The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth

They had both promised they would.

At this juncture his mother had pushed herself to her feet, and they had also jumped up. At the doorway she had swung her hand and said, very quietly, ‘This has been the most horrendous day for everyone, and I must go and make certain that the children are resting quietly…there have been far too many tears today, and so much heartbreak.’

Left alone he and his cousin had talked for a while longer, mostly about their imminent travel plans, and then they had gone upstairs to retire for the night. Now Edward stared into the flames, thinking about his father’s death.

Revenge. Edward turned the word over and over in his mind. Neville truly believed that deadly factions within the Deravenel Company had hired someone to get rid of his father. However, Edward knew that Neville had nothing concrete to go on, no hard evidence; it was pure supposition on his part, a supposition tied to what Neville called his gut instinct.

Edward was well aware that his father had been complaining and grumbling about the way the company was run for a number of years, and of late his voice had become louder, more strident and insistent. His father’s chief target was Henry Deravenel Grant, who had descended down the Lancashire line of the House of Deravenel. Henry was chairman of the board, and his father’s cousin. ‘An absentee landlord,’ his father had called him disparagingly, along with a number of other choice names.

But would Henry’s colleagues resort to foul play? Edward wondered. They could have quite easily rendered Richard Deravenel useless by restricting his power in the company. Or they could have forced him into retirement.

Sitting back in the chair, closing his eyes, Edward pondered on these matters for a long time, but he did not have any answers for himself. None at all. What’s more, additional questions flew into his head, and again all of them were unanswerable. One question, in particular, stood out…why had his father gone to Italy to look into problems at the marble quarries in Carrara? Surely that was a job for Aubrey Masters, head of the Mining Division. And why had Edmund, Uncle Rick and Thomas been killed if his father was the target? He was truly baffled, and it suddenly struck him that he would remain in a state of bafflement until he arrived at Carrara and started asking pertinent questions of the local authorities, as well as the manager of their quarries. Only then perhaps would he have a better understanding of the fire, the cause of it, and the manner in which his family had died.

As he continued to gaze into the roaring flames, Edward remembered that he had not looked in his father’s desk. He had meant to do so earlier, but he had become so distracted by the children’s plight, their sorrow and their need for him, it had slipped his mind. Rising, he hurried out of his bedroom and along the corridor, quickly went down the wide staircase into the Long Hall.

Within seconds he was turning on the lights in his father’s spacious study and striding over to the desk positioned near the window. He knew exactly where the key was hidden; some time ago his father had shown him the hiding place. ‘Just in case you ever need to get into my desk when I’m not here,’ his father had explained.

Kneeling down in front of the mahogany Georgian partner’s desk, Edward pushed his head and shoulders into the space between the sets of drawers and reached his hand towards the back for the key. It hung on a hook on the section of the desk just beyond the knee space.

Slowly, carefully, Edward searched each drawer. His father had been meticulous, and everything was neatly placed. But he came up with nothing of any importance. There were no notes, no records, no diaries, and no files on anything to do with his father’s work or the Deravenel Company. Everything in the desk was innocuous, personal, and of very little consequence.

Sitting back in the chair, feeling frustrated, Edward let his eyes roam around the study, thinking of his father, and how much he had loved this particular room at Ravenscar. Every piece of furniture in it he had chosen himself and placed; he noted his father’s collection of ancient coins, the many photographs of the family in silver frames, and his treasured books. The Moroccan-bound volumes were carefully arranged in low shelves placed against one of the long walls.

And then there were the portraits…the paintings of so many Deravenels, from long ago to the present. Guy de Ravenel, the founder of their dynasty, his likeness somewhat faded now in the extremely old painting. And, on the other wall, there was the recently-completed portrait of his father, commissioned by his mother and hung there by her only a few weeks ago. As he stared at his father’s image a lump came into Edward’s throat. He swallowed hard, pushing back the incipient tears. How he would miss him.

