‘She’s very well, but she misses her father.’ Catherine leaned forward, her face eager, ‘Do you think Harry will come over for tea with us this weekend, Mary? He usually does pay a visit when it’s his birthday. Oh, and is he having a party? It is his fortieth.’
Taken by surprise, Mary moved her position on the sofa, and thought quickly. ‘I haven’t heard mention of a party,’ she said, ‘and I don’t know if he will come over to see you, darling. Harry’s not one to be confiding his plans to his little sister.’ She forced a laugh. ‘He’s like our father, and our grandfather, Edward Deravenel, he puts business first.’
‘You’re on his side, aren’t you?’ Catherine said suddenly, her voice hard.
Mary gaped at her, taken by surprise yet again, and at once she decided to be honest. ‘To a certain extent, yes, I am on his side. I do think you ought to release him, so that he can get married and try to have a male heir.’
‘And you approve of that bitch Anne Bowles, do you?’
‘Whether I approve of her or not is beside the point, Catherine. I just believe my brother should have his freedom after all these years of separation.’
‘I just can’t go against my religion.’ Harry Turner’s wife shook her head, and added even more emphatically, ‘Never. I’ll never divorce him.’
As she walked across Eaton Square, Mary Brandt tried to shake off her sense of dismay and frustration. No one could make headway with Catherine; she was incredibly stubborn and old-fashioned. She was also Spanish by birth, and even though she had lived in England from the age of sixteen she was still very foreign in many ways. She was also deeply religious and this was a great issue, her reason for not granting Harry a divorce.
Mary fully realized how her brother must be feeling. Catherine wouldn’t budge and her attitude was more than frustrating, it was downright infuriating. No wonder Harry was at his wits’ end. He wanted a male heir so badly, and their father’s dying words to him had made such an impression on him, and on his mind. She sometimes thought he had been traumatized by their father banging on at him about a male heir even before his deathbed.
Charles had talked him into coming to dinner last night, when they had finally got back from Ravenscar. Apparently the A1 had been a nightmare, the cars bumper to bumper. She had soon detected her brother’s despair, and her heart had gone out to him. Harry was such a generous, giving, loving man, and nothing was ever too much trouble for him. He was extremely thoughtful, also kind to everyone.
After he had gone home to the house in Berkeley Square, where they had spent part of their childhood, and where he now lived alone, Charles had carefully explained Harry’s current state of mind.
It wasn’t very good, she had decided, once Charles had finished speaking.
And so today, of her own accord, she had gone to see Catherine, hoping to break through that stone wall, but she had not succeeded. She wondered now if anyone ever would.
Deep down, she tended to agree that Anne Bowles, who had her hooks into Harry, was a bit of a bitch. But knowing that did not solve anything. Harry wanted Anne. He was in her thrall, absolutely mesmerized by her, so Charles said. He just wasn’t going to give her up, as far as she could ascertain.
Seemingly, on their drive to London, Charles had told him to dump both women and move on, but had Harry listened? And would he do it? She did not know.
Mary loved her brother. And there was nothing worse than being in a bad marriage, one that was unhappy, with a partner who was intolerable. She knew that only too well.
Her first marriage had been ghastly. Antoine had been too old for her, and a difficult man, and then he had fallen sick. And she had fallen in love. Deeply, truly in love. With Charles Brandt, when he had come to Paris on Deravenel business. The funny thing was, she had known Charles all of her life, because he had been Harry’s friend since childhood. It was only when he had arrived in Paris and had taken her to lunch at the Ritz in the Place Vendôme that she had found herself shaking all over and limp with desire for him.
Rather fortuitously, Antoine Delacroix, her first husband, had suddenly died, and she was suddenly free – happily, crazily free. Free to marry the man she had known forever yet had not known at all: Charles Brandt, with whom she was sleeping before her husband’s very convenient death, the man she was utterly and completely rapturous about. She had been lucky, very lucky indeed. They had two daughters, and they were the happiest couple she knew.
