‘I’ll leave you together for a while,’ Elizabeth announced. ‘I need to change. I’ll see you both for tea.’
Left alone the two of them stood and stared at each other for a long time; neither had the courage to speak. Finally, Henry said, in a gentle voice, ‘I know you’ve been reluctant to marry me, and I do understand why. But I’m not too bad a chap, so I’ve been told. And certainly I will be very happy if you accept me. And I promise I will cherish you. Also, I feel sure I will probably grow to love you.’
Unexpectedly, and unable to stop herself, Bess started to laugh.
Henry Turner stared at her nonplussed and completely puzzled.
Catching her breath, swallowing her laughter, Bess said, ‘I like you for saying that, Henry Turner. I really do.’
‘For saying what?’
‘For being so honest, for saying that you’ll probably grow to love me. That’s how I feel about you – slightly uncertain, awkward, not sure if we will love each other …’
He nodded. ‘I do want to marry you, as I said before. Well, you knew that anyway, from our plotting mothers.’ He grinned at her. ‘I want to make you happy … Bess. I think I can. I’ll do my damnedest.’
She was silent. She discovered she quite liked him. He wasn’t the most handsome man, but he wasn’t ugly either, and he seemed to have a pleasant, warm personality. Certainly he was honest, to the point of bluntness. That was important to her. Taking a deep breath, she reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Now that we’ve finally met each other, I would like to be alone, to be by myself a while. Would you mind?’
‘No, of course I don’t. I understand. I’ll wait for you inside.’
He left without another word.
Bess leaned her head against the stone wall, staring out across the North Sea. Who would help her if she married him? There was no one. Not even her mother. She was alone. Totally alone.
I’ll fend for myself, she thought. And I’ll manage.
We’ll have children … And at least one of them will be a boy … I must have a boy. I must have a male heir for Deravenels. And I will help him. I will encourage his ambition, Show him the way.
She smiled, thinking of her handsome father. My son will be like the great Edward Deravenel … and there will always be Deravenel blood sitting in Papa’s chair, running the company. And I will help to run the business through my husband and my son.
Turning around, Bess Deravenel walked back up to the house, her mind made up.
She found Henry Turner standing in the library, gazing at the portrait of her father.
‘He was the handsomest, nicest, cleverest man I ever met,’ Henry told her.
‘I know,’ Bess replied. ‘And we will have a son exactly like him: just you wait and see.’
PART FOUR
The Turners
Harry’s Women
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not; But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
William Shakespeare:
Henry VIII
Act IV, scene iii
I often have this strange and moving dream Of an unknown woman, whom I love and who loves me.
Paul Verlaine
Poèmes Saturniens
‘Mon Rêve Familier’
I’ll not listen to reason … Reason always means what someone else has got to say.
Elizabeth Gaskell
Ill luck, you know, never comes alone.
Cervantes
FIFTY-FOUR
Ravenscar 1970
He stood in the library at Ravenscar, staring up at the painting above the fireplace, admiring it. What an extraordinary portrait it was, of a handsome man in the prime of his life.
The great Edward Deravenel. His grandfather.
His mother, Edward’s eldest daughter Bess, had always told him that he would grow up to look like her father, and she had been proven right.
This painting had been finished just a short time before Edward’s fortieth birthday, and in a few days’ time he himself would be forty years old. And he was the spitting image of his grandfather: six foot four, broad of chest, with red-gold hair and blue eyes. He knew that if Edward Deravenel could step out of the portrait, come to stand next to him, they would look like twins, so close was their resemblance.
Harry Turner finally turned away and walked out onto the terrace, headed through the hanging gardens, making for the ruined stronghold. His mother Bess had constantly taken him down there as a child, explaining that it had been her father’s favourite spot at Ravenscar, and therefore hers. And now his, of course.