His eyes continued to another wall, and he spotted a couple of Deravenel Turners from Wales, along with portraits of the Deravenel Grants from Lancashire. The Grants might spell trouble, but certainly the Turners were relatively docile, and there were not many of them left, only two or so he believed. That line had dribbled down to nothing. Well, that was how his father had put it…

A rustling sound, followed by a faint cough, brought Edward’s eyes to the door. He was startled to see his brother Richard standing there, bundled up in his woollen dressing gown, staring at him.

‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour, Little Fish? It’s the middle of the night!’ In a flash Edward was on his feet, hurrying across the room to his small brother, concerned for him. Leading him over to the fireplace, Edward went on, ‘It’s very late for you to be up, old chap.’ He sat down, brought Richard close to him.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I went to your bedroom, Ned, but you weren’t there.’ Looking into his face intently, Richard frowned, and asked, ‘You will come back, won’t you?’

‘I certainly will, I promised, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. But you see, well, Ned, I don’t think George and I are old enough to look after Mama and Meg…but you are. So you have to come home.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, and I’ll be home in a flash, don’t you worry. Once I’ve done my business in Italy I’ll be back. But you know, Dick, I have a feeling that the two of you could keep an eye on things for me, couldn’t you? Or should I say four eyes?’

Richard forced a smile, but his slate-grey eyes were sad. ‘I suppose so.’

Funny how his eyes look more blue at times, Edward thought. Then they become the colour of wet slate, and sometimes they even turn black. They reflect his moods, I suppose. ‘Come along, old chap, let’s go upstairs,’ he suggested. ‘It’s time we both went to sleep, don’t you think?’

Richard simply nodded. Taking hold of Ned’s hand, he allowed himself to be led out of the study, across the Long Hall and up the wide staircase. It was only when they came to the first-floor landing that Richard tugged on Edward’s hand. ‘Could I sleep with you tonight, Ned? Like I did when I was really, really little and afraid of the dark?’

‘It will be my very great pleasure to share my bed with you,’ Ned exclaimed, smiling down at the eight-year-old boy, understanding that Richard needed to feel protected, safe and secure tonight. There had been so much pain and hurt and sorrow today.

Edward found himself the recipient of a wide and happy smile from his youngest brother, a smile that touched his heart profoundly.

FIVE

London

Will Hasling stood waiting at the barrier at King’s Cross Station, stamping his feet to keep warm, and huddling himself deeper into his long winter overcoat. This was made of grey merino wool and had a raccoon fur collar; the coat was slender and elegant, made him look taller than his five feet nine, and added to the twenty-two year-old’s air of prosperity.

A pleasant looking young man, with a warm, expansive smile and light-brown hair, Will hailed from a prominent family of landed gentry in Leicestershire. His father was a landowner of considerable importance, with a stately home on hundreds of acres; the local squire and justice of the peace as well, he was something of a bon vivant. His son took after him in that he, too, enjoyed good food and drink but, unlike his father, rural life did not appeal to Will. Hunting, shooting and fishing held no interest for him.

After graduating from Oxford, he fully intended to live in London where he hoped to work in the City, possibly as a broker with a firm on the London Stock Exchange. He loved London, and especially the way it was these days. He found it glittering, glamorous and exciting, the place to be.

In the three years that he had been king, Edward VII had become even more popular than he was as Prince of Wales; everyone in the country adored him, from the aristocracy to the working classes and those in between.

Will, like the entire nation, mourned Queen Victoria’s passing, but he also felt that same sense of relief, and expectation, now that Edward was on the throne.

People were happy that the king had moved the monarchy back to London. He had lit the lights, thrown open the doors of Buckingham Palace, welcomed his friends inside, and the dancing had begun. It seemed to Will and his friends that after the constraints and repression of Victorian England a new era had begun—a time of jollity, gaiety, freedom and expressiveness. And he for one couldn’t wait to sample all of these excitements and pleasures when he left university.

Stamping his feet again, he moved around trying to combat the icy weather. There was a fog on this Wednesday evening, a fog Will hoped would not turn into one of those dreadful pea-soupers. There had been quite a few of those of late, and they blighted London, made the streets difficult to manoeuvre, whether on foot or in a hansom cab.

Will glanced around as he waited, amazed to see the railway station so busy; but then the majority of L.N.E.R. trains from the north and the northeast came into this particular station, most of them arriving during the early evening. So it was understandable that the place was teeming with folk meeting trains at this hour.

