Cavendon Hall Part 3

Hanson had occupied the office for some years now, and it had acquired a degree of comfort over time; it resembled a gentleman's study in its overall style. Henry had arrived at Cavendon Hall in 1888, twenty-five years ago now, when he was twenty-six. From the first day, Geoffrey Swann, the butler at that time, had favored him because he had spotted something special in him. Geoffrey Swann had called it "a potential for excellence."

The renowned butler had propelled Hanson up through the hierarchy with ease, teaching him the ropes all the way. Starting as a junior footman in the pecking order, he rose to footman, eventually became the senior footman, and was finally named a.s.sistant butler under the direction of Geoffrey Swann. He had been an essential part of the household for ten years when, to everyone's shock, Geoffrey Swann suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack in 1898.

The fifth earl had immediately asked Hanson if he would take over as butler. He had agreed at once, and never looked back. He ran Cavendon Hall with enormous efficiency, care, skill, and a huge sense of responsibility. Geoffrey Swann had been an extraordinary mentor, had turned Hanson into a well-trained majordomo who had become as renowned as he had been in aristocratic circles.

Sitting down at his desk, Hanson picked up the menus for lunch and dinner, which Mrs. Jackson had given him earlier, and glanced at them. In a short while, he must go to the wine cellar and select the wines. Perhaps a Pouilly-Fuisse for the fish and a Pommerol for the spring lamb which had been selected for dinner.

Leaning back in the chair, Hanson let his thoughts meander to other matters for a moment or two, and then he made a decision and got up. Leaving his office, he walked in the direction of the housekeeper's sitting room.

Her door was ajar, and after knocking on it, he pushed it open and looked inside. "It's Hanson, Mrs. Thwaites. Do you have a moment?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "Come in, come in."

Closing the door behind him, Hanson said, "I wanted a word with you ... about Peggy Swift. I was wondering how she was working out. Is she satisfactory?" he asked, getting straight to the point, as he usually did. "Is she going to fit in here?"

Agnes Thwaites did not reply immediately, and he couldn't help wondering why. He was about to ask her if she was unhappy with the new maid, when she finally spoke.

"I can't fault her work, Mr. Hanson. I really can't. She's quick and she's efficient. Still, there's something I can't quite put my finger on ... something about her doesn't sit well with me." Mrs. Thwaites shook her head, spoke in a lower voice when she finished, "She is a bit of a know-it-all, and argumentative."

"So I've noticed," Hanson replied in a pithy tone. "She did work at Ellsford Manor, and you did get an excellent reference, but then the manor is hardly Cavendon. It's not a stately home."

"Oh, yes, I understand that," she answered, suppressing a smile. It was well known that Hanson believed Cavendon was better than any other house in the land, including Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and Sandringham, all royal residences. "I have noticed there is a certain coolness between Peggy and the other maids. They appear to be wary of her," Mrs. Thwaites added.

"Has Mrs. Jackson told you what she thinks of Peggy?" he asked, a brow lifting.

"Well, naturally Mrs. Jackson is pleased with her efficiency, her quickness. But in my opinion, she's not exactly overwhelmed by her. It might be that Peggy is just not suitable for this house, a bit too outspoken and opinionated."

"You'd better keep a sharp eye on her, since the maids are in your care, and are your concern, as the footmen are mine. And I also think two pairs of eyes see much more than one." Hanson then left the sitting room, walked back to his office.

He sat at the desk for a moment or two, thinking about the situation in general. They were still missing a third footman, and if they had to let Peggy Swift go, they would be short a maid. This problem would have to be rectified by the summer, since his lords.h.i.+p and the countess had planned a number of events, and there would be weekend guests. Sighing under his breath, Hanson reached down, unlocked the bottom drawer, took out his keys, and went to the wine cellar.

A short while later, he was returning to his office, carrying two bottles of wine, when he ran into Walter Swann, husband of Alice, father of Cecily, and valet to Lord Mowbray.

"There you are, Mr. Hanson," Walter exclaimed in his usual cheerful voice, smiling hugely. "I was just coming along to tell you that his lords.h.i.+p will make sure lunch finishes early today. He knows Alice and Cecily are joining us in the servants' hall, and he doesn't want us to be eating in the middle of the afternoon' was the way he put it. He wanted you to know."

