Heirs of Ravenscar

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, and told himself he was lucky. He had a baby, one who was healthy; also, the child would bind them closer than they already were. Anne was young, and strong, and she would have more children, and next time they would have a boy. It had to be a boy next time around. Third time lucky, he reminded himself.

  The moment he saw his baby daughter Harry Turner fell in love. She was beautiful in every way; she even had a little tiny tuft of red fluff on top of her head.

  As he rushed into the room he saw Anne looking at him anxiously, over the baby’s head, and he went to her immediately, kissed her, then looked down at the bundle of lacey shawls in her arms and saw that adorable little face for the first time.

  ‘She’s going to have red hair like you, Harry,’ Anne murmured, smiling at him, even though the anxious expression remained in her eyes.

  ‘That was the first thing I saw,’ he said, beaming, and touched her tiny hand, stared at the minuscule nails. He sighed, said, ‘She’s perfect, just as Dr Hargrove said she was. A little miracle.’

  ‘I know how much you wanted a boy, Harry. I’m so sorry she’s a girl,’ Anne murmured, and held the baby a little bit closer, protectively almost.

  He shook his head, looking at Anne intently. ‘No, no, don’t say that, sweetheart. We have our very own child. She’s part of us. We made her, and I love her. Next time we’ll have a boy, I know we will. And you mustn’t think I won’t love her. I just told you, I love her already.’

  ‘We were going to call our son Edward,’ Anne began, hesitated, then went on, ‘I was wondering –’

  He cut her off when he said quickly, excitedly, ‘We shall call her Elizabeth! After my mother: she’ll grow up to be as smart and as beautiful as the famous Bess Deravenel Turner, you’ll see.’

  Anne laughed, relief surging through her. She could see he was happy with their child, and she finally relaxed, the tension slipped away, and she was able to breathe easily again.

  ‘And when can you bring this bundle of happiness and perfection home?’ Harry asked, pulling a chair up to the bed.

  ‘In a few days, the doctor said. It was a relatively easy birth, Harry, and I’m very strong, and doing well.’

  They talked a little longer and then he stood up, bent over her and kissed her, touched the baby’s forehead with one finger. ‘I shall come and see you tonight, darling. Now I’m going back to Deravenels to hand out cigars and tell everybody I’m the proud father of a gorgeous girl.’

  Only Charles Brandt knew how much disappointment lurked beneath the cheerful exterior Harry was presenting to the world. He walked around the executive offices, handing out cigars, and boasting about his auburn-haired daughter, accepting everyone’s congratulations. He was a jolly fellow that afternoon.

  It was a stellar performance, and Charles admired Harry for it. Why let the world know what you truly felt? That was Harry’s eternal cry, almost his motto, and Charles readily agreed with him. Never let them know when you’re hurting, Charles reminded himself as he walked through Deravenels with Harry, spurring him on, helping him to put up a good front.

  As the father of two girls, Charles knew how wonderful daughters could be, and he kept reminding Harry of this, not only on September the seventh, but for a long time after that. And as the weeks and months passed Harry did grow to love the little girl with red hair and bright black eyes even more. He treasured her, and her mother, and he wanted nothing more than another child as beautiful as Elizabeth … a boy, of course.

  ‘I don’t seem able to carry a child to full term,’ Anne said in a sad voice that was low and confiding.

  A look of concern spread across Mary Turner Brandt’s lovely face and her reddish-blonde brows puckered in a deep frown. ‘I’m so sorry, Anne, so terribly sorry.’ She sighed, pursed her lips. ‘You should have confided in me before. It’s a hard burden to carry alone.’

  It was July of 1973, and in September Elizabeth would be two years old, and as yet Anne had been unable to give Harry his longed-for son and heir, much to her chagrin.

  Mary and Anne were sitting in the breakfast room of the Brandt’s Chelsea house, sharing a light lunch of asparagus vinaigrette, to be followed by Scottish smoked salmon with thin slices of bread and butter.

