Secret Love Read online

  “Paris!” Wenda cried. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Because I have not been home to do so. I meant to tell you all about it when I came and now here I am.”

  “But how can we think about Paris when you have asked the Prince of Wales of all people to be our guest.”

  “The first thing we have to do,” Robbie suggested, “is to supply the house with sufficient servants to make it comfortable.”

  “And who is going to pay for them?” Wenda asked.

  “I will tell you about that later. What we have to do now is to make sure that all the arrangements, which I will tell you about one by one, are carried out. They must all be exactly as the Prince will expect, as I have been received not only in his house but in the houses of his friends.”

  Wenda made a gesture with her hands and then she sat down on the nearest chair.

  “I find it hard to understand what you are saying,” she sighed.

  At that moment Banks brought in the breakfast and because Robbie was hungry he ate without speaking. He demolished his eggs and bacon and several pieces of toast covered with honey.

  Then Wenda queried in a very small voice,

  “Are you quite certain we have to do this, Robbie?”

  “We have to do it, Wenda, and if we don’t, I assure you I will lose the friendship of the Prince of Wales, which I value very highly.”

  “I understand that, but it’s Tuesday morning now and we only have until Friday to get everything done.”

  It was then that her brother seemed to assume an authority she had never experienced before.

  They moved out of the breakfast room and into the study, where they usually sat because it was so small and comfortable.

  Robbie went at once to his father’s writing desk and sat down, looking in the drawer for some writing paper.

  “Now I must make a list,” he declared. “It all has to be done of course with whoever is available, but we will be wise to use retired servants like Mrs. Stevenson.”

  Mrs. Stevenson had been the housekeeper at The Court until she was over seventy and then she had retired to a cottage in the village, but although she was nearing eighty she still walked up to The Court to see Banks.

  Wenda knew she was horrified at the way the house had deteriorated since she had left.

  “I would suppose Mrs. Stevenson may come back,” said Wenda tentatively. “She will only have to supervise and give orders to the maids if we can get them, but I could do that myself.”

  “I will tell you your position later,” Robbie replied and continued,

  “I have put down Mrs. Stevenson and we will want at least half-a-dozen maids to clean the rooms and make them as welcome and comfortable as your room.”

  “And yours,” added Wenda. “I have taken a great deal of care to keep the Master bedroom as perfect as it was for Papa.”

  “That is where His Royal Highness will have to sleep,” Robbie stated firmly.

  Wenda was about to expostulate then thought better of it – of course if the Prince honoured them by coming to stay at The Court, he should have the best.

  Undoubtedly, ‘the Master’s suite’, as it had always been called, was larger and more impressive than any other bedroom in the house.

  “How many people are you expecting, Robbie?”

  She was calculating how many rooms would have to be cleaned out and made habitable.

  “There will be twelve including myself. They will be the Duke of Sutherland, Lord Carrington, Lord Charles Beresford and, I expect, the Marquis of Mildenhall. I will find out the names of the ladies and I will tell you which rooms they are all to sleep in.”

  “They will have to be the rooms we closed up.”

  “They must all be on the first floor, so that is not difficult.”

  “Not difficult!” his sister gasped.

  “No, we are twelve in all, including me, and as we know there are more rooms than that on the first floor.”

  “There is my room and I am not giving that up for anyone,” Wenda asserted. “I have been in it ever since I came down from the schoolroom when I was fifteen and I refuse to let anyone else spoil it for me.”

  There was a pause and then Robbie murmured,

  “No one will spoil your bedroom, but I am afraid you will have to go away, Wenda!”

  “Go away! What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “I mean this is a private party ostensibly for men only. As I have not been able to explain to you yet, the Prince and each gentleman brings with him the lady he is currently interested in. And she is always a married lady.”

  Wenda’s eyes opened so wide they seemed to fill her whole face.

  “I don’t understand – ”

  “I think you do. His Royal Highness wants to be with his special friends and not be bothered by equerries or courtiers.”

  Wenda was listening wide-eyed and he went on,

  “He wishes to relax and enjoy himself and that is what he must be able to do here and what he has found in the homes of his friends where I too have been a visitor.”

  “Are the ladies they bring with them really ladies?” Wenda asked as if she was trying to work it out.

  “Of course they are. That is the whole point of the party.”

  “You said they are all married women. Is that why I am not allowed to be a guest too?”

  Her brother nodded.

  He was finding it difficult to explain what seemed to him quite a simple equation.

  “If I do go away as you want me to do,” Wenda added, “you do realise that Mrs. Banks will never be able to manage in the kitchen. Even if the rooms look right, the food will not be good enough without someone to help and instruct her as Mama always did.”

  “In some houses they employ one of the Prince’s favourite chefs. I expect one would be obtainable and I could get in touch with him as soon as I return to London.”

  Wenda gave a scream of protest.