It was a normal mix of people waiting here tonight. There were a number of women, either accompanied by a woman friend or a man, hovering close to him at the barrier. Plain-looking women in long dark coats and cloche hats, obviously from the middle class. As his eyes roamed he spotted a lot of bowlers and a few Homburg hats, but no flat caps…funny how one could distinguish a class by its headgear. Not many toffs or working class men amongst the bustle, he realized, mostly chaps from the middle class, just like the women.

Adjusting the silk scarf wrapped around his neck, Will began to walk up and down, his thoughts turning to Edward Deravenel. His closest friend, indeed the man he considered to be his very best friend. He was deeply concerned about him, and had been since he had visited the Deravenel town house in Charles Street in Mayfair earlier that day.

His intention had been to ascertain when exactly Edward was arriving from Yorkshire, wishing to plan their journey to Oxford together, already set for the end of the week.

Mr Swinton, the butler, had answered the door, and he had known at once, as Swinton had invited him to come inside, that there was something horribly wrong. A dour expression had ringed the butler’s face and a mournful feeling permeated the house. After greeting him, Swinton had confided the terrible and tragic news.

Will had been shocked and stunned, so much so that Swinton had asked him if he would care to partake of a glass of brandy. He had declined, and had then asked for a few more details. Unfortunately, Swinton had not known very much, and had merely added that Mr Edward had telephoned that morning to announce his arrival at the Mayfair house in the early evening. He was travelling up to town with his cousin, and they would be on the afternoon train from York. And then Mr Edward had broken the sorrowful news.

When Will had inquired how Mr Deravenel senior and Mr Edmund had died, the butler had explained, ‘It was in a fire in Italy. Mr Watkins senior and his son Thomas were travelling with them, and they were also killed. A great tragedy for the two families, sir,’ the butler had finished in a shaken voice, looking on the verge of tears.

Further shocked and appalled, Will had offered his condolences to the butler, who had been in the family’s employ since boyhood, he being the son of an old family retainer. Swinton had thanked him, and the two had talked for a short while longer.

Will had eventually taken his leave, and had placed his calling card on the silver salver on the hall table as he went out. Feeling upset and worried, he had walked back to his rooms at the Albany, his senses positively reeling as he had strode down past Shepherd’s Market, through Berkeley Square and into Piccadilly where the Albany was located.

During his walk he had made up his mind to go to King’s Cross to meet the York train, to be there in case Edward needed him. And of course he would. To lose a father, brother, uncle and cousin in one fell swoop was something incomprehensible, and certainly Will knew that if such a catastrophe had happened to him he would need his best friend, and all the help he could get.

For Will the rest of the day had been miserable. He had paced his rooms, left his food untouched, and discovered that his concentration had totally fled. He had sat staring into the fire for hours, filled with sadness for his friend, and wondering how to console him in his loss.

Now, in the distance, Will heard a train hooting and he wondered if it was the one he was waiting for. He hoped so. Moving closer to the barrier, he peered ahead and was somewhat relieved when he overheard a man standing nearby tell his companion, ‘That’s the York train pulling in now.’

Train whistles blowing. Smoke, steam, fog mingling. Doors slamming. Hustle and bustle. Busy porters pushing luggage carts. Crowds hurrying along the platform.

So much activity, so many people, Will thought, moving his head, craning his neck, scanning the crowd, seeking Edward Deravenel and Neville Watkins. Within a few minutes the crowds were dissipating, thinning out, and suddenly he spotted them walking together along the platform, followed by a porter with their luggage. He made the decision to stay put. He was standing just behind the barrier, the best place of all, he knew that, and certainly Edward would spot him immediately.

Naturally, it was hard to miss Edward Deravenel. He was so handsome, so tall he towered over everyone and stood out most markedly in any crowd. And there was no mistaking Edward’s cousin.

Neville had always had a taste for fine clothes and was beautifully attired in the latest and most stylish fashions on all occasions. His reputation for being a bit of a dandy had preceded him for years; there were even those who referred to him as the Edwardian Beau Brummell.