She had brought him up on Deravenel lore, and most of it had been about his grandfather. How she had adored her father; just as he had loved his mother most especially. He had loved his father, too, but the somewhat taciturn Henry Turner had not been quite as warm, outgoing and loving as his mother. And, in fact, he had been a somewhat dull man, boring. Bess Deravenel had been a unique woman. It was from her that he had inherited his fair colouring, and also her indomitability, her strength of will, her ambition, and her positive personality. Her glass was always half full, never half empty, and he felt exactly the same. Tomorrow would always be a better day, as far as he was concerned.
Odd, though, that there were things in his life which so closely echoed Edward Deravenel’s life. He, too, had married a woman five years older than himself, just as Edward had. And he dreaded the idea of catastrophe dragging him down, in the same way his grandfather had. Edward, somehow, had managed to side-step it.
He wasn’t doing quite so well with that aspect of his life. At this moment, on June twenty-third of 1970, he felt as though he was about to plunge down into a bottomless pit of catastrophe. And, if not quite that, he was, nonetheless, swimming in a sea of problems, in his personal life and in business. Deravenels he could handle. He was not quite sure about his private life.
He had to get a divorce … had to get a new wife … had to get an heir. But his wife wouldn’t budge. Nothing would convince her or persuade her to release him from his torment. No divorce, that was her eternal cry.
He was haunted by his father’s last words. On his deathbed his father had told him he must get a male heir for Deravenels. Over and over again, he had said it.
But Harry had only had a daughter, and he knew full well that a woman could never be the boss. Catherine and he had been married for over twenty years and sadly Mary was their only offspring. So many dead babies, so many miscarriages.
Time was running out on him. On June twenty-eight, in four days’ time, he would be forty years old and Catherine was already forty-five. How could they make another baby? She was too old, that was certain. Yes, it was an impossibility. Besides which, he did not desire her anymore. It was Anne he longed for, ached for, yearned to have, to hold and to possess forever. She was holding out for marriage and would not become his acknowledged mistress. In the past seven years she had thwarted him, would not move in with him … it had been that long, their dalliance. He was at times driven to the edge.
He knew full well he was caught between the iron wills of two very obdurate women. They were squeezing the life out of him.
Harry rested his forehead against the stone parapet and closed his eyes, wondering what to do … the words repeated themselves in his head: get a divorce, get married, get an heir, get a big new deal for Deravenels … get it all before it’s too late.
‘Harry! Harry! Are you down there?’ Charles Brandt shouted, running down the last of the steps that led into the ruined stronghold.
Harry roused himself from his dire thoughts, and straightened. He focused his eyes on Charles, his best friend from childhood, and as he did he suddenly thought, Charles is my Will Hasling.
Harry knew all about his grandfather’s best friend and closest colleague, a man his mother had loved and held in such great regard. She had constantly told him Will had died in mysterious circumstances …
So many suspicious deaths
in his family’s past … it made one think, didn’t it? His mother’s Uncle George, struck by wine casks and drowned in Beaujolais at their vineyards at Mâcon. Her Uncle Richard, stabbed by an unknown assailant on the beach here at Ravenscar. And all those other people who had died in peculiar ways years before her birth. The Deravenels seemed to be dogged by weird deaths. Had they been murders? And had some Deravenels been murderers? Yes indeed, it did make you think …
Charles Brandt walked across the flagged floor of the stronghold, once a circular tower, now roofless and open to the winds and the weather of this northern coastline. It was sunny on this Tuesday morning late in June, and Charles felt its warming rays on his face. He realized he couldn’t wait to get to his house in the south of France next week. He needed a rest from everything.
Standing in front of Harry, staring hard at him, Charles felt an unexpected rush of exasperation. ‘Come on, my lad, buck up!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘You look bloody miserable. What is it now?’ Charles smiled faintly and shook his head. ‘As if I didn’t know … you’re thinking about the two women in your life who’ve got you by your short hairs.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head.’
‘Ouch!’ Charles shot back, laughing. ‘Unfortunate choice of expression, Harry, under the circumstances.’
