Heirs of Ravenscar

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Although he rather fancied the idea of going to live at the château, and of being in France, George had no intention of letting Edward know this, and he said in a somewhat truculent voice, ‘What makes you think I want to go to France? To live there? Actually, I don’t.’ He made a face just to make a point.

  ‘Please don’t dismiss this out of hand,’ Edward murmured softly, his voice placating. He wanted George out of England, and he was prepared to be conciliatory, persuasive, in order to achieve his purpose.

  ‘I’m not dismissing it. I just want to know what’s in it for me?’ George now managed to sound both petulant and grasping, which was typical of him.

  Edward contemplated his brother for a long moment. ‘There’s a lot in it for you, George. A beautiful home, a new start at Deravenels, and close proximity to the woman who has nothing but unconditional love for you – our sister, Margaret. Frankly, I expected you to jump at it.’

  ‘It might very well work for me,’ George responded after a few minutes. ‘I’m interested in wine, and I do know quite a lot about it. And I would like to know more, in fact. Also, I’m assuming there will be an increase in salary, and that there’ll be some good bonuses as well along the way.’

  ‘Oh, yes, George.’ Edward was quick to reassure him of this. The money didn’t matter, just so long as it did the trick. But he couldn’t help thinking how avaricious George was.

  George decided not to say anything: he just picked up his wine glass and raised it to Edward. ‘Here’s to you, brother mine. May you prosper, and Deravenels as well.’

  ‘And here’s to you,’ Edward answered, lifting his own glass. ‘I know you will prosper, George. Certainly I’ve every intention of making that happen.’

  The four men clinked glasses, and it was Will who asked, ‘And so what’s your answer, George?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ was his quick response, and he offered them a bland smile.

  ‘What’s all this about you sending George to run the vineyards in Mâcon?’ Richard asked the following afternoon, sitting down in the chair opposite Edward’s desk.

  ‘I’m not sending him, Richard. I asked him if he’d like to go and he hasn’t answered me yet. He’s thinking about it.’

  ‘I don’t think he should go,’ Richard answered.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s dangerous for him. He’ll drink himself to death, you’ll see.’

  ‘No, he won’t, he’s not that stupid. And as I just told you, Dick, it’s his choice.’

  Richard stared at Edward, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe this.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘Its not like you to be so … so obtuse. Surely you can see the dangers?’

  ‘You might be right. But I can’t worry about that. I need to get him out of my hair. He’s saying the most terrible things about our mother, saying I’m a bastard. You know this. You’ve surely heard the gossip he’s been spreading. And he’s been saying my children are bastards as well. I’ve excused him, forgiven him for so many things, so many transgressions, and so many times, Dick. You know this. He never learns any lessons, and my patience has now worn thin.’

  ‘I know, and I sympathize. George was very disloyal when Neville was plotting against you, and his betrayals have been quite … well, staggering, Ned. On the other hand, offering him a vineyard to play in is like putting a gun in his hand.’ Richard grimaced. ‘He won’t be able to resist tippling.’

  ‘He might drink, yes. On the other hand, I think he’s wise enough not to over-indulge. Anyway, he may very well refuse to go. After all, I offered it to him, I’m not insisting that he moves to France.’

  Richard stood up. ‘I understand,’ he murmured in a low voice and walked over to the door. ‘Let me know what happens, what George says finally. I’m going to Yorkshire this afternoon. Francis Lowell needs me at the mills in Bradford. We’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Presumably not too serious?’ Edward asked, looking at Richard intently.

  ‘No. And we’ll deal with it.’

  ‘You’ve done well with the northern companies, Dick. I’m proud of you. I want you to know this.’

  ‘Thanks, Ned. Let’s face it though, I do have some good men who work with me. Francis Lowell, Robert Clayton, and Alan Ramsey. I’m lucky.’

  After Richard had left Edward swivelled his desk chair and sat staring at the large map on the wall behind his desk. His father’s map.

  At this moment, Edward’s gaze was directed at France, and in particular at Burgundy. The Deravenel vineyards produced some great Mâconnaise wines, including a marvellous Pouilly Fuissé, one of their best whites, and some good Beaujolais which was extremely popular. These vineyards had always been profit able, as were their vineyards in Provence.

  He wondered suddenly if they had selected the wrong place to send George, and instantly dismissed this thought. Provence would be the worst, dangerous; it was too close to Marseilles and the Riviera. There was no question that Burgundy was the proper spot.

  Margaret and Charles were not too far away at their château just outside Dijon. Charles’s family had produced Nuits-St-Georges and some other great reds for several hundred years, and George could go and spend time with them. He knew full well Meg would always welcome her favourite, whom she had loved since childhood.

  Broadbent was waiting to drive him home to the house in Berkeley Square, and Edward settled back in the Rolls, pondering about his two brothers.

  He had no sooner opened the front door with his key and stepped inside when Mallet appeared and murmured in a low voice, ‘Good evening, sir. Mrs Deravenel is waiting for you in the library. Your mother, that is, sir.’

  Startled though he was, Edward merely nodded. ‘Thank you, Mallet. Tell Cook I’ll have dinner at the usual time, and I will let you know if my mother will be dining with me.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Deravenel.’