"Very considerate, I must say," Hanson replied, glad to have this bit of pleasant news.

"I'll go and tell Cook, and then I must get back upstairs. I've a lot of jobs for Lord Mowbray today," Walter explained.

"I'll see you later, Walter. I'm looking forward to having lunch with Alice and your girl. Everyone loves Cecily."

Walter grinned and hurried toward the kitchen, where he hovered in the entrance, obviously explaining to Mrs. Jackson.

Once he was back in his office, Hanson placed the two bottles of wine on the small table near the window, and went again to his desk. He dropped the bunch of keys into the bottom drawer, glancing at the clock as he sat down in the chair. It was ten minutes to twelve, and he had a moment or two before he went upstairs to check on things. He looked down at the list he had made earlier, noting that the most pressing item on it was the silver vault. He must check it out, tomorrow at the latest. The footmen had their work cut out for them ... a lot of important silver had to be cleaned for the parties coming up next month.

Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts settled on Walter. How smart he always looked in his tailored black jacket and pinstriped gray trousers. He smiled inwardly, thinking of the two footmen, Malcolm and Gordon, who had such high opinions of their looks. Vain, they were.

But those two couldn't hold a candle to Walter Swann. At thirty-five he was in his prime-good-looking, intelligent, and hardworking. And also the most trustworthy man he knew. Walter brought a smile to work, not his troubles, and he was well mannered and thoughtful, had a nice disposition. Few can beat him, Hanson decided, and fell down into his memories.

He had known Walter Swann since he was a boy ... ten years old. And he had watched him grow into the unique man he was today. Hanson had only seen him upset when something truly sorrowful had happened ... when his father, then his uncle Geoffrey, and then the fifth earl had died. And on King Edward VII's pa.s.sing. That had affected Walter very much; he was a true patriot, loved his king and country.

The day of the king's funeral came rus.h.i.+ng back to Henry Hanson. It might have been yesterday, so clear was it in his mind. He and Walter had accompanied the family to London in May of 1910, to open up the Mayfair house for the summer season.

The sudden death of the king had shocked everyone; when Hanson had asked the earl if he and Walter could have the morning off to go out into the streets to watch the funeral procession leaving Westminster Hall, the earl had been kind, had accommodated them.

Three years ago now, May 20, that was the day of the king's funeral after his lying in state. Hanson and Walter had never seen so many people jammed together in the streets of London. Hundreds of thousands of sorrowing, silent people, the everyday people of England, mourning their "Bertie," the playboy prince who had turned out to be a good king and father of the nation. There had been more mourners for him than for his mother, Queen Victoria.

Hanson knew he would never forget the sight of the cortege, and he believed Walter felt the same ... the gun carriage rumbling along; the king's charger, boots and stirrups reversed; and a Scottish Highlander in a swinging kilt, leading the king's wire-haired terrier behind his master's coffin. He and Walter had both choked up at the sight of that little dog in the procession heading for Paddington Station and the train to Windsor, where the king would be buried. Later they had found out that the king's little white dog was called Caesar. They had wept for their king that day, and shared their grief and become even closer friends.

There was a knock on the door, and Hanson instantly roused himself. "Come in," he called and rose, moved across the room. He touched the bottle of white wine. It was still very cold from being in the wine cellar. He must take it upstairs to the pantry in readiness for lunch.

Mrs. Thwaites was standing in the doorway, and he beckoned her to enter when she looked at him questioningly. As she closed the door and walked toward him he saw that her expression was serious.

Coming to a stop next to him, she said, "Instinct told me there was something about Peggy that was off, and now I know what it is that bothers me. She's the type of young woman who's bold, encourages men, lures them ... you know what I mean."

Hanson was startled by this statement and frowned, staring at her. "Whatever makes you say that?"

"I saw her just now. Or rather them. Peggy Swift and Gordon Lane. They were sort of ... wedged together in your little pantry near the dining room. She was canoodling with him. I was coming through the back hall upstairs and I made a noise so they knew someone was approaching. Then I went the other way. They didn't see me. Instinctively I feel that Peggy Swift spells trouble, Mr. Hanson."

Hanson didn't speak for a moment, and then he said, "There's always a bit of that going on, Mrs. Thwaites. Flirting. They're young."