  “Engage a chef! What do you suppose Mrs. Banks would think? It would break her heart. She has looked after us, loved us and cooked for us since you and I were born and managed all the parties Mama and Papa gave.”

  She drew in her breath before she went on,

  “I remember people saying how delicious the food was and how clever of Mama to have such an excellent cook.”

  There was little point in arguing because Robbie knew this was true.

  “Then all I can suggest, Wenda, although you will not like it, is that you stay here in the house and help Mrs. Banks together with any other helpers you may need. But no one must be aware that you are my sister.”

  To his surprise Wenda smiled at him.

  “I am quite prepared to do that rather than being exiled from all the fun, and not even having a glimpse of the Prince or the beautiful women I have read about in the newspapers but thought I would never see.”

  Her brother stared at her.

  “Are you really content to do so?” he asked. “I thought perhaps you would stay with one of our relations.”

  “If I did, I would not sleep a wink wondering what was happening – if the beds were being made properly and the morning tea brought to the guests in the same way as it was when Mama was alive.”

  “I think it’s very sporting of you, Wenda. Equally I feel it is very mean of me. You know, if it was possible, I would want you to play hostess to the Prince, as Mama would have done.”

  “I am happy to be in the house and to peep at what is going on and I promise not to interfere. At the same time, Robbie, you know better than I that it is going to be very difficult to get everything ready by Friday.”

  Robbie looked down at his list.

  “I think I had better leave it all to you, Wenda. I thought if you had to go away, I could manage everything. But quite frankly it frightens me as I have no idea how to plan it exactly as His Royal Highness would expect it.”

  Wenda sat down at the writing table as well and picked up another piece of paper and his pen.
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  “Now explain to me exactly what you want.”

  Robbie drew in his breath.

  “I have been trying to remember all the details of what is expected and what happened when I stayed with the Devonshires and the Sutherlands.”

  “I am writing it down, so don’t leave anything out.”

  “First of all His Royal Highness is insistent that we go to great pains to maintain appearances in front of the servants.”

  Wenda looked up with surprise, but stayed quiet.

  “You know as well as I, Wenda, the servants talk and it is very difficult to prevent it.”

  “Of course it is, but if all those ladies wish to be anonymous here, I don’t think they will know very much about them in the village.”

  “The housemaids will have to dress the ladies, as they don’t bring their own maids with them, and serve the meals, make the beds and bring up the bath water.

  “It is very important that the bedrooms are all near each other, but that none of the rooms used by the ladies have a connecting door with any adjacent room.”

  Robbie realised his sister did not really understand why this was necessary, so he went on quickly,

  “The names of the ladies must be written on cards and placed in small brass holders on their bedroom doors. A similar card is placed by the bell in the butler’s pantry.”

  “What you mean by small brass holders! There are not any on our doors.”

  “Well, you could stick the card on the door or fix it with a drawing-pin.”

  “I suppose it’s useful for the servants to know who is in each room,” Wenda commented innocently.

  Robbie thought it would be a mistake to tell her that it would prevent a man from entering the wrong lady’s room by mistake.

  He wanted to go over the arrangements with her so that those who wished to be together at night would not have far to walk, but he realised however that she was still not aware of the real reason why each man was bringing a lady with him.

  He therefore added rapidly,

  “You must make it clear that once dinner has been served and the beds turned down the servants should retire to their own quarters.”

  “I expect they will anyway, Robbie. Mama never made the servants stay up late. I suppose that the ladies can undo their own dresses when they go to bed.”

  “I am certain they can manage. Sometimes we are very late and I know Mrs. Stevenson would be too old to stay up.”

  “Yes, of course she would.”

  “Oh, and by the way, Wenda, at every house I have stayed at there have been sandwiches and Malvern water by the bed just in case anyone is hungry or thirsty.”

  “I had forgotten that! But Malvern water is quite expensive.”

  Robbie knew that they had come back to the main subject which was money.

  “I want you to come with me now so that you see what I am going to do and I don’t want you to feel later, Wenda, that I have deceived you in any way.”

  “What are you going to do, Robbie?”

  Her brother did not answer.

  Instead he now picked up a small case he had been carrying when he left the breakfast room and Wenda then wondered if it contained his night clothes.

  Usually when he came home he required nothing and thus did not bother with trunks and everything he left behind in his room was as it had always been and anyway he never stayed long enough to require very much.

  Now, carrying the case, he walked through the door of the study and Wenda followed him.

  Creswell Court had been rebuilt a hundred years ago and two large wings were added to the main building and in both of these there was a picture gallery.

  Even then there were enough pictures to fill the rest of the house and they were certainly very beautiful and very valuable.

  Some of them were particularly old, but as Wenda was aware they had been neglected now for far too long for them not to be dusty and the glass over many of them was too dirty to see the picture clearly.

  “I suppose you will want these cleaned before the Prince arrives,” Wenda asked Robbie as they walked down the corridors.

  “I meant to put it on the list, but I think it would be wise for you to have men who are used to pictures rather than those who just bang about and damage them.”

