Heirs of Ravenscar (12 page)

‘Thank you, children, that was wonderful!' Edward began to clap, and so did their mother, grandmother, Young Edward, Nanny and Madge, the nursemaid, who stood near the window with Anne in a wicker perambulator.

‘Well done, all of you!' Edward beamed at them.

Bess, Mary, Cecily and Ritchie beamed back at him. They all bowed low and then ran across to their parents, laughter filling their faces with happiness.

Mary and Cecily made for their father, as usual wishing to claim his attention.

Bess shepherded Ritchie to their mother, who bent forward, kissed the top of his head. ‘Thank you,' she murmured, acknowledging Bess who stood before her. ‘Your father is correct, you did very well.'

Bess offered her mother a tentative smile.

Elizabeth rose, glided across to the window area of the library, where Nanny stood with Madge, the nursemaid.

‘Enjoy your Christmas lunch, Nanny, and you too, Madge. Cook has everything ready for you both in the downstairs dining room. Also, I had Jessup put a small cot near the fire, just in case you wish to take Anne out of the baby carriage.'

‘Thank yer, mum.' Madge bobbed a curtsy.

‘That is most kind, Mrs Deravenel, thank you very much,' Nanny said, and touched Madge's arm to indicate they should leave. She wanted to tell the children to be on their very best behaviour, but the two younger girls were caught up with their father, clinging to him, and Bess was already moving in his direction.

Bess was Nanny's favourite, but because she abhorred favouritism she kept this a secret, treated everyone equally. But Nanny constantly worried about the nine-year-old girl, who was far too old for her years, not close enough to her mother, and far too possessive of her father.

What a strange family they were; still, she was accustomed
to them by now. She had been here for eight years, and had brought Bess up, and the other little ones as well. They were sweet children, very beautiful, and she loved them dearly. It was the adults in this household who bothered her. At times she thought they were out to destroy each other.

She shook off this troubling thought. It was Christmas Day of 1918. The war was over and they were at peace. The whole world was at peace. And everyone said the World War which had just drawn to a close was the war to end all wars. She certainly hoped so.

E
lizabeth was fully aware that she had said the wrong thing that morning, when she had told Edward the diamond bow brooch was too costly a thing to give to a child.

He had instantly taken umbrage, made an acerbic comment and walked away. She ought to have known better: she had come to realize this as the day had passed and turned into evening. He had always favoured Bess, spoiled her, made it clear nothing was too good for her.

And of course he detested any comment that smacked of criticism of him. Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut? She didn't know … but then she was always making remarks that he took the wrong way. She never did this with anyone else, only him. Was it some kind of nervousness? she wondered.

It wasn't very long ago that her brother Anthony had told her she was a fool, that she made a fuss about things that didn't matter. ‘Forget about winning a battle,' he had said in a cold, reproving voice. ‘And concentrate on winning the war.
That's the only thing that matters … One day, Lizzie, you will wake up and find you've killed the goose that lays the golden eggs.'

He was so annoyed with her she hadn't dared to reprimand him for calling her Lizzie. Instead she had stuttered something about not really understanding what he meant.

‘For an intelligent woman you can be truly stupid at times,' he had said in that cold, disdainful voice of his that denoted his fury. ‘You're argumentative for one thing, and complain about his other women, when there are no other women –'

‘Then what is Jane Shaw?' she had cut in, glaring at her brother.

‘She's his mistress, that's what she is, and you know it and I know it. She's not
other women
, as you put it.'

‘What are you saying? That I should accept her?'

‘Yes, I am indeed. Turn a blind eye, like other women of our class do, women whose husbands have mistresses. Which is half the population of this country I should think, perhaps even more. And remember this one important fact: a woman who has been with a man for a long time as his mistress has obviously not made any impossible demands, has not sought marriage, not wanted more than the relationship she already has. Jane Shaw has not rocked the boat. Don't you rock it, either.'

‘It hurts my feelings,' she had mumbled. ‘I want him to be faithful to me.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, grow up, Elizabeth! Does he neglect you physically? Stupid question. He's obviously very attentive to you since you're always having babies, one after the other. So, does he beat you? Come on, does he? Are you hiding something from me? Does Ned hit you?'

‘No. He doesn't beat me, or anyone else for that matter. Edward happens to be a gentle person.'

‘I've understood that for a long time. I also know that he keeps you in lavish style, in luxurious homes, permits you to spend whatever you want to spend on clothes, and other trinkets, and literally covers you in jewels. You should have no complaints, my dear.'

