And, fool that he was, he had done as she asked. He had made many mistakes with George. And with Ellie. He should not have fallen for that calm beauty of hers, that Madonna-like face, become entrapped in her web. But he had and now he would pay for that indulgence with his family and his career. He would lose everything.
The first thing he must do was deal with George. Swiftly, efficiently. Except that brother George was not in England. He was off to France, spending a week with their sister Meg. Richard had told him this yesterday afternoon. When Richard had telephoned Meg to ask if he and Anne could come and stay for a few days in September, she had mentioned that George was currently staying there. After agreeing to Richard’s request, and in a warm friendly way, their sister had explained that George was presently at the château, and was ‘Having a rest, poor darling.’ That was the way she apparently put it to Richard.
Edward had told Richard about George spreading gossip about their mother, his legitimacy and that of his children. His Little Fish had been outraged and had agreed that George should be sent away. But Richard’s thought was to pack him off to America.
Was that the best place to exile him? Edward was not sure. Perhaps it was too far away; Oliveri wouldn’t like the idea of the States, Edward was positive of that. Will and Alfredo wanted George closer, so that they could check up on him easily. Amos Finnister agreed with them.
Edward had consulted with Finnister later in the afternoon, and then the two of them had gone to White’s for dinner. It was quiet in his club in the summer; so many members were on holiday with their families.
Amos had had the best idea, last night over supper. He had suggested that George might be eager to go to the vineyards in France, since he liked wine and was a connoisseur, prided himself on his knowledge of red and white wines and their vintages.
‘But he’d be drunk half the time,’ Edward had swiftly pointed out.
‘Perhaps,’ Amos had answered cautiously. ‘Then again, perhaps not, Mr Edward. It’s a perfect fit, in my opinion. You wouldn’t have to persuade him. He’d go of his own free will, and rather speedily I should’ve thought.’
Amos had sat back in his chair, his eyes trained on Edward very steadily.
Edward stared back. He was the first to blink and look away. And it was as if he had read Amos’s mind. They understood each other very well.
Elizabeth knew there was something terribly wrong. Edward was behaving so strangely that she spent hours worrying about him, worrying about his health, his peace of mind, and what was troubling him.
He had gone up to London on Tuesday, using the Turkish marble quarry contracts as an excuse; part of her believed him. He was not a liar, she had learned that a long time ago, but sometimes he arranged things in order to accommodate his private life. However, in this instance, she was absolutely certain he was not going to town to see Jane Shaw or any other woman, for that matter. She was truly convinced he was going to London because of the situation with George, who never learned his lesson; he was treacherous and bore Ned a great deal of ill will.
Sighing, she left her bedroom, went downstairs and crossed the main hall of the house. After taking a straw sun hat out of the hall cupboard, and putting it on, she walked rapidly down the garden path before any of the children saw her. She had the need to be alone. To think.
It was glorious August weather. The sky was a perfect cerulean blue filled with cotton-white clouds puffed up and hardly moving in the stillness of the balmy summer air. There was no breeze this morning yet the salt of the sea was pungent, seemed to hang over everything. She glanced about, pleased with her gardens; they were flower-filled and glorious, the brilliant hues of pinks and reds, yellows and oranges, and varying shades of blue and purple mingling together riotously. She loved it here in Kent; the weather was so much warmer than it was at Ravenscar, which was cold even in the summer months.
Elizabeth enjoyed being near the Romney Marsh. There was something about it that captivated her … what that was she wasn’t quite sure, could never put her finger on it. Nonetheless, this ancient low-lying marshland held her under its spell.
Her favourite spot was a gazebo which Edward had had built several years ago, and now she hurried inside, sat down in one of the comfortable wicker chairs, and stared out towards the Dungeness lighthouse. At night they often sat here watching the great arcs of light play across the English Channel, sipping a glass of champagne or a lemonade depending on their mood. Now she gazed absently at the sea, her mind still focused on Edward.