  Edward strode across the marble entrance hall and went into the library. ‘Good evening, Mother,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘This is a nice surprise. I didn’t know you had come up to town. Will you join me for dinner?’

  ‘No, no, I can’t, Edward, but thank you.’

  He stood in front of the fireplace, even though there was no fire on this fine August evening. ‘Do you wish to talk to me about something, Mama?’ he asked softly, reverting to his boyhood name for her.

  ‘Yes, I do, Edward. I wish to talk to you about your brother. George.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t want you to send him to Burgundy. Being at the vineyards in Mâcon means certain death for him. I know this.’

  ‘I think you are underestimating George. I believe he will curb his appetite for drink, and handle himself with a degree of sense. He knows liquor is his downfall, so he won’t drink much, please be assured of that.’

  Cecily Deravenel stared at her eldest son and shook her head, an expression of disbelief on her face. ‘He’s an alcoholic. He can’t help himself. And he’s in a poor state in his bereavement. He misses Isabel.’

  ‘It’s his choice whether he goes to France or not, Mother, and to my knowledge he has not yet made a decision, so this conversation is a trifle premature, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. He’ll go all right, he won’t be able to resist. I’m asking you to revoke this offer you’ve made to him. Exile him if you must, but don’t send him to the vineyards, Edward. Please.’

  ‘I told you, it’s his choice.’

  ‘You are being very obdurate, I can see that. All I can say is that you are sentencing him to death.’ She rose, and walked slowly towards the door. When she reached it, she turned around and gave Edward a long look, and her face was grave, her eyes filled with a terrible sorrow. ‘I’ve never ever asked you for anything, Ned, not once since you took over Deravenels seventeen years ago. All I’ve ever done is support you, stand behind you. Whatever you did. I am begging you to rescind the offer to your brother. Begging, Ned.’

  ‘I just told you, Mother, he doesn’t
have to go. We’ll find another spot for him elsewhere. We have offices all over the world.’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? He won’t go anywhere else, not now. He’s thrilled about this promotion of yours, as you’ve called it, to him. I can assure you he will accept it. He’ll go. He’s suddenly proud, full of hope because you’ve … picked him to go to Mâcon.’

  ‘Please, Mother, don’t look at me like that, with such disdain. I’ll talk to George tomorrow. He can go anywhere he wishes, I’ve told you that, as long as he leaves England.’

  ‘It’s that bad, is it?’

  ‘Yes. He’s committed far too many betrayals against me for too long, and he’s behaved in treacherous ways. George is untrustworthy.’

  ‘I know he’s committed quite a few crimes against you, if one can call them that. Nonetheless, he is your brother. Can’t you forgive him?’

  ‘No, that’s not possible. Please wait a moment, Mama,’ Edward exclaimed, walking quickly across the library but she had opened the door, had stepped out into the entrance hall.

  ‘Please wait, stay for supper with me,’ Edward continued.

  ‘No. Thank you. I’ll see myself out.’ She opened the door as she spoke and stepped out onto the front steps. ‘And don’t worry about walking me home. Charles Street is just around the corner. As you well know.’

  He stood staring at the front door, which his mother had closed quietly behind her. After letting out a long sigh of weariness, Edward returned to the library and sat down at the desk. He put his elbows on the top and dropped his head into his hands, groaning out loud. If George did go to Burgundy and if he did revert to his bad drinking habits, his mother would blame him. She had made it perfectly clear that she would hold him responsible for whatever George did. So be it, he thought sadly.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mâcon

  Will Hasling and Alfredo Oliveri sat together in the small red dining room of the Château de Poret, drinking large cups of café au lait and eating freshly made croissants on which they had both slathered large amounts of farm butter and raspberry jam. It was a sunny morning in late August, and they had arrived in Burgundy the day before, having travelled down from Paris on the train.

  ‘So do you think George is really going to show up?’ Alfredo asked, giving Will a careful look. He sat back in his chair, waiting for an answer, his expression sceptical.

  ‘I know you doubt he will come,’ Will responded after a moment of reflection, ‘But I believe he’ll show up and with bells on. Why wouldn’t he come? He’s nothing to lose, and he does have a choice – he can say yes or no to our proposition. Anyway, in my opinion he probably thinks this place would be … well … a little fiefdom of his own, actually, and I’m sure he feels he’ll be able to lord it over everyone, perhaps even rule the roost.’

  ‘God forbid!’ Alfredo exclaimed, shaking his head, looking aghast. ‘That’s all we need, George attempting to take over these vineyards. We’d really be in trouble if that happened.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Will replied emphatically. ‘George is basically a lazy man, I’ve told you that before. He wants a cushy life with nothing to do and pots of money. He doesn’t like to work, you know.’

  Will poured himself another cup of coffee, added the frothy hot milk and sugar. After taking a sip, he continued, ‘This is the best coffee I’ve ever had. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy coming here. The coffee, the food, and the château.’ He laughed. ‘Not sure which comes first.’