"I know, and you're right. But I did see those two, and it seemed a little bit more than just flirting. Also, they were upstairs, where the earl and countess and the young ladies could have easily seen them." Mrs. Thwaites shook her head, continuing to look concerned. "I just thought you ought to know."

"You did the right thing. And we can't have any carrying on of that sort in this house. It cannot be touched by gossip or scandal. Let us keep this to ourselves. Better in the long run, avoids needless talk that could be damaging to the family."

"I won't say a word, Mr. Hanson. You can trust me on that."

Seven.

Daphne sat at the dressing table, staring at her reflection in the antique Georgian mirror. And she saw herself quite differently. For the first time in her life she decided she was beautiful, as her father was always proclaiming.

Unexpectedly, she now had a different image of herself, and it was all due to the two evening gowns she had just tried on.

She had been taken aback, even startled, by the way she looked in the blue-and-green beaded dress, that slender column glittering with sea colors, and also in the white ball gown. Even though this was stained with ink, it had, nonetheless, made her feel happy, buoyant, full of life, whilst the long, narrow dress of s.h.i.+mmering beads had given her a feeling of elegance and sophistication she had never known before.

Leaning forward, she studied her face with new interest, and saw a different girl. A girl a duke's son might find as lovely as her father did.

She thought he might have someone picked out for her, even though he had never actually said so. But he was determined to arrange a brilliant match for her, and she was certain he would do so. Her father was clever, and he knew everyone that mattered in society. After all, he was one of the premier earls of England.

A little spurt of excitement and antic.i.p.ation brought a pink flush to her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkled with joy. The idea of one day being a d.u.c.h.ess thrilled her. She could hardly wait.

Next year, when she was eighteen, she would come out, be presented at court in the presence of King George and Queen Mary, along with other debutantes. Her parents would give a coming-out ball for her, and there would be b.a.l.l.s given for other debutantes by their parents, and she would go to them all. And after the season was over, there was no reason why she couldn't become engaged to whichever duke's son her father had selected.

A little sigh escaped, and she sat with her right elbow on the dressing table, her hand propping up her head. A faraway look spread itself across her soft, innocent face as she let herself float along with her romantic imaginings. Her mind was filled with marvelous dreams of falling in love, having a sweetheart, a true love of her own. A brilliant marriage. A home of her own. And children one day.

A sudden loud thumping on the door brought her out of her reverie, and she swung around on the stool as the door burst open.

A small but determined little girl with a flushed red face came storming in, heading straight for her. It was quite apparent the child was angry, and having a tantrum.

"Whatever's the matter?" Daphne asked, going to her five-year-old sister, Dulcie, who was usually all sweetness and smiles.

"I don't like this frock! Nanny says I have to wear it. I won't! I won't! It's not for A SPECIAL OCCASION!" she shouted, and stood there glaring at Daphne, her hands on her hips, looking indignant.

Daphne swallowed the laughter bubbling in her throat, and endeavored to keep a straight face. Unlike her, who had always been offhand about her clothes, her baby sister had been concerned with her own from the moment she could express an opinion. Diedre, their eldest sister, called Dulcie "a little madam," and in the most disparaging tone, and avoided her as much as she could.

"And what is the special occasion?" Daphne asked in a loving voice, crouching down, so that her face was level with her sister's.

"I'm having lunch with Papa," Dulcie announced in an important tone. "In the dining room."

"Oh, isn't that lovely, darling. I am too, and so is DeLacy."

Dulcie gaped at her, a frown knotting her blond brows. "Nanny said I was having lunch with Papa. She didn't say you were, and DeLacy."

"Well, we will be there. But I do have to agree with you about the dress," Daphne now said quickly, wanting to placate the angry child. "It simply isn't appropriate, not for lunch with Papa. You're absolutely right. Let's go and find something more suitable, shall we?"

Instantly the stormy expression fled, and a bright smile flooded Dulcie's face. "I knew I was right," she exclaimed, and took hold of Daphne's hand, her normal happy demeanor in place.

Together the two sisters went down the corridor to the stairs leading up to the nursery floor. At one moment, Daphne leaned down, and said softly, "You must be grown-up about this. Just tell Nanny you do like this dress, but that it's not quite nice enough for the special lunch. And you can say I agree with you."