Their marriage was better than it had been for a long time; she was trying so hard not to do or say the wrong thing. Also, Ned seemed more at peace with himself, calm, tranquil, and they were at ease with each other in a way they hadn’t been since the early days.
And now this … this situation with George. It had upset Ned much more than she had anticipated it would. He was restless, morose, moody, preoccupied and at times looked worried out of his mind. He would not tell her anything, and this troubled her. Usually he confided, got things off his chest, said what he had to say, used her as a sounding board, and then moved on. She couldn’t imagine why he was being so uncommunicative, keeping things to himself.
She knew he was not sleeping well. In all of their homes they had separate bedrooms and those bedrooms always adjoined each other. Often he slept in her bed with her wherever they were; he certainly needed her to be close, wanted to walk in on her whenever he wished, and for whatever reason … to talk, to make love, usually the latter. And so because of their close proximity at night, she knew he got up in the early hours, went downstairs and outside, to sit on the terrace, or walk around. This concerned her; it was obvious he could not sleep. It was beginning to show. He had dark rings under his eyes, and he looked drawn; pre occupied all the time, he seemed remote. He had come back from Turkey in radiant health, full of vigour and enthusiasm. All of a sudden he appeared to be carrying mighty burdens on his shoulders.
Ned had returned from London yesterday afternoon, keeping his promise to be back by Friday no matter what. He had been loving with the children, had brought them small presents from Harrods, and he had appeared relaxed at dinner. Elizabeth was aware that he was a consummate actor, and especially when he had to hide his true feelings. And he had been giving a wonderful performance last evening – because his mother was present.
She knew he was still in bed sleeping. He would get up in time for lunch with her and the children, because he always did that; he enjoyed their company. She would say nothing to him about his problem, and this new nocturnal habit of wandering around the garden, or walking down towards the lighthouse and the marshland. Tonight his mother was going to dinner with Vicky, Stephen and Grace Rose at Stonehurst Farm. She and Ned would have a quiet supper alone, just the two of them, and she was determined to make him tell her what was driving him to distraction.
An Englishman’s word was his bond. An Englishman’s handshake sealed a deal. An Englishman did not lie, cheat, or double deal. Those were a gentleman’s code of honour. They were also the rules of the City, the financial world, and the world of business. Everyone lived by those rules; the rules were instinctual: Englishmen had been born with those rules inherent in their genes. At least Edward Deravenel believed that to be so.
He was proud of his record in business. He had not put a foot wrong, never in the seventeen years he had been running Deravenels. He was a champion to his colleagues, those he worked with at Deravenels, and to other businessmen in the City. He was proud of his accomplishments and his fine reputation; it pleased him that other successful men held him in such high regard. His business was his life, his be and end all.
If he lost that world of finance and business, of wheeling and dealing, and the camaraderie of his colleagues, he would be heartbroken. And now there was a possibility that he might indeed lose it. He could lose everything, in fact. His inheritance and his family were in jeopardy. All because of George and his idiotic behaviour, his desire to destroy
him.
Yesterday, he had driven down to Kent with Will Hasling, who had a country house near Waverley Court, his house, and Will had exploded at one moment in the Rolls, when they were in the middle of a discussion about George. Will had long ago lost patience with his brother, just as he had himself.
Now Edward stood at one end of the dining room at Waverley Court, near the sideboard. He poured himself a glass of white wine, and then walked outside, strolled down to the gazebo. It was a lovely evening, the sky tinged with the red and pink of a setting sun along the rim of the horizon. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning, he muttered to himself. An old saying of his mother’s. He backed away from thoughts of her. She was George’s defender, protector, and tonight he did not wish to dwell on this fact. Not at all.
He was tired, and worn out from worry. For once in his life he did not want to face reality. Yet he knew he must. Trouble was staring him in the face.
