Barbara Taylor Bradford

Being Elizabeth

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008 1

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2008

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN:9780007287185

Version: 2017-10-25

For Bob, with my love

PART ONE

Grasping Destiny

‘I slept and dreamt that life was Joy,

I woke and found that life was Duty.

I acted, and behold,

Duty was Joy.’

Rabindranath Tagore

‘I bend but do not break.’

Jean de la Fontaine

‘Work is more fun than fun.’

Noël Coward

ONE

‘She’s dead!’

Cecil Williams made this announcement from the entrance to the dining room at Ravenscar, then, closing the door behind him, he walked across to the table in a few quick strides.

Against her will, Elizabeth Turner jumped up. ‘When?’ she asked in a voice full of sudden tension, her eyes on his face.

‘This morning, very early. Just before dawn, to be exact.’

There was a silence.

Elizabeth took tight control of a sudden rush of emotion; even though this news had been long expected, deep down she had not believed she would ever hear those words. She took a moment to absorb them, then said, ‘There’s nothing much to say, is there, Cecil? Nothing at all, actually, and anyway, what would be the point? I’m not a hypocrite, I’m not going to pretend I mourn her death.’

‘Nor am I. I understand your feelings perfectly, Elizabeth.’ He put an arm around her shoulder, kissed her cheek, and looked deeply into her luminous dark eyes. They were glistening with tears, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the tears were not for the deceased woman. They were, in fact, tears of genuine relief.

‘It’s over, Elizabeth,’ he said, very softly. ‘Finally. Your torment is at an end, and you’re safe, secure. No one can tell you what to do, not ever again. You’re your own woman, in control of your own destiny.’

The tense expression on her pale face instantly lifted, and she exclaimed, ‘Yes, I am free. Free at last! Oh, Cecil, how wonderful that thought is! Yet, do you know, I can hardly grasp it.’ A quavery smile flickered around her mouth and was immediately gone, as if she was not quite convinced of her new status.

He smiled at her. ‘I believe it’s going to take a few days to sink in.’

She looked at him intently, her eyes narrowing slightly. He knew her well, truly understood her, and he was correct, it would take a few days for her to truly believe that everything had changed. She took a moment to steady herself, before saying, ‘I’m being rude, Cecil. Let me get you some breakfast, you must be famished. Lucas has brought in enough food to feed an army, so what do you fancy?’

‘I am hungry, I must admit. But I’ll help myself. Go and sit down, drink your coffee and relax. You have every reason to do so today of all days.’

Elizabeth did as he suggested, glad to sit down in the comfortable chair. She was shaking inside and her legs felt weak and unsteady. As she settled back, trying to relax, she experienced instead an unexpected sense of dread. The future loomed up in front of her; it was an unknown future. Overwhelming. A wave of nausea swept over her at the prospect of moving on, leaving her old life behind, grasping her destiny with both hands. All those years of sleepless nights, early risings, often before dawn. Constantly worrying, always fearful, numb with anxiety, forever apprehensive. About her sister. Never knowing … never knowing what tricks Mary would pull, what accusations the woman would level at her. She had been living on the edge … on the edge of danger, living on her nerves for as long as she could remember. Mary had tormented her since childhood.

A moment later, Cecil returned with a plate of food, and sat down next to her. After eating a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, he remarked, ‘You must have been up when it was still dark outside. I was surprised when I found your door open and the bedroom empty at six-thirty this morning.’

‘I couldn’t sleep, so I finally got up. This past week has been quite wearing, horrendous really, and I’m afraid my feelings did get the better of me … it was the endless waiting and waiting, I suppose.’

He glanced at her, his steady grey eyes searching her face. He had worried about her for years, and he would always worry about her, he was well aware of that. His devotion to her was absolute, and his one thought at the moment was to protect her at all cost. But he made no comment, merely went on calmly eating his breakfast. He was a steady, careful man, and his plans were made and in place.

After finishing her cup of coffee, Elizabeth ran a hand over her mouth, and confided, ‘I never worried about her being ill, you know. I didn’t. What was the point? And, after all, we knew she was dying, that the cancer was eating away at her, that she was deluded about being pregnant. But last week … well, I couldn’t help remembering things from the past. The good things. And the bad. From our girlhood mostly … the time when our father disowned us both. Well, we were close then, if only for a short while. And the rest of the time I spent with her –’ Elizabeth broke off, shook her head. ‘The rest of the time was extremely difficult. She was impossible. I was the enemy in her eyes. She was so very possessive of our father. My mother had usurped hers, and I had usurped her, my father, of course, being the great prize, that great bull of a man, to be cosied up to and adored. Unconditionally. She was competitive and, as everyone knows, she always believed I was plotting against her.’ Elizabeth let out a long sigh. ‘No matter what, I was in the wrong with Mary from the day I was born.’

