
‘So we can relax for a moment, and have a chat. I’ll sign my letters and go over my appointments with you. What do I have in London on Monday?’
‘There aren’t too many,’ Greta answered. ‘I kept the day light since you’re leaving for Zurich on Tuesday.’
After signing her letters, Cecily looked across at her assistant and said carefully, ‘Did you manage to get hold of your father?’
‘I did, and he sounded a bit down in the dumps, to be honest.’ Greta was surprised her voice was so steady.
Cecily nodded. ‘Of course he did, he’s troubled and frustrated. But look, I’m going to try to help you solve this. And you know what I’m like when I get my teeth into something.’
Despite her worries, Greta laughed. ‘A dog with a bone.’
‘That’s true,’ Cecily answered. ‘When there’s a problem, I have to solve it – and quickly, before it gets out of hand. I need help with this matter, Greta. I’m sure you realize that. I do have someone I can talk to, who might be able to guide me in the right direction.’
Greta simply nodded. She had total faith in her, knew that if anyone could help it was Cecily – this beautiful and talented woman whom she trusted totally.
Cecily was crossing the grand entrance hall at Cavendon a little later, when she heard the sound of music. Instantly she stopped, stood still for a moment listening intently.
The magical sounds were coming from the yellow drawing room and the piano, a recent addition, was being played by Daphne’s daughter, Annabel. No one else could conjure up such miraculous music on the ivory keys the way she did.
The fourteen-year-old had been playing since her childhood. It was her passion and she was superb. Cecily was forever telling Daphne how gifted she was. And good enough to be a concert pianist one day, she always insisted.
Daphne merely smiled serenely, no doubt because she believed the same thing yet did not want to admit it. The lovely Daphne, to whom Cecily was devoted, was far too refined to push her children forward for accolades. But the five of them were talented and very clever. Alicia wanted to be an actress, Charlie a journalist, and the twins intended to join Hugo in the world of finance.
Continuing across the hall, knowing she was yet again running late for afternoon tea, Cecily headed for the drawing room. She opened the door and stood on the threshold, peering in.
She let out a small sigh of relief when she realized she was not the last after all. For once. Aunt Charlotte and the Earl were already there, and so was Lady Gwendolyn. Annabel, of course, was still sitting at the piano, starting a new piece. It was Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’. Obviously Diedre had arrived from London earlier than usual. She sat between Lady Gwen and her son, Robin, who was eleven, and chattering to her, filling her in. As he usually did, he was spending the summer at Cavendon with his cousins.
Her own brood, David, Walter and Venetia, were at the children’s table on the other side of the drawing room. This was an innovation of Charlotte’s, who believed they would enjoy afternoon tea better if they had their own private table. The children had jumped at the idea. There were two empty chairs, obviously for Robin and Annabel.
As she stepped forward, Cecily heard a little shriek of delight. Venetia had spotted her. A small bundle of joy composed of an angelic face, blonde curls and bright blue eyes hurtled towards her, her face wreathed in smiles.
Crouching down, Cecily caught her five-year-old daughter in her arms and hugged her. She whispered, ‘You see, I kept my promise. I’m not the last today.’
Venetia’s blue eyes sparkled with laughter and her face was filling with dimples. She whispered back, ‘Daddy will be last, Mummy. LAST!’
Suppressing her own laughter, Cecily looked at her and shook her head. ‘Maybe not, darling. Where’s Aunt DeLacy? Is she hiding somewhere in the room, do you think?’
Giggling, shaking her head, Venetia whispered, ‘She’ll be the last?’
‘I think so,’ Cecily answered. This was a little game between them. Cecily was generally always the last to arrive for tea, and Miles teased her about it. Her little daughter would protest about his teasing and now Venetia was obviously thrilled to bits that her mother had arrived before her father this afternoon.
Taking hold of Venetia’s hand, Cecily led her into the room, smiling at everyone and greeting them affectionately. Walking over to the children’s table, she kissed her sons, David and Walter, who were grinning at her and nodding their heads. They were also pleased she had made it before Miles; that was very obvious. Cecily was highly amused.
Robin stood up and went to kiss her, then hurried over to the children’s table, followed by Annabel. Cecily bent over and kissed Lady Gwendolyn, and said, ‘How beautiful you look in your purple frock, Great-Aunt. It still suits you.’