  Mary, now thinking of Harry’s constant bad temper, his reluctance to socialize and his total dedication and absorption in Deravenels, instantly understood her brother’s behaviour of late. Normally outgoing, charming and easy to be with, he had become difficult, somewhat of a curmudgeon. She had, until this moment, believed that Harry’s irritability had to do with the way things were going in Britain. He had earlier in the year anticipated the worst recession since the Second World War, and knew the country would be in crisis. He was not overwhelmed by the government under Ted Heath either, and he had sold an enormous amount of property. She acknowledged now that there were other factors at play in Harry’s world.

  Breaking her silence, leaning towards her sister-in-law, Mary asserted, ‘You must have seen your gynaecologist, surely? What does he say?’

  ‘He doesn’t really have any answers for me, Mary, because I’m very healthy. However, I do keep having miscarriages.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three over the past two years, and, of course, it’s three too many as far as Harry is concerned. He’s been extremely disappointed in me.’

  Mary was silent, knowing her brother’s terrible obsession about Anne having his heir. Finally, she said, ‘Look, I don’t want you to feel I’m giving you a lecture, because I’m not. However, I do think you are far too frantic most of the time, Anne. Working at the antiques shop in Kensington, designing and decorating for clients, flying back and forth between London and Paris …’ Mary paused, shook her head, finished, ‘Don’t you think it might be wise to slow down? Concentrate on having a baby?’

  ‘I do take care of myself, Mary, I truly do. I’m, well, sort of carried around, in a sense, and in great comfort. I have cars and drivers, lots of helpers in the business, and very good domestic staff.’

  ‘Do you really need the Paris end of your business, Anne? And that huge flat in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Isn’t that, in itself, a dreadful burden?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’ve three assistants in my interior design company, and four people working in the shop on the Left Bank these days. And as far as the flat is concerned, I have a full staff. A houseman, a housekeeper and two cleaners. I don’t have any worries about help.’

  ‘But it all takes such a lot of management on your part, however much help you have, darling. A business to run – no, two businesses now that I think about it, and a very grand flat to run as well as the Berkeley Square house.’ Mary shook her head. ‘And Harry doesn’t seem to go to Paris very often these days, now does he?’

  ‘No, you’re right about that, Mary. But I can’t give Paris up. I love it too much, the city itself. You know I grew up there, and I’m more French than I’m English in many ways. And I certainly don’t want to close either the shop or my decorating business in Paris. I enjoy working there and in London. And what would I do? I’d be so bored.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mary replied, and picked up a piece of lemon, squeezed it on the smoked salmon. ‘But even if you did give up the businesses in Paris, let’s say, you would still have the shop and the design company in London. Isn’t that enough for you?’

  Anne shook her head, answered with some vehemence, ‘I don’t want to give Paris up, and most certainly not the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It’s my favourite place to live.’

  ‘I realize that,’ Mary murmured, taking a slice of the brown bread and butter, saying not another word. They both ate in silence.

  After they had finished lunch, Mary stood up, cleared the plates and asked, ‘Would you like coffee, Anne dear?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mary. But I’ll have another glass of the white wine, if I may.’

  ‘Of course, and I’ll join you.’ Mary picked up the bottle of
Pouilly Fuissé and filled their empty glasses.

  After a few moments, Mary said softly, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking this, and don’t think I’m prying. But how is your relationship with Harry?’

  ‘So-so. To be blunt, we do still sleep with each other. In fact, he’s quite the ardent lover.’ She smiled slyly, and added in a cynical tone, ‘He must have a male heir, so he must perform, you know.’

  Mary winced, said nothing, simply sipped her wine. And thought of Harry’s new personal assistant, Jane Selmere. She was really a highly professional private secretary, but these days they all called themselves personal assistants. According to Charles, she was cleverly trying to ensnare Harry, although her husband had no proof that there was anything going on between them. Yet. Charles had simply muttered about the kind of looks they exchanged, and added that those furtive glances were rather suggestive to him. He smelled trouble brewing.

