Cavendon Hall by Barbara Taylor Bradford Read Free Book Online

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 passing. That had affected Walter very much; he was a true patriot, loved his king and country.
    The day of the king’s funeral came rushing 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 cortège, 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