‘All that’s over, don’t dwell on it. You’re starting a new life … this is a new beginning for you,’ he said reassuringly.

‘And I aim to live my new life well,’ she answered, mustering a positive tone, and stood up, crossed to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee. A few seconds later, between sips of coffee, she asked, ‘Who knows about Mary’s death? Everyone, I suppose?’

‘Not quite, not yet.’ Cecil looked across at the grandfather clock standing in a corner of the dining room. ‘It’s not yet eight. It is Sunday, so I’ve kept my phone calls to a minimum. For the moment. Nicholas Throckman was the first one to phone me, to tell me Mary was dead, and then immediately afterwards I heard from Charles Broakes, who announced the same thing.’

Staring at him, frowning, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘Your mobile! That’s how everyone got in touch. No wonder I didn’t hear any phones ringing.’

‘I asked Nicholas and Charles to call me on the mobile. Why should the whole household be awakened at six in the morning?’ He shook his head. ‘Like you, I hardly slept last night, I knew she couldn’t last much longer. I was on the alert.’

‘I assume Nicholas is on his way here? With the black box.’

‘He is. Actually, he’s had possession of the box since Friday. Mary’s people sent it to him that afternoon, so that he could bring it to you immediately. They thought she was about to die that day, but it was a false alarm and she didn’t. This morning, within half an hour of hearing the news, he set off. He’s driving up here right now, and he asked me to tell you that he looks forward to joining us for Sunday lunch.’

She smiled for the first time in days. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Sidney Payne also phoned. He was all for rushing up here, but I told him not to, explained we would be in London later in the week, and I would be in touch then. He told me three people had called him already, so the news of Mary’s death is spreading fast.’ Cecil grimaced. ‘Everyone loves to gossip, to speculate, so important news spreads like wildfire.’

Leaning forward, Elizabeth asked with sudden eagerness, ‘Who are we inviting to our first meeting?’

‘Your great-uncle Howard must be there, your cousins Francis Knowles and Henry Carray, Sidney Payne should come, plus some of the board members who have long been waiting for this day.’

She nodded. ‘I know who they are, and I can’t wait to see them. But what about those in the company who are against me?’

‘What can they do?’ Cecil asked, shaking his head. ‘Nothing! They cannot challenge you, Elizabeth. You are the rightful heir to Deravenels through your father’s will.’

‘They can torpedo me, work against me, trip me up, do me in, call it what you will.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re Mary’s cronies, and they’ll never like me. They never have.’

‘Who cares? Liking you is of no import! They have to respect you. That’s vital, the only thing that matters. And I’m going to make damn sure they do.’

Mary Turner, her sister, was dead. No, not Mary Turner, but Mary Turner Alvarez, wife of Philip Alvarez, the greatest tycoon in Madrid, a man who had used her money, weakened her resources, then abandoned her to die alone. But that’s what men did, didn’t they? Used women, then discarded them. Her father had taken all the prizes for doing just that. Don’t think ill of him now, Elizabeth warned herself. It was his Last Will and Testament that had held in the end. She was his third and last heir. And now Deravenels was hers.

Towards the end, Mary had had no alternative but to follow Harry Turner’s wishes. Nonetheless, earlier there had been desperate attempts on her sister’s part to cheat her out of her rightful inheritance.

Mary had first named her unborn son as heir apparent, that non-existent child she fantasized about, the one she thought she carried in her swollen belly. It was not new life reclining there but an inoperable cancer.

After this had come her most brilliant brainstorm, as Mary had called it. Her Spanish husband Philip Alvarez must inherit. After all, wasn’t he the most famous businessman in Spain, a seasoned entrepreneur, and who better than him to run the ancient company?

When this idea was promptly scuttled by those who could scuttle it, Mary had seized on their cousin Marie Stewart, she of Scottish-French descent and upbringing, a woman who was ninety per cent French, barely English at all. At the time, Cecil had wondered aloud what this Gallic vamp could possibly know about running an eight-hundred-year-old trading company based in London, one that was a male bastion of self-centred chauvinism. Nothing, they had both agreed, marvelling at Mary Turner’s gall.