  ‘You’ve suddenly gone awfully quiet, Mary, is something wrong? Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Of course I’m not angry!’ Mary exclaimed, and she spoke the truth. She had lately felt sorry for Anne. After another moment of quiet thought, she put down her wine glass, jumped up, and said, ‘Come with me, Anne! I have a great idea, and I hope you agree.’

  Anne got up and left the table, followed her sister-in-law out in the entrance hall. ‘What’s this all about, Mary?’

  Coming to a standstill, Mary said, ‘Look around, Anne, look at this entrance hall, and come with me to the library. It’s Charles’s favourite room, and I love it, too. Come on, come and look.’

  Still somewhat puzzled, Anne hurried into the library, glancing around, filled with sudden dismay. It looked shabby. ‘It is a beautiful room,’ she murmured, not wanting to criticize.

  ‘Agreed. It always has been. And the house has been in the family for over seventy years. And I don’t think much has been done to it in all that time, except for a little bit of refurbishing. It’s been re-painted from time to time.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I want to hire you to do some redecorating and refurbishing in this house. Our home which Charles and I truly love. God knows it needs it, and I think you would enjoy taking it on, wouldn’t you, Anne? It would be a fantastic project for you.’

  ‘It certainly would –’ Anne’s mouth twitched, and she began to laugh. ‘You’re trying to anchor me in London, aren’t you? It’s my guess you want to stop me rushing around the world and back, isn’t that it?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Mary admitted, as always honest. She laughed with Anne, and added, ‘But I do think the house needs perking up, you’ve got to agree.’

  ‘I do, yes.’ Anne walked around the room, her eagle eye catching everything. Then she went and sat down on the sofa next to the grand fireplace. ‘Come and sit with me, Mary, and tell me the history of this house. I’d like to know more about it than I do. I want to understand it fully.’

  Joining her, Mary sat in the big armchair opposite, and explained, ‘The house once belonged to Neville Watkins. I’m sure you’ve heard his name – he is part of the family lore.’

  ‘Yes, I have, and if I remember correctly, Neville Watkins was the nephew of Harry’s great-grandmother, Cecily Watkins Deravenel.’ She threw Mary a questioning look.

  ‘That’s correct. His father was Cecily’s brother. It was Neville who bought this house, and immediately gave it to his wife, Nan Watkins. They lived here for many years and brought up their two daughters here.’

  ‘And the daughters both married Edward Deravenel’s brothers, George and Richard, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Goodness, you have absorbed our family history.’

  ‘Harry has always been fascinated by his grandfather, Edward. I think his mother filled his head with fantastic stories about her father, and he savours them.’

  Mary laughed. ‘I know he does: we both do. After all, Edward was my grandfather, and his daughter was my mother as well as Harry’s. Anyway, to continue, after Neville’s daughter Anne Watkins married Richard Deravenel, Edward bought this house from Nan, and then gifted it to his brother Richard. He and Anne lived here during their lifetimes. Of course, Richard died after Anne, he was murdered, you know, on Ravenscar Beach. Anyway, Richard left this house to Bess, his favourite niece. Our mother allowed Grace Rose and her other sisters to live here, until they all got married, actually. And then Grace Rose continued to occupy the house with Charlie Morgan. Until it got a little bit too big for them, as they’ve grown older. It was then that we took it over.’

  ‘How wonderful that it has stayed in the family. And I think its redecoration should stay in the family. Thank you for offering me the job. I accept … I’m thrilled to accept, Mary.’

  SIXTY-TWO

  Paris

  Harry Turner was sitting up in bed, eating a boiled egg and reading the financial pages of the New York Herald Tribune. At the sound of footsteps clattering on the parquet floor in the adjoining hallway, he glanced up, and saw Anne walking into their bedroom.

  He was startled. She looked more beautiful than he had seen her in a very long time. Dressed in a pin-striped pale-grey tailored trouser suit and a white silk shirt, she had a marvellous, gleaming aura about her this morning, a special kind of glow. And she was the picture of good health … A sour note crept into his thoughts as he wondered why such a healthy-looking young woman was incapable of carrying his babies to full term. He was sick to death of the miscarriages and stillbirths.