Inside the gazebo, Edward put down the glass of wine, took a box of Swan Vestas out of his pocket and struck a match, lit the candle in the hurricane lamp.
Once settled in the chair, he let himself drift, random thoughts trickling through his head. After a moment, he closed his eyes, again pushing reality away …
‘Ned, Ned, it’s me …’
Vaguely, he heard a voice. He roused himself, and saw his wife standing on the steps of the gazebo, staring at him.
He pushed himself up in the chair, blinking in the dim light, and as he pulled himself back into the present he realized that she looked unusually beautiful tonight, ethereal, otherworldly, in a floating white muslin dress.
‘I’m afraid I fell asleep,’ he murmured, ‘I’m so sorry … I’d better come in for supper, I suppose. Just us, is it?’
‘Yes, and no you can’t come in, not yet.’ Elizabeth stepped into the gazebo, continued, ‘Supper’s not ready.’ Moving forward, coming closer to him, he noticed that her face was extremely pale, her silvery-blue eyes filled with concern. He knew she was going to tackle him, ask what was amiss. He held himself still, knowing he could no longer hide his problems. But he must stay calm.
When she came to a stop she sat down in the chair at the other side of the table, reached out, touched his arm. ‘I know full well you’re very upset, truly perturbed, Ned, so please don’t deny it, I also know you can’t sleep … and that you are pre occupied. Please tell me what this is about. Is it George? I feel that it is. Because of the things he’s saying about your mother. Isn’t that it?’
Edward did not answer her.
After a moment, she exclaimed, ‘Listen to me! He’s always been jealous of you, everyone knows that, and if he can make trouble for you he will. He’s an intriguer, a schemer, full of treachery. Actually, I firmly believe he is … wicked. Bad, Ned. Really bad.’
Taking a deep breath, using his discipline to keep his voice steady, his demeanour neutral, Edward said, ‘There’s something I must tell you, Elizabeth. It’s something you have a right to know.’
‘You sound so serious, so grave,’ she replied in a low voice, unexpectedly filling with fear, and not sure why. ‘Is there something else wrong?’
‘I am facing catastrophe,’ he announced in his mellifluous voice, managing to keep it steady. But he was despairing inside, his nerves taut, and he suddenly wondered if he actually could tell her, if he dare …
‘Oh, Ned, it can’t be all that bad,’ Elizabeth was saying, propelling him out of his inner thoughts back to the awful reality of this moment.
He still did not speak. He could not. Then at long last he murmured, ‘It’s worse.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Please tell me what’s wrong, Ned.’
Edward took a deep breath and swivelled slightly in the chair, so that he sat facing her. He asked, ‘Do you remember how I behaved when we met? That I told you I didn’t want to get married? That I was too young?’
‘Yes, I do, and I became self-conscious about my age. I thought you didn’t want to marry me because I was five years older than you.’
‘That wasn’t the reason. Age differences have never worried me. They mean nothing.’
‘I’m afraid I’m still not following you.’ Her puzzlement was evident. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I couldn’t marry you.’
She frowned, shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I couldn’t marry you, because I wasn’t free. I was already married.’
Elizabeth sat gaping at him, utterly astounded, her eyes wide and staring. She shook her head in a denying way. ‘No, no, that can’t be! It can’t be. Tell me it’s not true, Ned, please,’ she pleaded, tears in her voice.
‘I can’t tell you that. It is true.’
Her eyes held his, and she whispered in a raspy voice, ‘You committed bigamy, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. It happened so long ago, I’d pushed it out of my mind … hadn’t thought of it in years …’ His voice petered out.
‘Where is she now?’ Elizabeth asked in a voice he could hardly hear.
‘She’s dead.’
‘When did she die?’
‘A year after you and I were married. She and I had separated. We weren’t together anymore. It was amicable. She had been sick and suddenly wanted to go and live in … Norwich. Alone.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Elinor Burton.’
