Cecily Swann Ingham knew that she was facing the greatest crisis of her life.
She was at her wits’ end. For days she had turned over in her mind a thousand thoughts about the immense problems facing her. Cavendon was at its lowest ebb ever, truly on the brink of disaster. She kept thinking that even the lightest breath of wind would blow the house off the edge of the precipice where it teetered dangerously. Gone in a puff. It was that easy. She shivered involuntarily.
Her beloved business, the one constant in her life, her mainstay, was facing financial trouble, and because of that she could not help Miles pay the government taxes and so help save Cavendon. She had managed to do so many times in the past; she could not help him any more. Not now. Sadly.
Every time she had been about to confide in him, tell him the bitter truth, she had lost her nerve. Instead she had simply promised him that she would now do her full and proper duty as the 7th Countess of Mowbray.
She would remain at Cavendon Hall indefinitely; she would not go to London to run her company. She would do that long distance. She would take on the duties her sister-in-law had shouldered. Daphne was gone. Cavendon was now in her keeping.
If Miles had expected her to fight him about this, or quibble, or endeavour to make some sort of compromise, he would soon discover that her acquiescence was genuine, and she would keep her word.
Cecily had agreed to do what he wanted because she was realistic enough to know she had no choice in the matter. This was the family tradition in most stately homes. The Countess ruled. She would do the menus for the meals, and supervise the running of the house. She would turn up for all the activities in Little Skell. She would open the garden fêtes in all three villages, give prizes at the village schools, and take part in Women’s Institute activities.
Once, long ago, Emma Harte had warned her not to sacrifice her marriage on the altar of ambition. ‘Husband first, business second,’ Emma had instructed. ‘And just be glad you have that option. Some women have had to discover, the hard way, that a cash register doesn’t keep your cold bottom warm at night.’ Cecily half smiled to herself as she walked through the park, remembering those wise words.
It was now Wednesday morning and early, not quite seven o’clock. Cecily had crept out of the house, needing to walk, to be in the fresh air, to clear her head. And to think. Miles still did not know of her dilemma, was unaware that she was on a rack, crippled with despair. If nothing else, at least she knew how to push a bright smile onto her face, and look as if everything was all right and under her control.
Glancing around, she couldn’t help thinking how beautiful Cavendon Park looked this morning. The huge spreading trees, centuries old, were full and luxuriant under a sky of palest blue, filled with scudding white clouds. There was no sun this morning, but no sign of rain either, and the northern light was crystal clear.
She grimaced to herself as she walked on, thinking how little the weather mattered to her when she had such immense issues to deal with.
The problem was, she had no solution for anything, and that was so unlike her. For the first time in years her head was totally empty, without inspiration or a game plan.
I’ve completely run out of steam. This terrible thought brought her to a sudden stop. What’s happening to me? It was then she saw the door to the rose garden; pushing it open, she went down the steps, and headed for her preferred garden seat. Sitting down gratefully, she closed her eyes.
The peacefulness enveloped her, the fragrant scent of the late-blooming roses a balm for her weariness. How could it have come to this, she wondered? And knew at once the answer. The war. The war had not only killed off their men, ruined their cities, left their country broke, and the British Empire in disarray, it had destroyed her couture business and even her ready-made line. Clothing had just come off rationing but there was no way back to the pre-war days. Only her accessories were selling, and the White Rose perfume.
Many other businesses, as well as her own, had been affected. Money was short, very tight. People weren’t buying. Yes, the war they had won had left its imprint in more ways than one. The country was ruined.
The loud fluttering sound of many birds rising up into the air caused her to stand. She glanced around. But no one was there, nothing had disturbed them. They had just decided to leave the trees in the park. She wanted to leave. She couldn’t.
Scattered, as they flapped their wings and flew up, they became, within seconds, a true formation, totally aligned, as if directed by a hidden hand. They formed a huge V and remained in position like a squadron, flying towards the grouse moor, balanced, absolutely perfect, every bird in place.
Amazement filled her face. How do they know how to do that, she wondered? Well, it’s inside them perhaps, in their genes. They were born knowing how to form these squadrons and when to fly to warmer climes. How extraordinary nature was.
Born knowing.
Her son David, now twenty, had been born knowing he was the heir, would one day become the 8th Earl of Mowbray. Her son, Miles’s son: part Ingham, part Swann. The two families, united in her children, for the first time carrying that joint bloodline forward under the name of Ingham.
She could not fail him. She must find a way to solve the problems facing her. She had to win. For David, for her son. The future.
With this thought came an unexpected new vision. Her eyes were suddenly wide open and clear. Everything around her stood out in the brightest of colours. How lovely the mixture of varied pink roses was against the ancient red-brick walls; as she went out of the rose garden and into the park, she glanced up at Cavendon Hall standing high on the hill. It looked pure white, appeared to shimmer in the brilliant morning light. The trees were a mixture of deep greens, and the lawns dropping away from the long terrace looked like rolls of emerald velvet spreading out towards her. To her left the white swans floated on the blue lake.
Technicolour, she thought. Everything is so vivid this morning. She blinked, aware that she was seeing everything in a different way. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.
In a month, when August came, the moors ahead of her, a dull brown now, would be covered in heather, flowing like a purple sea along the horizon. And on the Glorious Twelfth, as it was called, the grouse season would begin. There is so much to save, and I must do that, she told herself.
Automatically, she began walking down the path which led to the small wood and the Romany wagons.
‘Don’t cry, liddle Ceci,’ the gypsy woman said as Cecily hove into view. She was sitting on the steps of her wagon.
‘I’m not crying,’ Cecily answered as she walked into the clearing near the wood where Genevra’s wagon was parked.
‘In yer heart yer crying,’ Genevra told her. ‘But there’s no rhyme or reason – no need for yer tears. Swann rules, yer knows that, I’ve allus told yer.’
Cecily nodded and sat down in the chair which Genevra usually had waiting for her. ‘You have told me. And I’ve always believed you, but we’re not ruling too well at the moment.’
‘Big mess, aye, I knows, my lass. But yer gifted, liddle Ceci, yer’ve got many talents. And like no person I knows of, anyway.’
Cecily remained silent for a moment, pondering on Genevra’s words. The gypsy was fifty now, the same age as Miles, but had retained her exotic looks and a certain youthfulness in her appearance.
The Romany said, ‘Five ways ter skin a cat, yer knows.’
‘I don’t even know one way.’ Cecily shook her head. ‘My mind is blank.’
‘No, it’s not, Countess Cecily. Yer blinded by worry. Swann rules. I have the sight. Remember. Swann wins.’
‘I don’t know what to do …’ Cecily’s voice trailed off; she felt quite helpless at this precise moment.
Genevra