"I will."

"You must say it sweetly, you mustn't be rude, or angry," Daphne cautioned as they mounted the stairs together.

"I'm not angry, not now," Dulcie murmured, looking up at her adored Daphne, her favorite sister. She liked DeLacy, and they were good friends, but she was wary of Diedre. Her eldest sister constantly looked and sounded annoyed with her, and this puzzled and worried the child.

Nanny was waiting in the doorway of the nursery, and exclaimed, "I was just coming to look for you, Dulcie!"

Dulcie was silent.

Daphne said swiftly, not wanting the nanny to scold, "I think we've solved the problem." She smiled warmly, then gave the nanny a knowing look, and added, "It's not often Dulcie has lunch with Papa, and it's, well, rather a special occasion for her. And I do think she could wear a more appropriate dress. Something perhaps a little smarter. I'm sure you agree?"

"Of course, Lady Daphne, whatever you think is best." The nanny opened the door wider, and they all went into the nursery sitting room.

Dulcie explained, in an earnest tone, her expression solemn, "I do like this frock, Nanny, but I really want to wear the blue one with the white collar. Can I?"

"Of course you can, Dulcie. Let's go and look at it, and won't you join us, Lady Daphne?"

"I certainly will."

Dulcie was already halfway across the floor, making for her bedroom. "Come on, Daphne, come and look at my best frock. Mrs. Alice made it for me."

As she followed her sister, Daphne smiled to herself. She had long ago learned that the best way to handle her rather stubborn and independent youngest sister was to immediately agree with her, and then negotiate.

"Oh, there you are, Hanson," Lord Mowbray said, walking into the dining room. "I was just about to ring for you. Dulcie is joining us for lunch today, a special treat for the child. So would you please add another place setting."

Hanson inclined his head. "Of course, my lord." He excused himself and hurried into the adjoining pantry.

The earl swung on his heels and returned to the library, where he sat down at his desk and perused the list of guests he and Felicity were planning to invite to the annual summer ball in July. He added a few more names, and then sat back, pondering, wondering who had been left out, who they may have forgotten.

It was at this moment that he saw a pair of bright blue eyes staring at him. They were just visible above the edge of the huge partners desk. Then a moment later the whole face appeared, and he knew Dulcie was standing on her tiptoes.

She said, "I am here, Papa."

"So I see," he responded, laughing. "So come along, Dulcie, let me have a look at you."

She did as he asked and he swung around in his chair and held out his hands to her. "You look very lovely this morning."

"Thank you, Papa. Mrs. Alice made this frock for me. It's new. It's my favorite."

"I can see why," Charles answered, pulling her to him, bringing her closer. She truly was the most lovely child, with her almost violet eyes, and ma.s.s of blond curls. Her pretty little face was still plump with baby fat, and she reminded him of a Botticelli angel. But one with a will of iron, he reminded himself. None of his other daughters were as stubborn.

Dulcie leaned against his knee, and looked up into his face. "Can I have a horse?"

Her request startled him. "Why a horse? Isn't a horse a bit large for you, darling?"

"No, I'm growing up fast, Nanny says."

"I agree, but you're still not quite ready."

"But I can ride, Papa."

"I know, and you've enjoyed your little Shetland pony. I have an idea. I shall buy you a new pony. A better pony. Just until you can handle a horse better, when you're a bit older."

Dulcie flushed with happiness at this suggestion, and nodded. "Thank you, Papa! What shall I call my new pony?"

"I'm sure you will think of the right name. In the meantime, we must join your sisters for lunch, and by the way, let's keep the new pony a secret, shall we?"

"Oh yes. It's our secret, Papa."

She clung to his hand as they went out of the library together. I do spoil her, Charles thought. But I just can't help it. She's the most adorable child. As they crossed the vast hall together, hand in hand, Daphne and DeLacy were hurrying down the grand staircase.

Both girls ran to greet him, and then DeLacy bent down, kissed her little sister on the cheek. "I like your dress, Dulcie," she murmured, smoothing a loving hand over the child's golden curls.

Dulcie smiled back and opened her mouth to speak, and then immediately closed it. The news about the new pony was a secret, her Papa had said, and she must keep it.

Eight.