Harry laughed hollowly. ‘You’re right, Charles, I mean about the women. But it’s also about me. I know I can’t go on much longer. I’ve been thinking a lot whilst we’ve been up here this weekend, and in four days I’ll be forty. Jesus, Charles, forty! I’m nowhere in my personal life. Absolutely bloody nowhere. I’m at the end of my tether with both of them, you know.’
‘I don’t bloody blame you. Those two are ball-breakers. Catherine’s been playing the pious, dedicated, saintly wife for donkey’s years, and has become a martyr – in her own eyes, at least. As for Anne Bowles, she’s nothing but a prick-tease, and you know it. No wonder you’re desperate. I think you ought to dump them both, and move on, tout de suite. You know that old saying, there’s more fish in the sea than ever came out.’
Harry leaned against the parapet, staring back at Charles. They had met when they were youngsters. Charles’s grand father had worked for his father at Deravenels, and he had been killed in a mining accident in India. After Charles’s grandfather had died Charles had become an orphan because his parents were already dead. And so Henry Turner, feeling a sense of responsibility, had brought him into their family. Charles and Harry had grown up together.
Charles was six years older, as handsome, as tall and as well built as Harry was, and he was not only his best friend but his brother-in-law. Charles Brandt was married to Harry’s favourite sister, Mary. And he was the only person who would and could talk straight to Harry Turner, could tell him the absolute truth without Harry being offended.
Taking a deep breath, Harry now said, ‘It’s not quite as easy as you make it sound.’ He felt around in the pocket of his jacket, and looked at Charles. ‘Do you have any cigarettes on you?’
Charles nodded and pulled out a packet, offered it to Harry, then took one himself.
The two men stood in silence, smoking together, and staring out at the North Sea, lost in their own thoughts.
Charles was focused on the ridiculousness of the situation which Harry Turner was now trapped in. Here was one of the greatest tycoons in British business, if not indeed in world business, and he was caught in a complicated triangle, because of the wiles and manipulations of two women and his own weakness.
Harry was thinking similar thoughts, and cursing himself under his breath, and also wondering why Anne had such a terrible hold on him. The truth was she had a sexual attraction for him the likes of which he had never known before.
Charles said suddenly, ‘It just goes to show how two really clever women can control a man … a foolish man, I might add.’
Harry turned to him swiftly, a sudden flash of anger in his bright blue eyes. He was proud, frequently arrogant and imperious by nature; he resented being called foolish, even by someone as close as Charles Brandt.
‘Don’t call me foolish. I hate it, and you know that,’ Harry snapped.
‘Sorry, old chap.’ Charles held Harry’s eyes, and continued in a milder voice, ‘You’re the smartest, cleverest, most brilliant man I know, have ever known. Unfortunately, you are a fool when it comes to these two women. Why don’t you just tell them both to go to hell? I’ll find you another woman, a beautiful, pliable, adoring woman who will satisfy all of your needs and not play you for an idiot.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Harry protested, shaking his head. ‘I mean about being an idiot.’
‘I know. And I know what you’re going to say, so don’t. It’s all a lot of bloody bullshit between the two of you. Jesus! It beggars belief in this day and age. It’s 1970, Harry, not the dark ages. Anne should live with you. I don’t know what her problem is.’
Harry nodded, looking chagrined. ‘She won’t take that final step.’
‘Too bad.’ Charles took hold of his arm. ‘Let’s go. Bradley has your bags packed, and mine, and they’re already in the Roller. We’ll discuss this on the way to town. All right?’
‘Good idea. We’d better get going.’
The two friends walked back to the house, crossed the terrace, and went into the library. Charles paused in front of Edward Deravenel’s portrait and held Harry back.
‘Look at him. Look at your grandfather. He wouldn’t have put up with a situation like this, and he lived in the 1920s, when manners and mores were entirely different than they are today. Edward Deravenel made his own rules, and so should you. You’ve got to solve this once and for all, Harry, or they’ll take you away in a straitjacket, and in the not-too-distant future.’
