Heirs of Ravenscar (31 page)

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.

W
ill 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 underneath 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.

Will knew it all by heart, having learned at the knee of this master, and so he strolled ahead, feeling chilled all of a sudden. The vaults here were vast, and cool, with their flagged stone floors, and walls of stone, and the high-flung ceiling made of wood and stone. He wanted to get out into the sunshine as soon as he could, where it was decidedly warmer.

He had visited this château and its vineyards many times, and the others they owned as well. Edward had put him in charge of the entire wine division when he had first started
working at Deravenels, and he was proud to be running the division.

Because he was diligent and dedicated, Will had made it a point to learn as much as he could … about the growing of the grapes, the vinification of the wine, the bottling and storing. He had wanted to understand the entire process. It was Vincent, of course, who had taught him everything he knew, and over the years they had become good friends as well as colleagues. He came to France six times a year to visit all of the Deravenel-owned vineyards, and it was a country he had come to love.

Will now realized as he walked along that he must have a private talk with Vincent later. He had to explain that George must not be permitted to interfere with the running and management of the vineyards under any circumstance. He must tell Vincent, and also Marcel Arnaud, that George was merely a figurehead, that he should be given respect but no duties whatsoever.

An hour later the three men were sitting in the charming drawing room of the château, toasting each other with a fine Pouilly Fuissé for which this vineyard was renowned, a prelude to lunch.

The room had a certain style about it, a style which Will found charming. A faded floral fabric, a gentle blur of parchment-beige, red, pink, and a hint of blue was used on the walls, as draperies, and on some of the sofas and chairs. Against this soft background there was the mellow gleam of lovely old furniture, the wood polished to a burnished gleam. There was a welcoming warmth in evidence. The old white marble fireplace, high ceiling, tall windows looking out onto the gardens all added to the grace of the overall design.

Will suddenly hoped George wouldn't be critical about the old-world charm of the château, and deep in his heart he begrudged George this fine house which dated back to the seventeenth century.

On the other hand, George
had
to be removed from England, to make Ned totally safe, and this place was the best spot to put him. If only he knew it, he's a lucky sod, Will thought, and then looked across at the door as it burst open.

Standing in the entrance was George Deravenel himself. He was well dressed and well groomed, and, of course, as handsome as usual.

Will jumped up at once, hurried across the room to greet him. ‘There you are, George!' he exclaimed. ‘We were just wondering where you'd got to.'

‘I had a terrible journey,' George began, the petulant look instantly in place. ‘And I thought –'

‘Come and meet Vincent Martell,' Will said in a firm voice, cutting him off. ‘He's lived here all his life, and he'll certainly be able to teach you a lot about wine if you decide to move here.'

George nodded. ‘I wouldn't mind a glass of that stuff you're all drinking. I need it after my foul trip.'

‘It's a fine Pouilly Fuissé, made in this very vineyard, Mr Deravenel,' Vincent announced, coming forward to greet the new arrival. And he couldn't help thinking what a wonderful looking young man George Deravenel was; he bore a strong resemblance to his brother Edward. No doubt some of the local ladies would find this recent widower quite a catch, not to mention an attractive one.