something, and said so, adding that many people thought there was no smoke without fire.
Now she focused on the word rumour. Who had started it? And why had they? Was it someone with a grudge against her? A competitor? Did she have an enemy inside the War Office? Was it from inside? Or outside? Was someone trying to scare her? If so, why? Part of her job was asking questions, and now she was asking them of herself, racking her brains. Alfie had hinted she was supposed to have made a bad error in judgement.
There was one thing she did know. All of those who ranked above her, the top brass, were truly satisfied with her work. If a rumour had first been started at the War Office, it was obviously coming from a person in the lower ranks.
Diedre felt certain that her great-aunt would be able to help her, because of her connections in the British government. She knew everyone of any importance, and was considered a genuine friend by many, and if anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was Lady Gwendolyn. And a lot of people were indebted to her.
This aside, her aunt and she were very much alike, and were unusually close. Great-Aunt Gwendolyn was willing to listen to her any time, and to give her considered opinion, as well as good advice. Diedre couldn’t wait to confide in her. It would be a great relief just to unburden herself.
Henry Hanson sat in his office in the downstairs quarters of Cavendon Hall. Leaning back in his comfortable desk chair, the butler reread the menu for the dinner to be held on Saturday evening. It had been created, as usual, by Lady Daphne, and it was perfect as far as he was concerned. But then she couldn’t do much wrong in his eyes; she had long been his favourite.
Lady Daphne had chosen vichyssoise to start, and after the cold soup there would be Dover sole with parsley caper sauce. The main course was rack of baby lamb, fresh green peas from their own vegetable garden, and rösti. These were shredded potatoes, fried in hot oil until they became a crisp potato cake, a Swiss dish introduced into the household by Mr Hugo, which everyone enjoyed.
He glanced at the wine list, written by His Lordship earlier today. He smiled to himself. As usual, Lord Mowbray had chosen his own particular favourites, but the Pouilly-Fuissé was a good choice for the fish, and the Pomerol would be perfect with the main course.
The Earl had made a note on the card, suggesting Hanson select the champagne himself. This would be served with the dessert, and he immediately thought of Dom Pérignon, but he would go to the wine cellar later. Perhaps something else might catch his eye.
Rising, Hanson walked over to the window and looked out at the blue sky. It was a lovely day, very sunny, and he hoped the weather would last for the next few days. But, come to think of it, rain wouldn’t dampen anything, he decided. Happiness didn’t get diluted by rain.
Hanson was excited that the Earl had decided to have this family reunion, the first in six years, and delighted he had picked the middle of July.
It smacked of old times, when all was well in the world and they gave the big summer dances, always a hit with everyone in the county. But the county wasn’t invited tomorrow, just the family.
The last time there had been a reunion was the marriage of Miles to Clarissa Meldrew, a lovely affair, but everything had later gone askew for those two. He felt extremely sorry for Miles, who did not deserve the treatment meted out to him by Miss Meldrew.
Aristocrat my foot, he thought, with a flash of snobbery mingled with anger. Nouveau riche, he muttered to himself, and the title very new, given for some kind of business endeavour. Hardly a match for the heir to the earldom of Mowbray, centuries old, created in the mid 1770s. Miles’s pedigree is bred in the bone, and he’s to the manner born, Hanson thought, and she’s a nobody. Certainly she’s shown that to the world. And with bells on. Sometimes he wondered what that young woman would do next to upset Miles.
Henry Hanson, who was now sixty-four, had worked at Cavendon Hall for thirty-eight years. The stately home and the Ingham family were the be-all and end-all of his life, and he was devoted to both.
He had arrived here in 1888, when he was twenty-six, hired by the famous butler, Geoffrey Swann, who had seen great potential in him. He had started as a junior footman, and risen through the ranks, well trained by his mentor.
When Geoffrey Swann had died rather suddenly, ten years later in 1898, the 5th Earl, David Ingham, had asked him to take over as butler. He had done so with great alacrity, and never looked back. The 5th Earl had trusted him implicitly, and so did his son, Charles Ingham, the 6th Earl. He had proved their faith in him many times.
So much so, the Earl had recently confided in him, explained the real reason for this reunion with his children and the rest of the family. Hanson was sworn to secrecy, and he would tell no one, as the Earl well knew.
Hanson was aware that Lady Daphne and Mr Hugo also knew what this reunion was all about, and no doubt the Swanns did too. They usually were aware of everything, and that was the way it had been forever … since the time of James Swann, liegeman to Humphrey Ingham, who became 1st Earl of Mowbray and built Cavendon Hall.
The Swanns were true blue, in Hanson’s opinion, and he had a lot of time for them. And whatever would the Inghams have done without them? God only knew. He, personally, was grateful for their existence.
Turning away from the window, Hanson decided he would go to the wine cellar, look at the different champagnes. Dom Pérignon was undoubtedly the best, though. He would also look in on Cook, reassure her about Saturday’s dinner. She was a wonderful cook, had inherited the culinary talents of her aunt, Nell Jackson. Tomorrow there would be nineteen people for dinner, and she understood she had to be deft, prompt, swift and on her toes the entire time. She was a capable young woman, but she had told him last week she was concerned about the big dinner. He knew she would be fine, do well, but now he must go and give her a boost.
Hanson went out of his office, thinking about Nell, Susie’s aunt. He had been sorry to see her retire, but after standing on a stone kitchen floor for hours on end, day in, day out, cooking for the Inghams for the best part of her life, she had started to have problems with her legs. They were always swollen and red and painful, and she had backache, which troubled her greatly.
In the end, retirement had been the only solution, but she still lived in Little Skell village and had stayed in touch with them.
There was a lot of the Jackson flair around Cavendon because of Susie. Nell’s niece was like her in every way, not only in her cooking; although she was taller than her aunt, more heavily built, and a comedian at times, making all of them laugh.
‘Mr Hanson! Hello!’ she exclaimed as he strode into the kitchen a moment later. ‘You’ve arrived just in time for a cup of tea. And how about a few sweet biscuits?’
‘Thank you, Cook, I wouldn’t say no,’ he murmured, and sat down. ‘I just wanted to pop in to tell you to stop worrying about tomorrow evening. You’ll manage very well. I have no doubts about you, Susie. And you know the footmen and the maids are well trained, they’ll help you no end.’
She laughed, poured tea into two cups. ‘That’s what Auntie Nell said this morning. I went down to the village to have a word with her, and she was very reassuring.’ Susie smiled at him and added, ‘Can you believe it? She said I was a far better cook than she’d ever been. That I was really a chef and that, if I went to London, I would easily get a job at the Ritz.’
‘I think she’s right,’ Hanson answered, genuinely sincere. Nell had been a good cook, with long experience, but Susie was more inventive and imaginative with food, which put her in a different category altogether.
They sipped their tea and munched on their biscuits in silence for a few seconds, before Susie threw Hanson a questioning look. ‘We’re not looking for any maids, are we, Mr Hanson?’
He stared at her, frowning. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because my