After leaving Catherine’s mews house, just behind Eaton Square, Mary had intended to go to Harvey Nichols to buy summer clothes for their trip to France. Now she changed her mind, and stood on the edge of the pavement in the square, hailing a cab. One came to a standstill within a moment, and she jumped in, gave the cabbie her address in Chelsea. To hell with shopping, she wanted to get home, to be there when Charles arrived. He disliked coming back to an empty house.
‘I want a divorce, and I want it now,’ Harry Turner said, looking across the desk at his solicitor, Thomas Wolsen. Harry’s eyes were blue ice and his mouth was tightly set, almost in a grimace, and an air of acute impatience surrounded him.
For twenty-three years, Thomas Wolsen had been Harry’s solicitor, advising him on all matters, some of which were not even to do with the law, and over the years he had come to look upon Harry as a son. Steepling his fingers, gazing over them at Harry, Thomas finally said in a gentle tone, ‘I would do anything in this world for you, and I think you know that. I’d even lay down my life for you, Harry. But not even for you can I change the law, or the rules of the Roman Catholic Church.’
Harry sat back in his chair glowering, saying nothing.
Thomas did the same, but his expression remained concerned and genial.
The two men were in Thomas’s law offices in Upper Grosvenor Street, and for the last twenty minutes they had been discussing various legal matters. The atmosphere had been warm, cordial as it usually was. But now that Harry had broached divorce the atmosphere instantly changed, became considerably cooler. Thomas knew that Harry was batting his head against a brick wall; however, Harry would not admit that. Not for one moment.
Harry suddenly said swiftly, his voice rising an octave, ‘There must be something we can do. Can’t we pay somebody? Bribe somebody?’
‘There is no one, Harry.’
‘Why can’t I get a divorce from Catherine? We’ve been separated for years.’
‘Because you deserted her, not vice versa. Now, she could divorce you, on the grounds of desertion, but she doesn’t want to do so. Therefore, we are at an impasse.’
‘Perhaps I could talk her into it.’
‘Harry, be sensible. The Catholic Church doesn’t recognize divorce, and if she becomes a divorced woman she will be excommunicated, unable to take Holy Communion. Since she is extremely devout, she won’t put herself in this position. I can tell you that quite categorically. I’ve known her for years, and she will not in any way compromise her faith.’
‘She can have anything of mine, Thomas, anything at all she wants. Money. As much as her heart desires. She can even have Waverley Court. Not the Berkeley Square house, but the one in Kent, yes. A divorce … that’s what I must have, and at any price. Just help me to get it.’
‘Divorce at any price. Quite a phrase, Harry.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘And one some solicitors would be gratified to hear … especially those on the other side. But I think I must be a little more cagey, shall we say? I can’t use it indiscriminately, especially when in discussion with Catherine’s lawyers.’
‘Do what you can. Come up with something, Thomas!’ Harry exclaimed and rose, crossed the room. He turned around when he reached the door. ‘Time is running out for me …’ He gave Thomas a pointed look, added, ‘I must have a divorce … for my own sanity. NOW. I want it now, Thomas. Do you hear me?’
Harry didn’t wait for a response nor did he even say goodbye; he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Thomas Wolsen stared at it, shaking his head.
Then he sat back, ruminating for a few moments, wondering what on earth he could do. In his opinion he would have to produce a miracle – and with Catherine to deal with, that was an impossibility.
After a few moments, Thomas pressed the intercom and summoned one of his junior partners.
John Upstone walked in immediately and asked, ‘Do you need me, sir?’
Thomas nodded emphatically.
‘I saw Harry Turner leaving, so I’ve no doubt there is something to discuss … about him.’ John’s expression was keen, anticipatory.
‘Indeed there is. Harry is harping on about his divorce from Catherine again. He says he wants it now. I emphasize the NOW.’
‘He has no grounds for divorce, it’s not going to happen,’ John stated flatly.