Marie Stewart had long claimed she was the rightful heir, pointing out that her right to inherit came through her English grandmother, Margaret Turner, eldest sister of Harry Turner. But it was Harry who represented the direct male line from his father; therefore, his offspring, whether male or female, took precedence over his sister Margaret’s line. It all had to do with the rule of primogeniture and the eldest son and his descendants being the true inheritors.

Once again, this idea of Mary Turner’s had been swiftly killed. The board of Deravenels wanted nothing to do with Marie Stewart, whom they viewed as the enemy for a variety of reasons. And that would always be their stance.

And so at the very end her sister Mary had finally acknowledged her, although not actually by name. Something seemed to prevent Mary from doing that. But ten days ago she had sent a suitcase with one of her assistants. It contained Turner family jewels and a lot of keys, for bank vaults, safes, and various Turner homes.

Her wise Cecil had pointed out on that recent afternoon, ‘This is her way of acknowledging you, Elizabeth. She is going to fulfil your father’s Last Will and Testament in the end. You’ll see. Her actions are more important than any words she might utter.’

But why couldn’t her sister have said her name? Why couldn’t she have said my sister, my heir Elizabeth Turner? Why had she merely muttered something about Harry Turner’s rightful heir?

Because she hated you, Elizabeth now thought, and she couldn’t bear the idea that you were about to take her place.

Let it go, let it go, a small voice said inside her head, and she tried to push these thoughts away. What did it matter now? Mary Turner Alvarez was dead. She, Elizabeth Deravenel Turner, was alive and well and about to become managing director of Deravenels. It was all hers now: the company, the houses, the jewels, the power and the wealth. And she wanted it. Who wouldn’t want it? Also, it was hers by right. She was a Deravenel and a Turner through and through. She was Harry’s girl, and she looked exactly like him. Mary hadn’t resembled Harry at all. She had looked like her Spanish mother, but she had also been much smaller than Catherine – somewhat squat, and not half as pretty.

Moving across the floor of her bedroom, Elizabeth opened the cupboard door, pulled out the case Mary had sent and carried it over to the bed. She found the key for it in her desk drawer, opened the case and rummaged around, looking at some of the brown leather pouches which had engraved silver nameplates stitched on the front. One said Waverley Court, Kent, another Ravenscar, Yorkshire, a third, the Chelsea house, and all of them were full of keys. Then there were pouches pertaining to bank vaults at Coutts, the Westminster Bank, and Lloyds, and keys for those vaults.

Cecil had told her that these bank vaults contained Deravenel and Turner jewels, other valuables such as diamond tiaras, silver objects and tea services, canteens of silver, gold objects and ancient documents. He had pointed out that she would have to visit each bank vault when they returned to London, to check on everything as the new owner.

Placing the brown leather pouches to one side, Elizabeth smoothed her long fingers over several red leather boxes from Cartier, then opened them all. One contained a superb diamond necklace, the next a pair of extraordinary emerald-cut emerald earrings, and the last a huge sapphire-and-diamond pin. The jewellery was not only fabulous, but obviously from the 1930s, and suddenly she couldn’t help wondering which member of the family had bought such gems. And for whom. She also wondered if she would ever wear any of it. Perhaps not, but she would certainly wear the South Seas pearls she had examined with Cecil the other day.

Taking the pearls out of their black-velvet case, she held them up to the light. How lustrous they were … truly lovely. Yes, these she would wear.

After returning everything to the suitcase, she locked it and put it back in the cupboard to be dealt with later. There were more pressing things to do in the next few weeks. The bank vaults would have to wait, and so would the two houses, Waverley Court and the house in Chelsea, the house where Mary had lived for some years, and where she had died today. Later this week her sister would be buried in the family cemetery here, at Ravenscar, where all the Deravenels and Turners were buried. There was the funeral to think about and to be planned, people to be invited.

Elizabeth sat down at her desk, opened her diary and turned the pages, came to the page for today: Sunday, November seventeenth, 1996. At the top of the page she wrote: My sister Mary Turner Alvarez died at dawn this morning. She was forty-two years old.

Sitting back in the chair, staring at the wall, Elizabeth’s mind raced. Going to Deravenels and taking over the running of the company terrified her. But she had no choice. How would she cope? What would she do first? How would she and Cecil implement her plans? And his, which were complex? She had no idea how she would manage. She had worked at Deravenels off and on since she was eighteen, and had grown to love the company until Mary had kicked her out last year. She was about to go back and run it. She was only twenty-five years old, and basically inexperienced. But she had to do it; she would just have to manage. Most importantly, she must succeed.

