Heirs of Ravenscar

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘George is not coming to the luncheon.’

  ‘Why not?’ Richard sounded and looked surprised.

  ‘He’s going away this afternoon. In fact, as we speak he’s boarding the train. He’s on his way to Scotland.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I asked him to represent me at the meeting in Edinburgh which I had set up for this coming Friday. With Ian MacDonald, regarding his liquor empire. As you know, Ian has no heirs, and he approached me about a takeover some time ago. I’d actually made a firm date with him but cancelled two days ago, on Monday. I used the excuse of Young Edward’s illness, not wanting to be away from him, etcetera, etcetera. I proposed George as my stand-in. Ian was a bit disappointed at first, but in the end he was all right with it. After all, George is a Deravenel.’

  He doesn’t always behave like one, Richard thought, although he did not voice this, remained silent, listening carefully to Edward.

  ‘I then had a word with George –’ Edward went on.

  ‘And he agreed? Just like that?’ Richard interrupted snapping his fingers together, giving his brother a doubtful look.

  ‘He did,’ Edward answered. ‘Because I offered him an inducement that truly appealed to him. Actually, the offer was one George genuinely could not refuse.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  ‘Money. George’s favourite commodity. I said he would earn a large bonus from the company if he managed to make the deal with Ian MacDonald, a deal which has to favour Deravenels.’

  ‘And so you really want the MacDonald liquor business?’ Richard sat back.

  Edward shrugged, and there was a moment’s pause before he replied, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘George could easily blow it, you know, if he mishandles the situation. He can be extremely volatile in negotiations.’

  ‘I know that, and if he does, he does. As far as I’m concerned, the deal can go either way and I won’t lose any sleep over it. Or the final outcome. The main thing is that I’ve got George out of my hair for the rest of this week, and also for Christmas.’

  ‘What do you mean by for Christmas?’ Richard asked, his voice puzzled.

  ‘Ian had invited me to stay on in Scotland for Christmas. He wanted me to take the family up to his country estate for the holidays. I’d refused politely, because I had invited a number of people to join us at Ravenscar. Then, when I spoke to Ian on Monday I asked him if he would invite George and his family, because I had had to cancel the Christmas festivities due to Young Edward’s illness.’

  ‘And MacDonald agreed?’

  ‘He did indeed. He is widowed, and his only child, his daughter, has three little girls … I think when he invited my lot he was hoping to create a happy holiday atmosphere at his house in the Lammermuir Hills. So yes, he welcomed the idea of George and his family. I can be very persuasive.’

  ‘We all know that, Ned.’ Richard hesitated, opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped abruptly.

  Edward looked at him alertly, and asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was going to say once again that you are putting the deal at risk.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that.’ A smile spread across Edward’s face and he added, ‘The deal is not particularly crucial to Deravenels, Dick. I wouldn’t mind having Ian’s liquor company, because it flows beautifully into our wine business. However, the main consideration was to remove George for the moment.’

  Richard nodded, and looked off into the distance for a split second before saying, sotto voce, ‘George has not gone off to Scotland so happily just because you’ve promised him a large bonus. He’s a glutton for power, and you’ve just given him a big dose of it … by making him your representative.’

  ‘Good point, Richard. But let’s move on, shall we? As I mentioned earlier, I’ve something to tell you – I’d like to be done with it before lunch is served, if you don’t mind.’

  Richard merely nodded, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘Two years ago, after you and Anne were married, Nan Watkins gave you a gift. Am I not correct?’

  ‘You’re talking about the deeds to Neville’s house in Chelsea, aren’t you?’

  ‘It was never Neville’s house, Richard. It was always Nan’s house. Oh, he bought it right enough, and with his own money, but he actually bought it for Nan. He gifted it to her immediately, and the deeds are in her name, not his.’ When Richard didn’t speak, Ned asked, ‘Well, they are because I saw them myself. Nan showed them to me.’