  “I believe there are some good men in St. Albans who have been used at Hatfield House and Gorhambury, but of course they will be expensive.”

  Her brother did not answer until he had walked into the West picture gallery and then he asserted,

  “Whatever it costs these pictures have to be cleaned and the floor polished.”

  Wenda had to admit there was a great amount of dust and dirt there now.

  “If we have to do this as well as the bedrooms, we will require a dozen or more women from the village.”

  She was being provocative but he did not respond.

  He just walked on until at the end of the gallery he stopped at a picture that Wenda had never really cared for.

  It was by Delacroix who had painted it at the very end of the eighteenth century and was entitled ‘Still Lifewith Lobster’ and she had always disliked it – the thought of painting a lobster about to be eaten was unpleasant. But she did appreciate that Delacroix had been a great artist.

  To her considerable surprise, having reached ‘StillLife with Lobster’ Robbie was lifting it down.

  “What are you going to do with it?” she asked him.

  “I can tell you exactly what I am going to do with it and with another picture I am taking away with me. I am going to have it copied.”

  “Copied! But you can’t do that?”

  “Of course I can, Wenda, and it will be so skilfully done that the Trustees even if they look at it at all carefully, which I rather doubt, will have not the slightest idea it is not the original.”

  Wenda looked at him in horror.

  “And what are you doing with the original?” she quizzed in little more than a whisper.

  “I am selling it. I am fed up to the teeth of living in this appalling hole-in-the-corner way, having to consider every penny we spend while there are thousands of pounds hanging on our walls and we are too poor even to invite people to admire them!”

  “But they are entailed,” Wenda cried out. “All the pictures are entailed to your son when you have one.”

  “I am as likely to be able to afford to have a son as to fly over the moon. I have not lived recently with all these rich people without realising how expensive life is if you want any comforts and enjoyments. I am in debt, the house is in debt and so is the estate.”

  He paused dramatically before he added,

  “Well, I am going to pay that off and if my son, if I ever have one, finds out he has been looking at a copy of the original, then I can only say he will understand I could not carry on any longer defrauding the bank and everyone else simply because I had no money.”

  Robbie spoke forcefully and she realised because she knew him so well that it was an issue that rankled him so much and he could bear it no longer.

  “Suppose theTrustees should find out, Robbie,” she whispered.

  “Unless I am more stupid than I appear, I have no intention of being taken to task over my own pictures. No one will know what has happened except you and before the copy returns it is impossible that anyone who visits this gallery or the other will realise each is one picture short.”

  There was nothing Wenda could say.

  Carrying the picture she then followed her brother without speaking to the East gallery added by their great-grandfather to give him room for ever more art.

  Here were many pictures that Wenda particularly loved, including Rubens ‘Joy of the Regent’ and she had adored the small naked children running about ever since she was old enough to look at them.

  She breathed a sigh of relief that her brother passed this one as well as the lovely ‘Diana the Huntress’ which she had often thought of when she herself was out shooting with her father.
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  He stopped at Baugin’s ‘Le Dessert Gaufrettes’. The artist had been born in 1630 and it was a picture of a glass of wine and a plate of wafers which she had always considered rather dull.

  Wenda had preferred the work of the older Masters such as Boucher’s ‘Diana Resting after her Bath’ and she thought if Robbie was going to take away that particular Boucher she would have cried.

  As it was she was terrified he would be caught.

  There would be a hideous row with the Trustees if they discovered that he had broken the entail.

  “Are you certain,” she asked him, “that no one will know you have taken these?”

  “The only person who will know, as far as I am concerned, is the artist I met in Paris who is a genius at copying old Masters. He took me and His Royal Highness up to his studio where there were a number of copies of paintings in the Louvre. It was impossible for a non-expert to realise they had not been painted two centuries earlier.

  “As his Royal Highness pointed out to me, it was extremely clever of him to obtain canvases of the right age for the works he had copied.”

  “And you can trust him, Robbie?”

  “He trusted me. In fact because I was with the Prince he has already advanced me five hundred pounds on the pictures I promised him, and he hopes to give me one thousand more when he sells them to collectors who keep secret where they have bought their latest pieces.”

  There was a faint twist to his lips as he added,

  “And he makes a fortune this way, I assure you.”

  “Five hundred pounds would certainly pay for the weekend, and please can I pay Donson’s wages out of it until you have time to sell my brooch?”

  “We are not selling your brooch until we absolutely have to. I will give you most of the money now so that you can pay those we employ for the Royal visit.”

  “I will not only have to pay them but I will require money for food.”

  “I know that, Wenda, and I will have to bring some fine wine down from London.”

  By this time they had reached the hall and Robbie put the pictures down before he felt in his pocket.

  He drew out three hundred pounds and counted it slowly into Wenda’s hand.

  “That should be enough,” he said. “I need the rest to pay a debt I dare not leave any longer and for the wine.”