Tonight Neville wore a black Homburg hat, in the jaunty style favoured by King Edward, and a black overcoat with an astrakhan collar. It was stylish, elegant and obviously it had been impeccably tailored in one of Savile Row’s best establishments.

Although he was not as tall as his cousin, Neville was, nonetheless, a striking, good-looking man, and he held himself regally, walked as if he owned the world.

In a sense, he probably did, now that his father was dead. He would inherit the many companies which his grandfather had left to Rick Watkins, and which Rick had run most successfully for some years. But this aside, Neville was a prosperous man in his own right; his vast fortune came from his own efforts, and there was too the fortune his heiress wife Anne had brought to the marriage as her dowry. Will knew that he was considered to be one of the most important magnates in England.

People standing in front of Will hurried off to greet those travellers they were meeting, and he found himself looking straight down the emptying platform. Edward caught sight of him, and a quick flash of a smile glanced across his handsome face.

Will waved, and went to the gate, clasped Edward’s hand as he came through.

Neville nodded, thrust out his own hand, and then when the greetings were over the three men moved towards the entrance to the railway station which also led out to the street.

‘Good of you to come, Will. I suppose you’ve spoken to Swinton?’ Edward spoke quickly, raised an eyebrow.

Will nodded. ‘I went to the Mayfair house today, to find out when you were returning from Yorkshire. Swinton told me the horrendous news. Ned, I’m so very, very sorry. This is such a terrible tragedy…’

‘Yes,’ Ned said laconically.

Turning to Neville, Will went on, ‘Please accept my condolences, Neville. I know you’re as heartsick as Ned.’

‘Thank you, Will,’ Neville responded a little brusquely, and cleared his throat. ‘Did you come in a hansom?’

‘Yes, I did. The driver’s waiting for me.’

‘My carriage will be outside. Would you care to ride with us, or do you prefer to make use of the cab which brought you?’

‘I’d like to come with you and Ned, naturally,’ Will answered. ‘I’ll pay the driver off, he’ll be happy to pick up another fare here at the station.’

By this time they had reached the exit where several private carriages were waiting, along with a number of hansom cabs. Will glanced around until he found the one he had come in; he hurried over to pay the driver while Neville and Edward showed the porter where to put the luggage.

Within a very short while the three men were seated comfortably in Neville’s elegant carriage, being driven across London, heading for Mayfair and the town house in Charles Street where the Deravenels lived.

After making desultory conversation for a few minutes, all three men fell silent, and Will, who was sitting opposite Edward and Neville in the carriage, soon began to realize that both had drifted into their own thoughts.

And with good reason, Will decided: they both have a great deal to think about and to deal with. Several times he was on the verge of saying something and then instantly bit back the words. He was reluctant to intrude on the privacy they appeared to need, and on their grief. Their expressions were sorrowful, and Edward, who was usually filled with vivacity, was positively sombre; Neville’s face was closed, bore no expression at all, except for his eyes. And they were cold, pale blue ice.

Will leaned back against the padded seat of the carriage, lost in his own mental meanderings for a short while. He noticed through the window that the light fog had deepened but was not yet so thick that the driver couldn’t make his way. He closed his eyes, drifting, the only sound the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the road.

A little later Will opened his eyes and saw at once that Edward was studying him intently. Edward said, ‘I hope, Will, that you will join me for a light supper, and you, too, Neville?’

Before Will could say a word, Neville shook his head. ‘I do believe I should get back to Chelsea. I must attend to our travel plans, but thank you, Edward.’

Edward glanced at Will. ‘And what about you, my friend?’

‘Of course I’ll dine with you, Ned, and I’ll help you in any way I can.’

SIX

Edward and Will sat in front of the fire in the small parlour of the Mayfair townhouse, each of them nursing a cognac. Edward was recounting everything he knew about the fire, and the tragic deaths of his family, and when he finally finished, he added, ‘However, Neville believes they were deliberately removed. He’s suggesting foul play.’