Harry remained silent, stood gazing at the portrait for a long moment, and then he allowed Charles to propel him out into the Long Hall, towards the front door.
Bradley, the butler, was standing on the front steps, and he swung around at the sound of footsteps. ‘There you are, Mr Turner Everything’s stowed in the boot, sir.’
‘Thanks, Bradley. I won’t be in Yorkshire this coming weekend. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ Smiling, nodding, the butler went out to the discreet black Rolls Royce and stood waiting for them, then opened the doors.
As he got in, Charles took charge. ‘I’ll drive.’
Harry merely nodded, and got into the car on the passenger side, relieved that Charles was behind the wheel. He felt suddenly tired, from worry, he had no doubt.
Once they were settled, their seat belts fastened, Charles turned on the ignition and the Rolls slid smoothly down the long drive.
At one moment Charles murmured, ‘Sit back and relax, and I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, how you’re going to handle those two … shall we call them ladies for want of a better word?’ Charles chuckled. ‘Although I could think of a few other colourful nouns that would describe them more accurately.’
Harry laughed for the first time in days.
FIFTY-FIVE
London
‘I’m not sure why you persist in living here, Catherine,’ Mary Turner Brandt said, eyeing her sister-in-law curiously. ‘Harry would have bought you a much nicer house, I feel certain of that.’
Catherine nodded, was swift to say, ‘Oh, I know he would, Mary. In fact, he never stops offering to buy me one – a mansion if I want – but I like my little house. It’s cosy. And it’s mine.’
‘I know you bought it yourself,’ Mary answered, smiling. ‘And that’s important to you.’ She had always liked her sister-in-law, cared for her quite deeply, in fact. But she also understood her brother Harry only too well, was fully aware what motivated him, and she certainly sympathized with him. Also, she had never been able to understand why a woman would want to hang on to a man who no longer wanted her. That is why Catherine puzzled her so much. But she came to tea on a regular basis, because she knew how lon
ely Catherine was.
Now, taking a deep breath, Mary asked, ‘Why don’t you divorce Harry? You’ve been separated for well over seven years now, Catherine, and surely you know he’s not coming back to you. I’m sorry to say that, but I know it’s the truth.’
‘It probably is. But I’m a Roman Catholic, as indeed you are. Surely you, of all people, understand me, understand what I’m about.’
‘I do, yes … but then, I don’t.’ Mary frowned, her light blue eyes filled with puzzlement. ‘And I must admit, I don’t really quite understand why you would want to cling to a man who obviously doesn’t wish to be married to you anymore. I think my pride would get in the way. Doesn’t yours?’ she finished softly.
‘My religion comes before my pride,’ Catherine answered in a cool voice.
How self-satisfied, how pious she sounds, Mary thought. Charles was right. Last night, when he had returned from Yorkshire, he had told her that Catherine was turning herself into a martyr. She must explain to her husband that her sister-in-law was becoming a self-satisfied martyr, and she was apparently enjoying the role.
‘Harry needs an heir,’ Mary murmured, staring across the coffee table at Catherine, then taking a sip of her tea. ‘He’s desperate for an heir, you know that. He’s thinking of Deravenels, and that’s something I don’t believe even you need to be reminded about.’
‘No, I don’t, of course not. But he has an heir already. He has our daughter Mary. Your namesake. She can work at Deravenels, any time he’ll let her. She’ll soon be old enough, she’s already seventeen going on eighteen. And don’t tell me a woman can’t take over and run the company, because your grandfather Edward Deravenel made that possible.’
‘I can’t deny that.’ Mary felt a sudden sense of utter defeat. Catherine was like a stone wall. And she was wasting her breath. She sat back on the sofa and glanced around the sitting room of the mews house. It was charming, beautifully decorated and not as small as it looked from the outside. Mary knew why Catherine liked it. This was a perfect house for two people. Thinking of her niece, she asked, ‘How is Mary, by the way? It seems ages since we’ve seen her.’
The Heir Page 43