‘We’ve got to try and make it happen. I think we’re on the line, John, seriously on the line. The firm is on the line. If we don’t pull something out of the hat we may lose him as a client.’
John Upstone was taken aback. ‘After all these years? And in view of your very close relationship?’
‘Close relationships, I’ve discovered, don’t much matter to our old friend Harry. Only Harry matters to Harry.’
‘Well, I’ll endeavour to come up with something. Somehow.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Thomas murmured. Leaning forward he added, ‘Do anything. Anything at all in order to get him a divorce. Short of murder, of course.’
FIFTY-SIX
Sir Tommy Morle, journalist, author, philosopher and barrister, was sitting with Harry Turner at a corner table in Rule’s, enjoying an apéritif before dinner on this lovely Wednesday evening in June.
Having paid close attention to his old friend for the last half an hour, he said slowly, ‘Harry, please listen to me, and listen very carefully. This is a pipe dream, wishful thinking on your part. You cannot get an annulment. It’s out of the question.’
‘That’s what Wolsen told me, but some people who have been married a long time have been able to do so –’
‘Let me explain,’ Tommy cut in peremptorily. ‘Under Canon Law, the grounds for an annulment are either an impediment to the union, including non-consummation of the marriage, or bigamy. Or cases of forced unions, or emotional or mental incapacity. Now, I know you and Catherine were in your right minds when you married, and that no one forced you, and you’ve certainly consummated it – you have a grown daughter to prove it.’
Henry nodded, sighed, ‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘Actually, I know everything. I’ve studied it upside down and inside out. I’m bloody stuck.’
‘You are indeed.’
‘I must have an heir, Tommy, you know that better than anyone else. You knew my father and how he was. That aside, though, I love Anne, and she loves me, and I want to be with her. I want her to have my child. My heir.’
Tommy sat back, a reflective look settling in his eyes, and then a shadow crossed his face. ‘You’ve asked me time and again for my advice, Harry, but unfortunately I’ve none to give. Not before, not now. You’re married to a Roman Catholic, and one who is extremely devout.’
‘I’ve about as much chance of getting a divorce as a snowball in hell. I shall just have to live with Anne, and if she gets pregnant she gets pregnant. So the heir will be illegitimate.’ He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He had surprised himself, and he suddenly grinned at Tommy and added, ‘There! I’ve finally said it. This is the only solution. We’ll live together.’
‘No, it’s not really the only solution. You could give Anne up, and accept the fact that you do actually have an heir,’ Tommy retorted, but his tone was mild.
‘You mean Mary?’
‘Yes, I do. She is your legitimate heir.’
‘But she’s a girl. I want –’
‘Better not let today’s emancipated females hear you say that quite so scathingly. They’ll have your guts for garters. This is 1970, not 1907. We’re living in a new age … an age of modernity. And a lot of women are taking the reins of power in companies. And also in politics. I’m certainly keeping an eye on that young cabinet minister, Margaret Thatcher.’
‘Those in the know say she’s going places,’ Harry murmured. ‘I agree with you about keeping an eye on her.’
Tommy suddenly smiled. ‘She’s going to the top, I’d say. She might even be Prime Minister one day, and in the not-too-distant future.’
‘A woman as Prime Minister?’ Harry shook his head, looking sceptical. ‘I’m not too sure of that, not too sure at all.’ He laughed.
Tommy laughed with him. ‘Everything is possible in this world.’
‘Except a divorce from a Catholic.’
‘Too true.’ Tommy picked up his glass of whisky and took a sip, and went on, ‘The world is moving at a rapid pace these days, Harry. You never know what might happen. Catherine might say yes. Who would have ever thought that we’d put a man on the moon, two men to be exact … Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. But it happened, the Americans did it last year … such a remarkable feat. So in my opinion, anything’s possible.’
‘Did you know that the maiden name of Buzz Aldrin’s mother was Moon?’