  ‘Good morning, Harry darling,’ she said in a light, cheerful voice, interrupting his grim thoughts. ‘I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Where are you going at this ungodly hour, it’s barely seven o’clock,’ he snapped and glanced at the bedside clock as he spoke.

  ‘To the Loire.’

  ‘Why?’ He sounded peevish and he stared at her questioningly, suspiciously. He was always suspicious of her these days.

  ‘Harry, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you half a dozen times for the past week. There is a marvellous estate sale at one of the grand châteaux in the Loire Valley, and I’m driving down there this morning. The furniture, tapestries, paintings and objets d’art are just out of this world.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ he demanded, the sourness echoing in his voice.

  ‘Mark and Philippe have already been down to the preview. Last week. And they came back raving about everything. It’s important for my business, you know, Harry. I also want to find the appropriate tapestries and accessories to add the finishing touches to Mary’s house. It’s almost done, just needs a few things.’

  ‘Why on earth would my sister want French tapestries to put in her house, which is actually from the English Regency period?’

  Anne smiled, ignoring his truculence, and answered, ‘Because Mary and Charles have great taste, and they both agree with me that the entrance hall at the Chelsea house needs warming up.’

  ‘I hope you’re not driving yourself to the Loire. You’re a hopeless driver,’ he pointed out. ‘Most especially in France. You’re always on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘Oh, pooh, Harry!’ she said, laughing again. ‘Anyway, Mark and Philippe are going with me, and Greg. He’s interested in the sale. So one of them will drive.’

  ‘Greg? Your brother Greg?’

  ‘Of course. Why are you sounding so surprised?’

  ‘I just am, that’s all. I hadn’t realized he was interested in antiques.’

  ‘Paintings, actually, and anyway, he wants to take a break for a few days. He did a lot of work for you on that bank deal.’

  ‘That’s true, he did. So, when are you planning to come back to Paris, Anne?’

  ‘The estate sale begins tomorrow morning, Tuesday, and lasts for five days, so we’ll be there until Saturday. We’ll drive back on Sunday.’

  Harry glared at her balefully, took a deep breath, and blew out air. ‘So you’re not going to be here on Thursday evening, are you?’

 
; Anne, looking puzzled, shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. But why do you say it in that way? Is there something I’ve forgotten? A dinner?’ As she said these words, she suddenly remembered that Harry was giving a dinner at Le Grand Véfour. ‘Oh, my God, Harry, your dinner …’ Her voice trailed off: she could see he was a little miffed, put out as only he could be. Irritability was one of his worst traits.

  ‘Yes, my dinner, as you call it. In celebration of my takeover of the French bank. Greg has seemingly forgotten it, too.’

  ‘Can’t we do it on Sunday night, darling? I’ll have the boys set off early, and I’ll be back in time for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll change it to next week. Charles and Mary won’t mind, since they’re staying in Paris. Charles and I have work to do on this rather important bank takeover.’

  She flew across the room to the bed, gave him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, and was gone.

  He stared after her, frowning, suddenly in a bad temper. She had that effect on him these days. She was growing more impossible. ‘Just go! I never want to see you again.’

  Henry walked up the Champs-Elysées, still feeling irritated and upset by Anne’s sudden departure for the Loire. He had been taken aback, and taken by surprise, because she really hadn’t mentioned the trip before, whatever she had claimed earlier. He had an excellent memory, and because his little celebration was so important to Charles and himself he would have immediately changed the date to accommodate this trip of hers. She had lied to him this morning.

  He just wasn’t sure of her anymore, and he didn’t trust her. He had no proof of any wrongdoing on her part, but she had become skittish, and rather flighty. She was spending more time in Paris than in London, and had become a little indiscreet in her choice of friends. She was with Greg a lot, and in a certain way that pleased him, but then again, Greg had some weird cronies; he could be reckless. He was no longer certain about his influence on Anne.