‘It's just that, well –'

‘It's not
just
anything. Unless I might add that you are just being rather stupid, in my opinion.' Her brother had leaned closer to her, and said in a low voice, ‘The longer he remains in this relationship with Jane the better it is for you … why can't you see that?'

‘I'd prefer him not to have a mistress at all.'

‘Grow up! That's not going to happen, not with a man like Ned. And if he didn't have a mistress – I must qualify this and say that if he didn't have a mistress like Jane – then you would have to contend with
a lot of women
. Women who might not be as congenial as Jane, shall we say? Women with ambitions who may very well wish to become the second Mrs Edward Deravenel.'

She remembered now how much this last comment had upset and disturbed her, and if they had not been lunching at the Ritz Hotel she might have started to weep. Somehow she had managed to control her emotions, and had simply kept her head down, searching for a handkerchief in her handbag, saying nothing.

It was Anthony who had started to speak, this time in a gentler tone. ‘I don't want you to cry, I can't stand it when a woman weeps.'

‘You haven't been very nice.'

‘I have told you the truth, the way things are, Elizabeth, and believe me, I am only thinking of
you
, and your welfare,' he had said then, taking hold of her hand. ‘You have a wonderful life, Elizabeth, a charmed life, and a young, handsome husband, who is tremendously successful, and a wealthy
man. One who treats you like a queen and allows you to spend money like … a drunken sailor, for heaven's sake! He is incredibly generous. He is also a marvellous father and adores his children. And I know for a fact he has no intention of leaving you, so just give him some slack, won't you?'

‘Yes, you are right, Anthony. Everything you say is correct. I will keep my mouth shut, I promise you. I won't badger him about anything.'

Anthony had nodded and finished, ‘There is no doubt in my mind that he has never contemplated divorce, Elizabeth. After all, he loves you.'

You would say that, you work for him, she had thought that day, but she had managed to swallow those mean words, knowing they were inflammatory.

Now, tonight, sitting alone in her bedroom at Ravenscar on Christmas Day night, she knew that those had been unkind and ridiculous thoughts. And very unfair to her brother, who was a most decent and honourable man. And he would have said exactly the same thing, even if he had not worked for Edward. I was being mean-spirited, she chastised herself, and she was tremendously relieved those words had never left her mouth. The last thing she needed was to antagonize her favourite brother, who wanted only the best for her – happiness, security and contentment.

Leaning back on the chaise longue, Elizabeth wondered how to make amends to Ned. She must do this.
Tonight
. She did not want her thoughtless comments about the gift for Bess to fester inside him. He had been civil this morning, and at lunch, but then the children had been present. Even at dinner he had been pleasant enough, if somewhat uncommunicative for him. He seemed to have been in a reflective mood, now that she thought about it. After dinner he had said goodnight to herself and his mother, gone into the library and firmly closed the door behind him. Cecily had gone to
her room, and she had had no alternative but to accompany her mother-in-law upstairs, to go to bed herself.

Elizabeth glanced at the French clock on her dressing table, and saw that it was almost eleven. He still had not come up to bed. Or had he? Had he gone to his own room? Even when he wanted to sleep alone, in his bedroom next door to hers, he usually came in to say goodnight, to chat for a moment or two before retiring.

Rising, she swept across the floor, stood at the door into his bedroom, listened. All was quiet. There was no sound at all. Gently, she turned the knob and opened the door a crack. The lights were on, the bed was undisturbed, and he was nowhere in sight.

Was he downstairs in the library, nursing a drink and a grudge? She did not know. How could she? Now she must sit and wait for him to come to bed. She
must
talk to him, clear the air.

After Jessup had thrown more logs on the fire in the library, and poured him a Calvados, Edward Deravenel had stood for a while in front of the fire, in his usual way, sipping his apple brandy and thinking. He had so much on his mind at the moment he actually didn't know where to begin to sort it all out. Some things he had accomplished already: Richard had the deeds to the Chelsea house and George had been rendered impotent in that regard; the Forths were holding the documents for Grace Rose's trust until she was of age. Edward was pleased he had created the trust for her. She would always be independent because of it, would never need to ask anyone for anything.

And he had done the same thing for Jane Shaw. She had her own trust, which he had created six years ago, and like
Grace Rose she would have financial security whether he was around or not.

He smiled as he thought of Jane's surprise last Thursday, when he had given her the trust documents. He had gone to pick her up to take her to the Forths' dinner party, and when he arrived he had handed her a package tied with red ribbon. ‘Another little Christmas present,' he had explained.