‘Thank you, Cecily; I must tell you, it’s several years old. But then you know that.’ Lady Gwendolyn chuckled, went on. ‘I’m very thrifty, and I keep all of the clothes you make for me. It’s a good thing your other clients don’t, or you’d be out of business in no time at all.’
Nodding her agreement, Cecily sat down between Lady Gwen and Diedre. She turned to Diedre, said sotto voce, ‘Can I speak to you later? It’s a work thing.’
Diedre merely nodded her agreement.
Looking across the room at her, the Earl said warmly, ‘Thank you, Ceci, for allowing Greta to do those few letters for me this morning. It was a great help.’
Greta often lent a hand and had a particular rapport with Diedre and Robin, whom she’d helped get through the terrible months after the death of Paul Drummond, Diedre’s husband and Robin’s father.
‘It wasn’t a problem: she was happy to help out.’
Charles Ingham gazed at his daughter-in-law, a loving expression in his eyes. He treated her like one of his own daughters these days, and he admired her tremendously. ‘I feel sorry for Greta. She worries so much about her family, and feels helpless to do anything. Has she heard from her father lately?’
‘As a matter of fact, she spoke to him today. Professor Steinbrenner believes they are stuck in Berlin for the moment.’
The Earl’s face was serious when he began, ‘Things are bad in Europe. And we—’
Charlotte interrupted him swiftly. In a low voice, she murmured, ‘Let’s not discuss Europe and what’s going on … in front of the children.’ She had just noticed that David and Robin were listening intently to their grandfather’s conversation. ‘Little pigs have big ears,’ she finished in a low tone.
Before Charles could make a response, the door flew open and DeLacy came into the room in a rush, looking flushed and out of breath.
‘Hello, everyone!’ she exclaimed, and went immediately to her father and Charlotte, kissing them both. Hurrying across the floor, she went over to Lady Gwendolyn and, sitting down next to her, squeezed her hand, leaned in and kissed her cheek. ‘You asked me for news of Dulcie and James when you phoned me at the gallery the other day. I’m happy to tell you I received a letter from Dulcie this morning—’
‘Sorry, Charlotte, sorry Papa for being late. Couldn’t avoid it. I had to take an important phone call,’ Miles announced, entering the room on the heels of DeLacy.
‘It’s not a problem, Miles,’ the Earl said.
‘You’re forgiven,’ Charlotte added, her voice warm and welcoming. He had always been a favourite of hers.
‘You’re late, you’re late, you’re late,’ sang a chorus of young voices, all sounding very gleeful indeed.
Venetia began to giggle, and so did Cecily, and just at that moment the door opened and Hanson strode in, looking purposeful.
Focusing on Lord Mowbray, he asked, ‘Shall we serve tea, my lord?’
‘Yes, please do so, Hanson. Now that everyone has arrived.’
Inclining his head, Hanson turned on his heel, beckoned Gordon Lane, the under butler, to come in with the largest tea trolley, filled with a silver tea service, cups, saucers and plates. Gordon was followed by two of the maids, also pushing trolleys laden with tea sandwiches, scones, strawberry jam and Cornish cream. There was a cream cake and a variety of delectable pastries.
Cups were filled, plates of sandwiches were passed around, and once again afternoon tea was served in the same way it had been for years. It was a ritual everyone enjoyed. Once the staff had moved the trolleys to the back of the yellow drawing room, and everyone had settled, Lady Gwendolyn spoke out. ‘Now come along, DeLacy, do give us the news from Hollywood USA.’
‘I will indeed,’ DeLacy answered, putting her cup in its saucer. ‘Dulcie and James are well, as are the twins, Rosalind and Juliet, and little Henry. In fact, the children are flourishing. James is halfway through his new movie and enjoying working at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. However, Dulcie and James want to come back to England.’ DeLacy paused and gave Great-Aunt Gwendolyn a pointed look. Her eyes went to her father, Charlotte and her sister Diedre.
Lady Gwendolyn said, ‘I believe we know the reason. A true-blue Englishman like James must feel it’s his duty to be on these shores at this particular and dangerous moment in history. And, knowing Dulcie, I’m quite certain she feels exactly the same way.’
‘Oh, no question about that,’ Charles said, then glancing at Charlotte he asked, ‘Don’t you agree?’