Elizabeth shook her head; she did not know the woman, and she found herself incapable of speech anyway. She was reeling from his words. He was correct. It was a catastrophe.
‘She was a widow,’ he volunteered. ‘The widow of Sir Ellis Nutting. Her father was Lord Kincannon.’
Elizabeth swallowed hard, blinking back her tears. ‘Who knows about this?’
He shook his head helplessly. ‘I thought no one did. Until you told me the other day about George’s conversation with Roland Davenport.’
Elizabeth was shaking and she was unable to keep her voice steady, could barely ask the next question. ‘Who married you?’ she finally managed to say.
‘A priest. In Greenwich. But he would never speak.’
‘Then how does George know?’ she asked, her voice quavering, tears filling her eyes, trickling down her face unchecked.
‘I don’t think he does know, at least not the facts. Maybe he’s heard some sort of rumours.’
‘He must know something,’ she snapped, her voice unexpectedly hardening.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed quietly. ‘When Elinor died I remember worrying at the time that she might have confessed to her priest, wanting to make atonement for her sins, wanting forgiveness on her deathbed.’
‘George knows! That’s all that concerns me.’ Elizabeth stared at him coldly, then brushed the tears away from her face with her fingertips.
At a loss for words, Edward was silent. He simply sat there, staring back at her, his face as white as bleached bone, his blue eyes filled with intense distress.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she sprang up out of the chair, and cried in a furious voice, ‘How could you? How could you marry me? When you were already married? Our marriage is not legal, and you’ve always known it. Our children are illegitimate. Seven of them. Your heirs are not your heirs. GEORGE IS YOUR HEIR.’ Elizabeth swung around, headed for the steps, seemed about to rush out of the gazebo, and then, changing her mind, she swivelled to face him.
He had also jumped up and stepped towards her, saying, ‘Elizabeth, please listen to me –’ He broke off when he saw the horror on her face.
She stretched out her arms, held them in front of her, her palms towards him, as if she were pushing him away before he even got close to her.
He stopped dead in his tracks. His heart sank.
She shouted in a very loud, clear voice, ‘Oh, God! Oh God! What are we going to do? This is disastrous. Our lives are in ruins. You are ruined in business. I am ruined and our children, our innocent children, they are all ruined. And all because of yo
u, Edward Deravenel. You lied to me!’
‘I did not lie. I never said anything –’
‘You lied by omission!’ Her face was twisted with grief and rage, and she had turned as white as he was. ‘No wonder your brother is calling you names, licking his chops. He’s got you – by the balls!’ she rasped, filled with the deepest hatred for him.
‘I think I have a solution,’ Edward began, ‘the only solution–’ He stopped speaking. She had run down the steps and out of the gazebo, fleeing. He ran after her, fell over a large stone protruding from the rockery; he righted himself, and ran on, crossing the gardens. She was nowhere in sight; he sped up to the house, ran through the rooms, seeking her, calling her name.
She was not there. Ignoring Faxton, the butler, who was gaping at him, he went back outside, headed in the direction of the marsh which had a view of the Dungeness lighthouse. He called her name, again and again. There was no response. She had vanished.
Edward covered most of the marsh, thankful that it was only eight o’clock and still light. But he knew dusk would start to descend soon, and he was anxious, concerned. Where was Elizabeth?
It suddenly struck him that she may have gone to the strip of land which he had had cleared years ago, and where the children went to play most of the time.
Within minutes he arrived at the area, and he immediately spotted her, sitting on the wooden seat, huddled over. An enormous sense of relief swept through him, and he began to run faster.
She did not look up when he came to a standstill next to her. Curled in a corner of the seat, her legs under her, she was sobbing as if her heart would break. It was broken, he knew that. But he could mend it. He had to do so for all of their sakes, especially his children.
Edward reached out, put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, mumbled, ‘Get away from me. Don’t touch me. You’ll never touch me again. Just go away. Leave me.’
The Heir Page 27