Elizabeth knew one thing – she had to prove to those who worked there that she was not like her sister, who had been incompetent and arrogant. It was bad enough that they were misogynists; Mary’s lousy performance had simply underscored their inherent belief that women were not meant to be executives within that age-old trading company, that place of male supremacy.

I have to do it. I don’t have a choice. I must be strong, tough, clever. And, if necessary, devious. I have to win. I want to win. And I want Deravenels. I want it all. It was left to me. I must make it great again.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth put her arms on the desk and rested her head on them, her mind still racing, plans evolving in her fertile brain.

TWO

Cecil Williams sat at the Georgian partners desk in the spacious study, a room which had been occupied by Deravenel and Turner men for many centuries.

Elizabeth had insisted he use it when he had come up to Ravenscar several weeks ago, since she herself preferred the smaller office which opened off the dining room. He knew she had always loved Ravenscar, the beautiful old Elizabethan house on the cliffs at the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, and over the years she had been able to make it her own. Her sister Mary had loathed the house for some reason and had never spent any time here, preferring to be in London.

More fool her, Cecil thought, glancing around the beautiful room, admiring the fine, mellow antiques, the Moroccan-leather-bound books, and portraits of Deravenel men from long ago, and Turner men of more recent years. There was even a portrait of Guy de Ravenel, founder of the dynasty, the Normandy knight from Falaise who had come to England with William the Conqueror. It was he who started the trading company which had eventually become Deravenels, now one of the most famous global conglomerates and on a grand scale.

Dropping his eyes to the desk, Cecil concentrated on his notes about the events of the day so far, also jotting down the names of everyone he had spoken to since six o’clock that morning.

Elizabeth occasionally teased him about his perpetual note-taking, but it was his way of ensuring he remembered absolutely everything pertaining to business. He made his notes religiously every day, and he had done so since his school days. He had continued this practice as a student at Cambridge, then again when he was studying law, and later, when he began to work at Deravenels, first for Edward Selmere, then for John Dunley.

He had found it hard to break the habit; long ago he had decided he shouldn’t even try. It was useful, and very frequently it had given him the advantage in business. He always had his notebook and could quickly refresh his memory. Not many other people could do it quite so easily.

At thirty-eight Cecil was fully aware that he was now at the crossroads of his life, and that Elizabeth Turner was at the same point. Her sister’s death at an early age meant that she was in control of this vast business enterprise; he also knew she considered him her trusted right hand and expected him to guide and advise her.

He had left Deravenels five years ago, understanding that he would never be able to work easily with Mary Turner. They were poles apart, thought differently about everything, and, when she came into her inheritance and took the power, he quietly departed, went to live in the country. But for a number of years he had helped manage some of Elizabeth’s personal business affairs, and had continued to do so, along with her accountant, Thomas Parrell.

The sky’s the limit, he decided, his spirits lifting. We can pull it off; we can revive Deravenels, bring it back to what it was when her father reigned supreme. After Harry’s death things had grown a little shaky; that was everyone’s opinion, not only his.

Elizabeth’s brother Edward had inherited Deravenels, but he was only a schoolboy, and obviously could not run it. So his maternal uncle, Edward Selmere, had become administrator, following Harry’s instructions laid out in his will.

But Selmere had eventually blotted his copy book and was given the sack by the board, and John Dunley had taken over. He was another old hand at Deravenels, as his father Edmund Dunley had been before him.

John Dunley had managed to hold the company steady for the boy Edward, and he had helped, working closely with John. But with Edward’s death at sixteen and the advent of Mary Turner, so much had gone terribly wrong. She had managed to damage the company, badly but not irretrievably. He hoped.

Cecil sat back, considered Elizabeth. He believed her to be one of the most brilliant people he had ever met. Apart from having had a superb education, and having shown her true mettle when working at Deravenels, she was fortunate in that she had inherited her father’s intelligence, his shrewdness and perception, especially about people. Furthermore, she also had Harry’s business acumen, and his ruthlessness. The latter was a trait she was certainly going to need when she was running Deravenels, starting next week.

Elizabeth was the Turner most like her father in character, personality and looks; neither her late brother Edward, nor the newly-deceased Mary had resembled him very much.

There was a light knock on the door, and it flew open to admit Elizabeth. She hovered in the entrance, flanked by the large portraits of her father and great-grandfather which hung on either side of the door.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

He shook his head, rendered mute for a split second.