Will, who had been listening attentively to everything Edward had to say, sat bolt upright in the chair. Momentarily stunned, he gaped at Edward, and then exclaimed, ‘Ned, that’s preposterous—’ Will cut himself off abruptly. Leaning forward, he fixed his eyes on Edward intently, and in a quieter voice, added, ‘Perhaps it’s not so preposterous, after all. There has been bad blood between your father and his cousin Henry Grant for years. Is that what Neville is suggesting? That Henry Grant got rid of your father because he feared him, feared that he would endeavour to take over Deravenels?’

Edward nodded. ‘That’s the gist of it. But of course Neville doesn’t mean Henry, but his subordinates, and he doesn’t have anything pertinent or concrete to go on, as of this moment. It’s what he calls a gut feeling, an instinct. And you know very well that Neville is a masterful businessman of no mean talent, and he has great psychological insight into people.’ Edward sighed. ‘He’s convinced he is right in this assumption, and I can’t argue with him. It seems to me he’s correct. And so we are going to Italy to investigate what actually happened. Really happened. Maybe we will find something, maybe we won’t. And once we’ve finished checking the facts, we will bring the bodies back for burial. We plan to leave for Florence on Friday, actually, by way of Paris.’

‘Where was the fire in Florence?’ Will asked, wondering why he had not read about it in The Times. After all, Florence was the greatest Renaissance city in the world, and a fire anywhere there would be bound to make news.

‘It wasn’t in Florence, Will. The fire was in Carrara, in the hotel where they were staying. My father had gone to Carrara to look into a problem with our marble quarries. Edmund had begged to go with Father, because he’d never been to Italy, and Uncle Rick and Thomas asked if they might accompany them, because my uncle was eager to buy sculpture and art for his house. Naturally Florence was a very tempting place to visit.’

‘I understand,’ Will answered, and then hesitated for a moment, looking down into the amber liquid in his glass, his expression thoughtful. After a second, he asked, ‘Could I come with you and Neville, Ned? I think I might be of some help, useful to you, and if you don’t think I can do anything special for you, do remember I can give you moral support. I’m very good at that, don’t you know.’

A smile flitted briefly across Edward’s mouth, and was instantly gone. He glanced across at Will, his expression suddenly quizzical. ‘What about Oxford? Your studies? We were supposed to go back there this coming weekend, you and I.’

‘That’s absolutely true. But isn’t this an emergency?’ Not waiting for an answer, Will continued, ‘We could return together in a few weeks, when this problem has been resolved.’

‘I won’t be going back to university, Will. This is it for me, I’m afraid. My mother informed me yesterday that I must take my father’s place at Deravenels. That’s the family rule.’

Will looked crestfallen. ‘So you won’t be coming back? Not ever? Is that what you mean, Ned?’

‘I do. And of course I do regret that. On the other hand, there is nothing I can do about it, since that rule has been in existence for several hundred years. Don’t forget, the Deravenel Company was originally founded by my ancestor, Guy de Ravenel, once he’d settled in Yorkshire after the Norman Conquest. At that time, he started importing wines, and exporting raw wool, spun wool and woollen goods.’

‘It’s amazing, when you think about it, Ned. Eight hundred years of trading.’ Will shook his head. ‘Few companies are that old.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But it didn’t really come into its own as a proper company until the fifteenth century, when Deravenels began trading all over the world, importing and exporting goods…everything under the sun, in fact. And we still do. I suppose we are the largest trading company in existence today, and I know my father felt he had entitlement to it.’

‘I’ve never really understood the bad blood between members of your family. What is it all about?’

‘It’s actually fairly simple, Will. Sixty years ago, Henry Grant’s grandfather deposed one of our cousins, who was running Deravenels. He did this by slurring the man’s reputation, putting out bad stories about his private life, along with harmful allegations about his abilities. In fact, he made our cousin look incompetent and reckless. Because our cousin had no children, his direct heir was a second cousin, Roger Morton Deravenel. However, this man died, and so it was Roger’s son Edmund who was next in line. But he was a child, only seven and obviously he couldn’t run the company.’

‘Henry Grant’s grandfather just grabbed the top position because one man was weak, another had just died and the next in line was too young to run Deravenels,’ Will interjected. ‘What an opportunity that was. Irresistible.’