  Richard sighed. ‘Nan gave the deeds to Anne, and she merely glanced at them, and showed me Nan’s letter. Then she put the deeds away.’

  ‘So you never saw them?’

  ‘No. Why? Does it matter? After all, Nan gave us the house.’

  ‘No, she didn’t, Richard. I gave you the house.’

  Startled, Richard exclaimed, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just before you were married, actually quite a few months before, I went to see Nan Watkins. I told her I wanted to purchase the Chelsea house from her because I wanted to give it to you and Anne. At first she didn’t want to sell. She had actually had the same idea, and was going to give it to you both as a wedding present. However, I pointed out one thing to her, and it was this – that George, being the way he is, so dreadfully greedy, might object if she gave the house to you and Anne. I mentioned that he might actually try to get it away from you, by reminding her that Isabel and Anne are the joint heirs to Neville’s estate after her death. And, there-fore, Isabel was part owner of the house by rights.’

  ‘You’re correct, Ned! He could have done that! He’s certainly capable of it, devious enough. And avaricious, as you say. So how did you persuade her to sell it to you?’ Richard asked swiftly, filled with curiosity.

  ‘I managed to convince Nan. As I reminded her, my knowledge of George is far greater than anyone else’s in this entire world. I also explained that I would buy the house for you and Anne, so that George could never get his hands on it, and that she could still give it to you, as if it were her present to you both.’

  ‘That was a nice gesture, Ned, and obviously she accepted. But I wonder why? Why didn’t she tell us the truth at the time? That would have been more honest, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m guilty again. I convinced her to say she was giving you the house, and to hand you the deeds Neville had presented to her years ago, so that everything would appear quite normal to you. And, of course, to George. In order to completely forestall George, in case he tried to make any trouble for you and Anne later, I had Nan’s solicitors and mine draw up additional documents – a bill of sale, new deeds in my name, and a third legal document which gifts the house to you outright.’

  ‘Do you mean you have given it to us, Anne and me, or actually to me?’

  ‘Only to you, Richard. I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t want Anne’s name on any legal documents. In other words, I bought the house from Nan Watkins, and then, as the new legal owner, I gave it to a third party. All very legal. Essentially, what it did do was cut Anne and Isabel out, because I had bought it from their mother, who had every right to sell, because it was hers, not part of Neville’s estate.’

  For a moment Richard sat there in silence, looking slightly stunned.

  Smiling, Edward took the thin folder he had removed from the safe, and handed it to Richard. ‘Here are the deeds to your house. They would have always been secure with me, but I decided you ought to have them. After all, the house is yours.’

  ‘You didn’t give them to me before because you were protecting Nan, weren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so … I didn’t want to take the credit away from her. In a sense, she was only the innocent bystander, and she had wanted to give you the house anyway.’

  Richard had taken the folder and he held it tightly for a moment, looking at it. But he did not open it. He put it on the floor next to his chair and then sat gazing at his brother, at a loss for words. Finally, he said softly, ‘Th
ank you, Ned. You’re the best brother any man could have.’

  ‘And so are you, Little Fish: well trusted and well loved.’

  SIX

  Jane Shaw sat at her dressing table in the bedroom of her charming house in Hyde Park Gardens.

  Leaning forward, she peered at herself in the antique Victorian mirror, brought a hand to her face, touching the fine wrinkles around her eyes with one finger. Crow’s feet they were called. What an ugly name, she thought and sighed. There were also tiny lines above her top lip, hardly visible, but they were there, much to her dismay. And the lip rouge ran into those lines sometimes, she had begun to notice. Her jaw was not as taut as it had once been either, and she knew her neck had begun to sag, only slightly, but, nonetheless, this was visible.

  Sitting back in the chair, trying to relax, Jane looked at herself again in a more objective way, and at once she was reassured that she was still a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was, very simply, growing older.

  Ten years.

  Not many years … not really. In 1907 ten years had not seemed much at all. Even in 1910 they were still a mere nothing in her mind. But today, in December of 1918, those ten years had assumed enormous proportions all of a sudden.