The sun was streaming in through the windows, bathing her in shimmering light, and the vividness of her colouring was shown off to perfection – her glorious auburn hair shot through with gold, her perfect English complexion, so fair and milky white, and her finely-wrought features reminiscent of the Deravenels. She was the spitting image of both men; the only difference was her eyes. They were a curious grey-black, whilst Harry Turner’s and Edward Deravenel’s were the same sky blue.

‘What is it? You’re staring at me in the most peculiar way,’ said Elizabeth, and walked into the study, her expression one of puzzlement.

‘Three peas in a pod,’ Cecil answered with a faint laugh. ‘That’s what I was thinking as you stood there in the doorway. The sunlight was streaming in, and the marked resemblance between you and your father and great-grandfather was … uncanny.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth turned around, her eyes moving from the portrait of her father to the one of her great-grandfather, the famous Edward Deravenel, the father of Bess, her paternal grandmother. It was he she admired the most, he who had been the greatest managing director of all time, in her opinion … the man she hoped to emulate. He was her inspiration.

‘Well, yes, I guess we do look as if we’re related,’ she answered, her black eyes dancing mischievously. Taking a seat opposite Cecil, she went on, ‘Just let’s hope that I can accomplish what they did.’

‘You will.’

‘You mean we will.’

He inclined his head, murmured, ‘We’ll do our damnedest.’

Shifting slightly in the chair, Elizabeth focused her eyes on Cecil with some intensity, and said slowly, ‘What are we going to do about the funeral? It will have to be here, won’t it?’

‘No other place but here.’

‘Have you any ideas about who we ought to invite?’

‘Certainly members of the board. But under the circumstances, I thought it was a good idea to turn the whole thing over to John Norfell. He’s one of the senior executives, a long-time member of the board, and he was a friend of Mary’s. Who better than him to make all the arrangements? I spoke to him a short while ago.’

Elizabeth nodded, a look of relief on her face. ‘The family chapel holds about fifty, but that’s it. And I suppose we’ll have to feed them –’ She shook her head, sighing. ‘Don’t you think it should be held in the late morning, so that we can serve lunch afterwards and then get them out of here around three?’

Amused, Cecil began to chuckle. ‘I see you’ve already worked it out. And I couldn’t agree more. I hinted at something of the sort to Norfell, and he seemed to acquiesce. I doubt that anyone even really wants to come up here in the dead of winter.’

She laughed with him and pointed out, ‘It’s so cold. I put my nose outside earlier, and decided not to take a walk. God knows how my ancestors managed without central heating.’

‘Roaring fires,’ he suggested, and glanced at the one burning brightly in the study. ‘But to my way of thinking, fires wouldn’t have been enough … we’ve got the central heating at its highest right now, and it’s only comfortable.’

‘That’s one of the great improvements my father made, putting in the heating. And air conditioning.’ Rising, Elizabeth strolled over to the fireplace, threw another log on the fire, and then turning around, she said quietly, ‘What about the widower? Do we invite Philip Alvarez or not?’

‘It’s really up to you … but perhaps we should invite him. Out of courtesy, don’t you think? And look here, he was always well disposed towards you,’ Cecil reminded her.

Don’t I know it, she thought, remembering the way her Spanish brother-in-law had eyed her somewhat lasciviously and pinched her bottom when Mary wasn’t looking. Pushing these irritating thoughts to one side, she nodded. ‘Yes, we’d better invite him. We don’t need any more enemies. He won’t come though.’

‘You’re right about that.’

‘Cecil, how bad is it really? At Deravenels? We’ve touched on some of the problems these last couple of weeks, but we haven’t plunged into them, talked about them in depth.’

‘And we can’t, not really, because I haven’t seen the books. I haven’t worked there for four and a half years, and you’ve been gone for one year. Until we’re both installed, I won’t know the truth,’ he explained, and added, ‘One thing I do know though is that she gave Philip a lot of money for his building schemes in Spain.’

‘What do you mean by a lot?’

‘Millions.’

‘Pounds sterling or euros?’

‘Euros.’

‘Five? Ten million? Or more?’

‘More. A great deal more, I’m afraid.’

Elizabeth came back to the desk and sat down in the chair, staring at Cecil Williams. ‘A great deal more?’ she repeated in a low voice. ‘Fifty million?’ she whispered anxiously.

Cecil shook his head. ‘Something like seventy-five million.’