  Alfredo confided, ‘I’ve always enjoyed this particular château myself, and I must say I do think Vincent Martell has done a wonderful job of keeping it in perfect condition since Madame de Poret died.’ He threw Will a questioning look, remarked, ‘I never quite understood why he wouldn’t live here after her death. I know you did ask him if he wanted to move in, but you never told me why he refused.’

  ‘In his eyes, it was the home of the de Porets, and always had been as long as he could remember. Even though there was no living relative to move in, he did not change his mind. He was born in the village, his father worked in the vineyards before him, and I suspect he thought it would be wrong, that he would be stepping out of place. And don’t forget, he had just been widowed. I’m sure he didn’t want to leave his house on the estate here, where he had lived with his wife Yvette for years. That was his home and I don’t think he liked the thought of making a change. Too many memories in the old place.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Alfredo glanced across at Will, studied him for a moment, knowing what a decent, caring man he was. ‘I’m glad you told him he could remain here after his retirement, live in his house. After all he’ll be a consultant, working for us.’

  ‘And he’s lived in that house for over thirty years,’ Will pointed out. ‘Knowing him the way I do, I realized he was worrying about where he would live. I picked up on it straightaway.’

  ‘What did you think about Marcel Arnaud? Did you like him?’

  ‘He’s a bit quiet, somewhat uncommunicative. However, I trust Vincent’s judgement. If he is comfortable with Arnaud taking over, running the vineyards, then I must go along with him. He’s the genuine expert around here. Vincent’s never been anything but straight with me, honest to the point of bluntness sometimes, ever since we bought this vineyard in 1906.’

  ‘He is a quiet man, I agree with you there, and of course you have to take Vincent’s advice. By the way, after George arrives and he’s been given the tour, are you planning to go to our other vineyards in Mâcon?’

  Will nodded, shifted slightly in the chair. ‘Yes, I am, but I’m not intending to take George. I want to go to the Côte d’Or, visit our vineyards in Beaune. You know how important our Montrachet white wines are. Good decision on Edward’s part, buying those particular vineyards in 1910. They’re great moneymakers for us.’

  ‘I’d like to come with you, if you don’t mind. And then I’ll head for Italy afterwards. I want to check on the marble quarries in Carrara.’

  There was a small silence, and then Will cleared his throat, murmured quietly, ‘I haven’t ever been back there since we came to see you, after Richard Deravenel’s death … seventeen years go now. That was when we first met, remember?’

  ‘It’s a hard trip for me to make also,’ Alfredo murmured, and let out a sigh. He then pushed back his chair, went on in a brisker tone, ‘Shall we go out and find Vincent? Go for a walk around the vineyards?’

  ‘Good idea. And by the way, I’ll be glad to have your company on my trip to Beaune.’

  They found Vincent Martell in one of the large wine vaults, and when he saw them he came hurrying forward to greet them. He was a stocky man, well-muscled, with a broad chest and a craggy face tanned nut-brown from the sun. This contrasted markedly with his pure white hair. His brown eyes held a bright sparkle and he had great vigour, lots of energy.

  ‘Bonjour!’ he cried as he came to a stop, thrusting out his hand first to Will and then to Alfredo. ‘I hope you both slept well, and that Solange gave you a good breakfast,’ he added in slightly accented English.

  ‘Thank you, she did,’ Will answered, and glanced around. ‘This cellar is very pleasing to my eyes, Vincent. So many casks in here, and that makes me extremely happy.’

  ‘Ah, oui, et moi aussi!’ Vincent smiled broadly. ‘We have had a good year.’ He led them down one of the long alleys between the casks; these were laying on their sides, piled on top of each other, from floor to ceiling.

  Alfredo followed slowly on their heels, realizing he had not been in this particular vault before; it was huge. The casks were large round barrels made of wood, bound with hoops of wood and metal, and they were stacked extremely high.

  He paused, stared hard at one stack, wondering how the casks remained stationary. This row was composed of eight barrels laid out on the floor, with seven on top, then six, five, four, three, two and finally one single cask at the very top of the stack. Each row of barrels was held in place by a wooden wedge; this was pushed und
erneath the first barrel, and the wedge stopped it from rolling forward and falling onto the floor.

  Quite a feat to set this up, Alfredo thought, and threw a last look at the casks before walking on. He noticed, as he went deeper into the vault, that some of the stacks were even higher, and he couldn’t help wondering if this stacking process was dangerous. What if a barrel fell? They would all fall, wouldn’t they?

  Will and Vincent had disappeared from view, and Alfredo now had to hurry to catch up to them. He shivered slightly; it was cold in here. They had turned a corner, and were walking down another alley, chatting animatedly, he could see that.

  ‘Must be difficult to stack all these barrels, I should think,’ Alfredo said as he finally joined them. ‘Especially since they are stacked on their sides. There’s a danger of them rolling around, isn’t there?’

  Vincent laughed, shook his head. ‘No. And it’s not too hard when you know how. The Burgundy casks are easy to handle, lighter than the Bordeaux casks which are the ones more commonly used.’ He then went on explaining about the stacking process, the making of the casks themselves, as well as the corks, how the bottling and the labelling were done, taking Alfredo through the many steps required to produce a bottle of wine.