  She was now forty-three.

  Edward Deravenel was thirty-three.

  She was ten years older than he was, and whilst this had not seemed too big an age difference between them before, it did now … because it was beginning to show.

  It seemed to Jane, now that she focused on their ages, that Edward had not changed at all. He looked exactly the same, as handsome as ever. His hair was still that wonderful red-gold colour, burnished and full of light even on the dullest of sunless wintry days. His eyes, of an unusual cornflower blue, were still sparkling and full of life, and at six foot four he was an imposing man who appeared much younger than his years. He had kept his lean figure, had not put on weight: in fact, there was not an ounce of extra fat on him.

  Rising, Jane walked over to the cheval mirror that stood in a corner, and removed her peignoir, stood naked in front of the looking glass, examining her body appraisingly.

  Her breasts were still high, taut, a young woman’s breasts, and her hips were slim, her stomach flat. She was pleased that her figure had not altered very much; because she was of medium height, she had always watched her diet carefully. As a consequence of this, her body was slender, and there was a youthfulness about her appearance. Nonetheless, the age difference between them was unexpectedly troubling her today.

  Shaking her head, she turned away from the mirror, endeavouring to laugh at her own silliness. As she slipped into the white chiffon peignoir again, Jane reminded herself that no man could be more giving, loving and attentive than Edward.

  The odd bits of gossip she heard about him from time to time actually pleased her, because the gossip was about them and their long friendship, and not about him and other women. The crux of the gossip was that, most miraculously, he was faithful to her.

  Sitting down in the chair, she began to apply her usual evening cosmetics. A dusting of light face powder, a hint of pink rouge on her high cheekbones, and red lip rouge on her sensual mouth. She touched her blonde eyelashes with dark mascara, added the merest hint of brown pencil to her blonde eyebrows, and then picked up the comb, ran it through her wavy blonde hair. It was shorter than it had been for years, layers of waves that swept over her head and around her ears. This shorter cut was the latest style, and it suited her, added to her youthfulness.

  After putting on silk stockings and underwear, Jane went to the wardrobe and took out a tailored, dark-blue silk dress. It had a V neckline and loose floating sleeves. As finishing touches she added several long ropes of pearls, pearl earrings, a sapphire ring and matching bracelet.

  Now stepping into a pair of dark-blue suede court shoes, she hurried out of the bedroom and went down the stairs to the parlour.

  A perfectionist at heart, Jane wanted to be certain that everything was in order before Ned arrived to spend the evening with her. She was worried about him because of Young Edward’s illness. Ned was concerned about his little son, who was his heir, and he tended to fuss about him rather a lot. But she fully understood why this was so. Jane knew what a genuinely good father Edward was, devoted to all of his children, who did seem to keep coming along on a regular basis.

  Pushing open the mahogany door into the parlour, she smiled to herself. Several of her women friends were extremely curious, incurably nosey about their relationship. They had no compunction about asking her outrageous personal questions, especially about Edward’s wife. They said Elizabeth was mean and selfish, but Jane did not care.

  She simply laughed in their faces and told them nothing. What did she care if he slept with Elizabeth from time to time? She was fully aware that most married men who had mistresses also had continuing sexual relationships with their wives. Usually because they had no option.

  Being pragmatic by nature, Jane tried not to worry too much about things she could not change. It was a waste of her valuable time. And certainly she had no control over Edward Deravenel, or what he did when he was not with her. She knew he loved her, and he saw her several times a week, frequently even more when he was in London, and she knew how much he enjoyed her companionship. He took pleasure in her quick mind, her wit, and, of course, her knowledge of art.

  It was to her that Ned owed his extraordinary collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings. She had spent years searching out the best for him, including Renoirs, Manets, Monets, Gauguins, and Van Goghs.