‘I certainly didn’t! What an extraordinary coincidence,’ Tommy said, and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Miss Moon, whose son walked on the moon. Now, getting back to women in business, what about Mary?’
‘My daughter hasn’t shown any interest in the business, Tommy. Look, I’ll grant you that Edward Deravenel made it possible to place a Deravenel woman in the top job at Deravenels, but I don’t think Mary would want it, actually. She’s more interested in art and music.’
‘Most young women are interested in art, music and the like, but she may well have a head for business. Have you ever asked her about joining the company?’
‘No, I haven’t, and anyway, I believe that a woman must want to go into business in order to be a success, don’t you agree? And there would be opposition.’
Tommy nodded. ‘And a woman ought to be ambitious as well, if she’s going to succeed.’
Wishing to move away from the subject of Mary, not really wanting to continue it, Harry now said, ‘Anne is ambitious.’
Don’t I know that, Tommy thought, but did not say. He merely sipped his whisky and looked contemplative. Anne Bowles was the most ambitious, tough, scheming, determined, clever woman he had ever known. He did not like her, and deep down he did not approve of Harry’s liaison with her; he much preferred the sweeter, quieter Catherine. But he was Harry’s friend, and he remained true and loyal to him, and he hoped he would be able to influence his friend, steer Harry in the proper direction whenever he deemed it necessary.
Harry touched Tommy’s arm, and said, ‘Come back, Tom, you’re drifting. Anne has a very good business head, as I was saying. The antique shop in Paris has been doing extremely well lately, and so has the one here in London. She has quite the most extraordinary taste. And a superb eye. She’s very talented, even though I do say so myself.’
Tommy was saved the problem of thinking up an appropriate response when two waiters arrived with the first course: smoked trout, fresh from the highland streams of Scotland, to be served with creamed horseradish sauce and thin slices of brown bread and butter.
‘Now doesn’t that look appealing, rather tasty, I must say,’ Tommy murmured, glancing at Harry, hoping Anne Bowles would not continue to be the topic of conversation over dinner. It was the most boring subject he could think of and Harry was relentless when he got going.
Having said the words aloud to Tommy over dinner, Harry Turner felt more confident with the idea of living with Anne. Actually, he had never been diffident about this; it was Anne who was the problem. She seemed to find this step a difficult one to take. But he could persuade her, he felt quite certain of that.
It was Charles Brandt who had helped him to sort things out in his own head on the drive from Yorkshire. And it was Charles who had listed the inducements he could use to tempt Anne, convince her that he woul
d never abandon her, no matter what.
When he went to Paris on Sunday to join Anne and celebrate his fortieth birthday, he would present everything to her. How could she resist what he had to offer her … so many material benefits as well as himself. It was a fait accompli. He truly believed that.
And he could say to Anne, in all truth, that he had made a last-ditch effort, had talked to Thomas Wolsen yet again, and had dinner with him to discuss the great matter of the divorce. On Saturday, before he went to Paris, he would swallow his pride, take a deep breath and go to have a birthday tea with Catherine. But that would not be the real purpose; once more, and for the last time, he would ask his wife to set him free. If she refused, then he would take matters into his own hands, and set up house with Anne. But, at least by seeing Catherine, he could inform Anne truthfully that he had done his damnedest to get a divorce.
Rising, Harry walked across the library to the drinks’ table in the corner, poured himself a cognac. Carrying it back to the sofa, he sat down, sipping it, drifting with his thoughts.
Eventually, his eyes moved up to regard the painting over the fireplace … the famous Renoir of the two auburn-haired sisters. It had been hanging here in the Berkeley Square house for many years, ever since Edward Deravenel had bought it because it reminded him of his daughters Bess and Grace Rose.
At the thought of Grace Rose Harry smiled to himself. She was his favourite aunt … still alive, seventy years old now and acting half her age, a remarkable writer of bestselling historical books. And her husband Charles Morran was fit and strong, and something of a living legend now in his eighties. What a wonderful actor he had been, a star of the London stage, and on Broadway.
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