Of course she had been happy as well as startled, and then she had wept when she understood
what the package contained.

‘Don't cry Jane,' he had murmured in a soothing voice. ‘I'm not dying, or leaving you, or going anywhere. I just want you to have the documents in your keeping, since they pertain to you, your life and your future, if you outlive me.'

Being an intelligent and sensible woman she had immediately understood their importance, and she had put the papers in the safe, after thanking him profusely for thinking of her welfare. That safe also contained the deeds to her house in Hyde Park Gardens, which he had bought for her a long time ago, and given to her immediately.

Once she had wiped away the tears and repaired her makeup, they had gone off to the dinner party Vicky and Stephen were giving and had had a lovely evening together. Jane had fallen in love with Grace Rose that night and wanted to get to know her better. And this had pleased him enormously; he liked the idea of these two women becoming good friends.

At the beginning of December, Edward had sat down at his desk one day and drafted a new Last Will and Testament. He thought about this as he took a long swallow of the cognac and seated himself in a chair near the fireplace.

As soon as he returned to London after Christmas, he would make an appointment to see his solicitors, and go over his new will with them, have the old one redrawn at once.

He had not changed many things: rather he had refined the bequests, made things truly clear, not wishing anything to be misinterpreted by the use of poor language.

One of his main concerns was for Elizabeth, she who was so extravagant. He wanted his wife to have everything she would ever need because he did care about her, whatever she thought. He had also taken special care to provide extremely well for his four daughters, Bess, Mary, Cecily, and Anne, so newly arrived. They each had their own trust funds, giving them total independence. That was the way he wanted it.

Edward was prone to worry a lot about the women in his family and his life, and what would become of them when he was dead.

Being essentially a pragmatist blessed with foresight, he believed he should attend to such matters the moment they arose in his mind. He wanted everything to be up to date, and absolutely legal.

As for his two sons, Young Edward and Ritchie, they were well taken care of as his two male heirs. The eldest would inherit everything, the houses in London and Kent, the money, and Ravenscar, and he would become head of Deravenels after his death.

But what would happen if he died before Young Edward was old enough to run Deravenels? This particular thought had long troubled him. If Young Edward was still at school, only a boy, then George would be the next in line, as far as the management of the company was concerned. But he was hardly the person to be in charge; George had no judgement, was untrustworthy, totally incompetent and apparently on the way to becoming a drunkard, if he wasn't one already.

Furthermore, George had always been greedy, jealous, divisive, and contrary. Overweeningly ambitious, he was petulant when he didn't get his own way. The troubling part was that his brother had always wanted to be him, as long as he
could remember. Then there were the betrayals and the treacherous acts, far too many for him to excuse or forget. Although he had forgiven him, hadn't he? Because George was his brother and should be forgiven for his transgressions.

Not anymore, Ned thought. George deserved nothing. Then it
would
have to be Richard. He would add this particular proviso to his will next week. Richard, his Little Fish, his true and loyal brother, always his favourite. He could run Deravenels if it was necessary, until Young Edward came of age and took over. Yes, that was the solution. And his eldest son would have some true and good men to help and guide him as well as Richard. Will Hasling, Alfredo Oliveri, Anthony Wyland, his uncle, and of course there would be Amos Finnister to watch his back.

Edward began to laugh.
He was only thirty-three
. He would be thirty-four on April twenty-eighth this coming year. Far too young to die, surely? He laughed again. He knew he would have a long life.

Rising, he went to the table in the corner, where Jessup had placed the tray of liqueurs, and poured himself another Calvados, added a splash of soda water.

Returning to the fireplace, he sat thinking about his good friends for a few moments, wishing they were here. He was used to having them around him, those male friends of his who were so devoted to him and he to them. He was lonely, not used to this solitude and lack of male company.

Edward Deravenel, like most aristocratic young men who had been born in the Victorian era,
was a traditionalist, had grown up in a world dominated by men. It was a special world built
around class, wealth, public school, university, private clubs, and for some the British
Army, the Royal Navy, entering the church or going into politics. There were rules and
regulations, codes of behaviour, codes of honour, codes of dress. These young men were
raised to be gentlemen who
knew how to treat their
elders, their superiors, their parents and women. Bad manners, shoddy behaviour towards
women, bad debts, gambling debts, cheating at cards, drunkenness, and despicable behaviour
in general led to a man being blackballed, gave him a bad reputation, earned him the names
of blackguard, bounder, cad, and worse.