‘That’s true, and very suddenly the Lancashire Deravenel Grants were in control, having pushed the Yorkshire Deravenels out. In other words, us. Not long after this, our cousin, who had been shoved out, died in mysterious circumstances, and so there was no opposition left. Henry Grant’s grandfather was tough, strong, and ruthless, and that’s the reason our side of the family has been in second position at Deravenels all these years. But it truly should be ours.’

‘Cousins fighting cousins,’ Will muttered.

‘A family feud of long standing. But we do try to be civil with each other…at least my father did. I don’t know that I can be.’

Will half smiled, then asked, ‘Well, what do you say, old chap? May I join you on this trip to Florence?’

‘If you are inclined to do so, then why not? I am quite certain that Neville will appreciate your presence, as indeed I will.’

After Will Hasling had gone home, Edward hurried up to his father’s study on the next floor. He went in, snapped on the electric light, and recoiled slightly. The room had a faint lingering odour of the cigars his father had enjoyed, mingled with the scent of the bay rum aftershave lotion he had always favoured.

In his mind’s eye, Edward saw his father sitting behind the large Georgian desk at the far end of the room, smiling across at him, and a lump came into his throat as a sudden rush of intense emotion swamped him. He had loved his father, admired him, and he would miss him inordinately, as would his brothers and sisters.

For a moment he thought of walking out, going up to his bedroom, and then changed his mind. He would have to become accustomed to these flashes of overwhelming feeling, the vivid memories, and face them squarely, not run from them. His father was dead, just as Edmund was, and nothing would bring them back. However, the remembered past and their lives existed inside him, were deep in his heart, and so there was really no death in his lexicon. These two men lived on in his heart, and for as long as he was alive then they would be alive, too, and part of him forever.

He walked over to the desk, went around its bulk and sat down in the comfortable black leather chair. He knew at once that he would find nothing of any importance here because all of the drawers had keys in the locks.

Nothing to hide, nothing to find, Edward thought, as he opened the top middle drawer. It contained only a few items, none of any importance, and as he went through each drawer, he discovered the same thing. Basically there was nothing of interest to him, and certainly nothing alluding to the Grants.

Closing the last drawer, Edward sat back in the chair, sighing to himself. He wondered what he had been looking for…he had no idea really, but he had thought that perhaps somewhere there might be a piece of damning or revealing evidence about Henry Grant and his cohorts, the men who surrounded him, or his French wife.

Glancing around the room, Ned suddenly saw it more objectively than ever before. He had always liked its warmth and handsome overtones; the deep red-flocked wallpaper, the large, comfortable sofa covered in a matching red velvet fabric, the worn black leather armchairs near the fireplace, the wall of leather-bound books. Despite the general prevalence in most homes of that tabletop clutter of the recent Victorian era, there was a paucity of it here. His father had never cared for lots of bric-a-brac, but then neither had his mother. As in his father’s private abode at Ravenscar, there were numerous silver-framed photographs of himself, his siblings, plus several of his mother. And that was the extent of it, except for a silver cigarette box and, over on the long side table, a humidor for his father’s favourite Cuban cigars.

It was his room now. At least it was his if he wished to make use of it, courtesy of his mother. The townhouse belonged to her; it had never been his father’s property, but had come to his mother from her father, Philip Watkins, the industrialist. Until his grandfather’s death they had lived in a much, much smaller house in Chelsea, one which had been passed down from his other grandfather, Charles Deravenel, to his father. It was a nice house, and relatively comfortable, but extremely modest in comparison to this one. And, of course, it was his mother’s inheritance that paid for its upkeep and for the maintenance of Ravenscar as well. He wasn’t sure why his father had always been short of money, always endeavouring to make ends meet, and obviously embarrassed by the impecunious situation he found himself in. But no doubt he would find out soon enough, now that he was going to be working at the Deravenel Company.

On the train to London, Neville had suggested they both go there tomorrow to question Aubrey Masters, and to have a look around in general. ‘It won’t do any harm,’ Neville had said to him. ‘And it’s only natural that we would want to go over there together, since our fathers and brothers died together.’