  Her eyes flew around the blue room. She was pleased to see that everything was in its given place. The fire was burning brightly, the softly-shaded lamps were turned on, cushions had been plumped, and the hot-house flowers Ned had sent her earlier were filling the air with the heady scent of summer. Glancing across at the table in the far corner, she noted that the bottle of champagne was already in the silver bucket, with two crystal flutes on a tray next to it.

  Well done, Vane, she said to herself, thinking of the former parlour maid, whom she had promoted to be the under-housekeeper. The young woman was doing extremely well and she was pleased about this.

  Edward Deravenel always felt an enormous sense of relief when he arrived at Jane’s house. He knew that the moment he walked in the tensions of the day would instantly evaporate, and he would relax, become totally at ease with himself. It had been that way since he had first met her.

  They were highly compatible in every way. She gave him pleasure and satisfaction in bed, and delighted him out of it. Intelligent, articulate and full of knowledge about many things, she also had a unique quality about her – a lovely tranquillity surrounded Jane. Not only that, the calm atmosphere and well-ordered household met with his approval. Edward loathed chaos, and insisted on his own homes in London, Kent and Yorkshire being run perfectly.

  Even though he had a door key he always rang the bell before inserting the key in the lock and going inside. Usually it was Mrs Longden, the housekeeper, who greeted him, but she was nowhere in sight. It was Jane who hurried forward tonight, a happy smile on her face.

  ‘Ned, darling!’ she exclaimed, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Oh, goodness, your face is cold. It must have turned chilly.’

  He laid his briefcase on a hall bench, brought her into his arms and held her close for a moment. ‘There’s an icy wind all of a sudden,’ he explained, releasing her, struggling out of his coat and scarf.

  ‘Didn’t Broadbent drive you here?’ she asked, looking up at him quizzically.

  ‘Yes, but there was an awful lot of traffic tonight, and I got out on the corner. It was easier to walk a few yards into the square, rather than having him struggle through that madness. I sent him off for his supper, and he’ll return in a few hours. By then the traffic will have lessened.’

  As he spoke, Edward put his coat, scarf and briefcase in the hall cupboard, and together they crossed the hall, heading
in the direction of the parlour.

  ‘Mrs Longden’s off tonight: it’s her sister’s fiftieth birthday, which I’d totally forgotten about.’

  ‘Oh, Jane, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have taken you out to dinner.’

  ‘That would’ve been nice, Ned, but I know how much you enjoy dining here, and to be frank, so do I. Vane can serve us, and Cook has made some of your favourites – roast chicken, a cottage pie, and she managed to get an excellent smoked salmon from Fortnum and Mason. How does that sound?’

  ‘You’re making my mouth water,’ he said, laughing, following her into the parlour.

  It was Edward’s favourite room in the house, intimate and inviting, decorated in various shades of blue with touches of brilliant yellow throughout. Over the years Jane had collected exquisite decorative objects and all were well displayed, with flair, but it was the art which captivated. Jane had an excellent eye, and the paintings she had bought over the years, as well as those which Edward had given her, were superb. They enhanced the parlour, gave it even greater beauty.

  Jane hurried across the floor to the circular table in the corner, and picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘Would you like a glass of your favourite Krug?’ she asked, turning, smiling at him. ‘I think I will.’

  ‘Grand idea,’ he responded, going to stand in front of the fire, warming himself, his eyes resting on her as she poured the champagne.

  A moment later, as she approached, he suddenly thought of Lily. Almost from the first moment he had met Jane she had reminded him of Lily Overton, who had died so tragically. His darling Lily. For a split second a flicker of sadness clouded his brilliant blue eyes.

  Jane, who was particularly observant when it came to Edward Deravenel, saw the sudden shadow on his face, and as she handed him the flute of sparkling wine she asked quietly, ‘Young Edward is all right, isn’t he, Ned?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s getting better. Much better. I spoke to the doctor before I left the office, because the boy still has an awful cough, and Leighton told me that’s not unusual with bronchitis. Apparently it lingers. And Young Edward is eating better. Also, my mother tells me he’s finally lost that rather disturbing glazed look.’