Heirs of Ravenscar (54 page)

‘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.'

H
arry 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.

Harry smiled grimly to himself, wondering if he had clipped Anne's wings and cramped her style by being in Paris so much these days because of business.

Ten years, he thought suddenly: we've been together almost ten years. I was thirty-four when I first set eyes on her, and she about nineteen. I'll be forty-four in July, and she'll be almost twenty-nine. Ten years. Good God, a decade together.

How time flies … and to think of all the trouble she had caused him … He had fought Catherine for a divorce and probably broken her heart in the process … he'd made that poor woman ill, hadn't he? Then he had fired Thomas Wolsen, on Anne's urging, and for ineptitude as his solicitor of all things. How stupid he had been, listening to her. Wolsen had died not long after. Had it been of a broken heart? They had been so close, and for twenty years.

There was no denying that Wolsen had been the most brilliant man he had ever known, and good to him, the best adviser he had ever had. And what about poor Tommy? He had picked on Tommy Morle, quarrelled violently with him, and without genuine cause. All because of Anne Bowles. Their quarrelling had been so violent at times that the rows had obviously made Tommy sick in heart and mind and body, and he had passed away some months after their last most horrendous falling out.

And what of his wife of some twenty years?
Catherine
.
Mother of Mary. She had suddenly died, and in so doing she had set him free … for Anne to take at last, take as a husband. Anne had been his heart's desire for years … but it had all gone wrong.

How could it have gone wrong? Was it his fault? Or hers? Or were they both to blame? He had no answers for himself … only sudden, unexpected heartache.

What in God's name was he going to do? He and Anne were estranged, if the truth be told. They were living in a kind of … armed truce. He didn't want to live like this any longer. Marriage was supposed to make a man happy … that's what he wanted, to be happy, and with the right woman. A woman who could give him his son and heir. Obviously Anne Bowles could not.

He had no son.
He must have a son
.

He had two daughters, yes, and he loved them both. Harry's face now softened as he thought of Elizabeth, who would be three years old in September. And then there was Mary, Catherine's child, a grown-up young woman. She was twenty and studying art history in Florence, and they had become friends at last, thanks to his sister.

Harry had a strong parental streak in him, and he did love his daughters. He thought of them now: it was May, and he would take them on holiday later this summer. He
made a sudden snap decision. He would charter a yacht for July or August, and they would go sailing together, down the coastline of France and on to Italy. The girls would love it and so would his sister and Charles. He must make a guest list when he arrived at the office.

His face brightened considerably, and the spring came back into his step. He looked up at the sky. It was varying shades of light and deep blue, filled with huge, full-blown white clouds. The sunlight was brilliant today, but not too hot. It was one of those perfect May days. His spirits instantly lifted. He strode out, heading up the beautiful avenue towards the Arc de Triomphe where the Tricolor was blowing in the breeze. Harry straightened his shoulders, and increased his pace. Within minutes he would be arriving at the Deravenels building on the corner of a side street facing Avenue George V just across the Champs-Elysées.

Now he couldn't wait to get there. He had just had another brilliant idea. He would ask Jane Selmere to join them on the yacht. She was not only a wonderful personal assistant, most efficient and caring, but a lovely young woman. And of late she had become quite indispensable to him … Very important, now that he thought about it.

On Thursday evening Harry went ahead with his little celebration dinner, even though Anne and Greg were absent, off to the Loire in search of antiques.

He took his guests to Le Grand Véfour, the ancient restaurant which went as far back as the French Revolution. It was a landmark, situated under the arches of the Palais-Royal, and a favourite of his.

There were only four of them for dinner, and Harry was now pleased about this. He glanced around the table, smiling
at his sister Mary, and her husband and his best friend Charles, the two family members closest to him. Finally, his blue eyes settled on Jane Selmere. She had accepted his invitation to dinner with alacrity, and now, as he looked at her intently, he realized that she was looking really lovely tonight in a soft, gentle way. She wore a simple delphinium blue silk dress and a string of pearls which he himself had given her last Christmas. He had not realized until now how truly fine the pearls were. They looked wonderful on her and they reflected her exquisite English rose complexion. Yes, that's what she was – an English rose.

The four of them were enjoying the setting. It was mellow and intimate, and there was something quite magical about this most distinctive decor of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Once the Krug rosé champagne had been served, Harry picked up his flute and said, ‘Here's to our new acquisition, the Banque Larouche, and may it prosper. And may we all prosper.'

Charles grinned at Harry, and added, ‘And here's to
your
brilliance. You made a great deal, Harry.'

‘But I couldn't have, not without you,' Harry shot back.

They all clinked glasses and sipped the sparkling pink wine.

Mary, looking at Jane, said with a warm smile, ‘This is like a family restaurant for us, Jane. Harry and I were first brought here by our mother, Bess Deravenel Turner, and she had been brought here by her father.'

‘The great Edward Deravenel,' Jane remarked, and looked from Mary to Harry, and added, ‘And that's how
you
will be known now, Harry. They'll call you the
great
Harry Turner.' She smiled at him over the top of her crystal flute, her eyes full of promise, her whole demeanour flirtatious, encouraging him.

Harry, smiling back at her, experienced a marvellous rush of excitement, thrilled that she had come to dinner and quite certain he would be extremely welcome in her bed tonight. Certainly he aimed to try. Jane was in her early thirties, and obviously ready for a man like him, he was sure of that. There had to be some experience there, didn't there? She had never married, and this pleased him in a curious way. She moved slightly, turned to speak to Charles and he saw the curve of her milky white breasts as the vee neckline of her dress shifted slightly. He had a terrible urge to reach out and touch them, but he obviously could not. His heart was racing and he was wonderfully aroused by this soft-spoken, serene young woman, in a way he had not been for some time. Still waters run deep, he thought, wondering how she would be in bed. Sensual and willing, he decided.