Secrets of Cavendon: A gripping historical saga full of intrigue and drama. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      Muriel Strode-Lieberman,

      My Little Book of Life

       ONE

      Cecily Swann Ingham, the 7th Countess of Mowbray, was on the steps of the office annexe, looking out across the stable block, her eyes focused on Cavendon Hall perched high on the hill in front of her.

      It was a lovely June morning, and the luminous light particular to the north of England cast a sheen across the soaring roof and chimney tops, which appeared to shimmer under the clear, bright sky.

      How glorious the house looks today, she thought: stately, grand, strong and safe. She smiled wryly to herself. It wasn’t safe at all, in her opinion. Not in reality.

      Sadly, as grand as the house looked this morning, it was facing serious trouble once more in its long life, and she was genuinely worried about its future, the future of the entire estate, including the grouse moor, as well as the Ingham family itself.

      Cecily sighed, closed her eyes, shutting out the view. Cavendon had bled them dry for years, and taken an enormous amount of their time. They had each made huge sacrifices for it, and all of them had at one time or another poured money into the bottomless pit it had become, particularly Cecily herself.

      Opening her eyes, straightening, she wondered how on earth they would manage to stave off the encroaching trouble, which was slowly but steadily moving forward to engulf them. If she was truthful with herself, she had to admit she had no idea. For once in her life she felt entirely helpless, unable to create a foolproof plan of action.

      The clatter of hooves cut into her worrisome thoughts, and she opened her eyes. Her brother, Harry, was crossing the cobbled stable yard, accompanied by Miles, who walked alongside the horse.

      Her husband spotted her, raised his hand in greeting, smiled at her – that special smile reserved for her alone. Her heart tightened at the delighted look that crossed his face, because he had seen her unexpectedly.

      Harry waved; she waved back, and watched her brother leave the yard. He was off on his Saturday morning rounds of the entire estate. Harry revelled in his job as the estate manager and had made such a huge difference in numerous ways. The new gardens he had created after he had been invalided out of the Air Force were startlingly beautiful and had drawn many visitors.

      Miles joined her on the steps, putting his arm around her. ‘I missed you at breakfast. As adorable and entertaining as our children are, they can hardly take your place, my love.’

      ‘I needed to get to my desk, go over the latest figures Aunt Dottie sent up from London. Before going to the meeting.’

      ‘Bloody hell! I’d forgotten about the Saturday morning meeting,’ Miles exclaimed, sounding annoyed.

      Cecily gave him a nod and grimaced.

      Miles said, ‘Come on then, madam, buck up at once! Gird on your sword and prepare to do battle. You have no alternative, you know. The die is cast!’

      ‘Indeed it is.’ She laughed. ‘I’m off,’ she added, ‘there won’t be a battle, maybe a bit of grumbling, and whining, but that’s all.’ She blew him a kiss.

      ‘I know that. Still, just think, next week we’ll be all alone with our little brood and Aunt Charlotte. The rest of the family will have gone off on their holidays, thank God.’

      ‘Like you, I can’t wait,’ she replied, and left him standing on the steps of the annexe. She made her way across the stable yard, heading for the terrace which ran along the back of the house, facing Cavendon Park.

      When she stepped onto the terrace a few seconds later, her three sisters-in-law and aunt had not yet arrived for their regular weekly catch-up. She sat down in a wicker chair, her gaze resting on the lush park which flowed to the edge of Little Skell village.

      On the left side of the park was the lake where the two white swans floated, a matched pair, bonded for life, as were all swans. It had been the first Earl, Humphrey Ingham, who had decreed there must always be swans at Cavendon to honour his liegeman, James Swann.

      The spectacular view had not changed over the many years, not since the 1700s, in fact, when the house had first been built. But everything else had. Things were different now … nothing was the same any more. Anywhere.

      Cecily sat drifting with her thoughts, thinking of the last four years. In 1945, when the war had ended in victory, the euphoria of the public had been high. Unfortunately, that sense of pride, triumph and relief had soon drifted off, and the rot had set in. The country was broke, the Great British Empire was creeping away, disappearing into nothingness, and everyone grumbled, complained and couldn’t wait for things to get better. They didn’t. The worst thing of it was that Churchill was out of office; the Labour Party had won the election and Clement Attlee had been made Prime Minister.

      City councils without funds were unable to function properly. Bomb sites, great gaping holes in the ground, eyesores in every big city, had been left untouched for lack of money and materials. It was the same with ruined buildings; there were piles of rubble everywhere, making everyone miserable because they were constant reminders of the war. And the country was still suffering rationing on much of the food and day-to-day goods they needed.

      It seemed to Cecily that Britain had just stood still. Now, in 1949, she hoped things were improving: people were becoming more optimistic once more and there was a sense of cheerfulness in the air. Princess Elizabeth’s wedding eighteen months earlier had helped lift the country’s spirits.

      On the other hand, Britain was still a country mostly made up of old men, women and children. Hundreds of thousands of young men had not returned from battle, had died in foreign lands. She knew how much this had affected Cavendon. They were a large estate and had lost many of their young men from the tenant farms and the villages, the families devastated by loss for the second time in a generation. And Cavendon was an agricultural estate that needed sturdy men to till the land, harvest the crops, tend the cattle and sheep.

      Miles said they were lucky that two of the Land Army girls had stayed on, and were running several of the tenant farms; by advertising in local newspapers, Harry had managed to hire three families to move into tenant farms in the nearby villages of Mowbray and High Clough.

      Hearing voices, Cecily swung around and immediately stood up. Through the French doors she saw Aunt Charlotte, who was talking to Eric Swann, head butler at Cavendon.

      Cecily went into the library to greet her aunt, exclaiming, ‘Good morning, I didn’t expect you to come today, Aunt Charlotte.’ Like her, her great-aunt was a Swann who’d married an Ingham – though in Charlotte’s case not until later in life. Now the Dowager Countess of Mowbray, the older woman retained the poise and upright bearing she’d had from girlhood. Her face was lined with her years now, and her hair white.

      ‘Hello, Ceci – and why not? It’s the last of the meetings for the summer. I should be here.’

      Looking across at Eric, Cecily said, ‘I see you’ve brought in coffee, Eric. I’d love a cup, please. And what about you, Aunt Charlotte?’

      ‘Yes, of course, I’ll join you. We can have a chat before the others get here.’

      ‘Right away, my lady,’ Eric said, СКАЧАТЬ