Cavendon Hall by Barbara Taylor Bradford

medical books, Alice.”
    “You have them all, don’t you?” Alice asked, sitting up alertly.
    “Yes. They are locked up with the record books covering generations of our history … the history of the Inghams and the Swanns and their intertwined lives.”
    Walter turned to his wife. “Are you positive she won’t tell anyone, Alice? Sometimes a young woman has a need to unburden herself.”
    “Who can be sure of what anyone will do?” Alice replied. “On the other hand, I’ve known Lady Daphne all of her life, and she’s a loner, not one given to confessions about anything. And who would she confide in? Not Diedre, there’s a certain distance between them. And frankly, she would think DeLacy is too young. She won’t talk, I just know this. Don’t ask me how, but I do.”
    “We Swanns must close ranks, and do all we can to keep her safe in every way,” Charlotte announced in a strong voice. “Walter, talk to our other Swanns, those who work outside, and let’s throw a ring of protection around her.”
    “It’s done,” Walter said at once. “I’ll see our lads tomorrow, and the woodsmen. I’ll tell them to be on the lookout for trespassers. I’ll talk about poachers, suggest we’ve spotted one, and I’ll tell the earl the same thing.”
    Charlotte leaned forward. “We can’t have anyone wondering why Lady Daphne has to be protected, therefore rumors of poachers on our land is the best reason to give. Use it.”
    Alice said, “Lady Daphne was distraught, still in shock when I helped her this afternoon. She was … dazed and fearful … the poor girl. I tried to do everything I could to comfort her, Charlotte.”
    “Keep on doing that, Alice. Stay close to her.” Charlotte stood up, went and brought the bottle of cognac to the fireside, poured the golden liquid into their glasses. “We’re going to make everything right. Expunge that rape … make her whole again. As best we can. And she will marry the son of a duke if we have anything to do with it.”
    “That’s the right way to think,” Walter asserted. “And don’t forget, the Swanns always win.”
    Alice said a silent prayer, hoping that this would be the result, that they would save Daphne’s future. The problem was, she wasn’t sure the Swanns would win this time.

 
    Fourteen
    D aphne sat at her dressing table, studying her face in the mirror. The bruise had finally faded away. It had only been a scrape really; powder and rouge had done the trick. No one had noticed it except Dulcie, who had prattled on about it but had fortunately been ignored. Everyone else was focused on other things.
    Her aunt had been given only six months to live at the most, and so her mother and father had been preoccupied with this tragic news all week. They had also been concerned about the upcoming visit of Hugo Stanton, her father’s cousin, and making plans for his weekend visit in July.
    And so they had not paid much attention to their four daughters these past few days, much to her relief. They had not noticed the bruise; she had not mentioned her fall in the woods. Neither had DeLacy. She had asked her younger sister not to bring it up, and DeLacy had agreed to keep silent.
    So all in all, she had managed to get through the week without any explanations. But it had not been easy for her. Her body had begun to heal, the bruises and scratches calming down, but her mind was extremely busy.
    It was virtually impossible for her to expunge that violent physical attack from her mind. The angry face of Richard Torbett, when she had pulled off his disguise, and his deadly threat to have her mother and Dulcie killed, were engraved on her brain.
    When Mrs. Alice had returned her clothes in perfect condition, and put them away in her wardrobe, she had thanked her, but made no reference to them. And neither had Mrs. Alice. Instead she had said in a low voice, “I understand that there are poachers on our land, so don’t be surprised if you see more