‘I can’t believe it!’ she exclaimed, a stricken look crossing her face. ‘How could the board condone that investment?’

‘I have no idea. I was told, in private, that there was negligence. Personally, I’d call it criminal negligence.’

‘Can we prosecute someone?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘So it was Mary’s fault? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That is what has been suggested to me, but we won’t have the real facts until we’re in there, and you’re managing director. Only then can we start digging.’

‘It won’t be soon enough for me,’ she muttered in a tight voice. Glancing at her watch, she went on, ‘I think I had better go and change. Nicholas Throckman will be arriving here before we know it.’

Elizabeth was in a fury, a fury so monumental she wanted to rush outside and scream it into the wind until she was empty. But she knew it would be unwise to do that. It was an icy morning and there was a bone-chilling wind. Dangerous weather.

And so instead she rushed upstairs to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, fell down on her knees and pummelled the mattress with her fists, tears of anger glistening in those intense dark eyes. She beat and beat her hands on the bed until she felt the anger easing, dissipating, and then suddenly she began to weep, sobbing as if her heart was breaking. Eventually, finally drained of all emotion, she stood up and went into the adjoining bathroom where she washed her face. Returning to the bedroom she sat down at her dressing table and carefully began to apply her make-up.

How could she do it? How could she tip all the money into Philip’s greedy outstretched hands? Out of love and adoration and wanting to keep him by her side? The need to keep him with her in London? How stupid her sister had been. He was a womanizer, she knew that only too well. He chased women, he had even chased her, his wife’s little sister.

And the duped and besotted Mary had poured more money into his hands for his real estate schemes in Spain. And without a second thought, led by something other than her brain. That urgent itch between her legs … driving sexual desire … how it blinded a woman.

Well, she knew all about that, didn’t she? The image of that hunk of a man Tom Selmere was still there somewhere in her head even after ten years. Another man on the make, lusting after his new wife’s stepdaughter, and a fifteen-year-old at that. Married to Harry’s widow Catherine before Harry was barely cold in his grave. And wanting to get Harry’s daughter into his bed as well. Hadn’t the widow woman been enough to satisfy the randy Tom? She had often wondered about that over the years.

Philip Alvarez was cut from the same cloth.

What the hell had Philip done with all that money? Seventy-five million. Oh God, so much money lost … our money … Deravenels’ money. He had seemingly never really accounted for it. Would he ever? Could he?

We will make him do so. We have to do so. Surely there was documentation? Somewhere. Mary wouldn’t have been that stupid. Or would she?

My sister’s management of Deravenels has been abysmal. I have long known that from my close friends inside the company, and Cecil had his own network, his own spies. He knows a lot more than he’s telling me; trying to protect me, as always. I trust my Cecil, I trust him implicitly. He’s devoted, and an honourable man. True Blue. So quiet and unassuming, steady as a rock, and the most honest man I know. Together we’ll run Deravenels. And we’ll run it into the black.

Rising, Elizabeth left the dressing table, moved towards the door. As she did so her eyes fell on the photograph on the chest. It was a photograph of her and Mary on the terrace here at Ravenscar. She’d forgotten it was there. Picking it up, she gazed at it. Two decades fell away, and she was on that terrace again … five years old, so young, so innocent, so unsuspecting of her treacherous half-sister.

‘Go on, Elizabeth, go to him. Father’s been asking for you,’ Mary said, pushing her forward.

Elizabeth looked up at the twenty-two-year-old, and asked, ‘Are you sure he wants to see me?’

Mary looked down at the red-headed child who irritated her. ‘Yes, he does. Go on, go on.’

Elizabeth ran forward down the terrace, ‘Here I am, Father,’ she called as she drew nearer to the table where he was sitting reading the morning papers.

He lifted his head swiftly, and jumped up. ‘What are you doing here? Making all this noise? Disturbing me?’

Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him. She began to tremble.

He took a step towards her, his anger apparent. He stared down at her, and his eyes turned to blue ice. ‘You shouldn’t be on this terrace, in fact you shouldn’t be here at all.’

‘But Mary told me to come,’ she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

‘To hell with Mary and what she said, and I’m not your father, do you hear? Since your mother is dead, you are … nobody’s child. You are nobody.’ He stepped closer, shooing her away with his big hands.

Elizabeth turned and ran, fleeing down the terrace.

Harry Turner strode on behind her, followed her into the Long Hall, shouting, ‘Nanny! Nanny! Where are you?’

Avis Paisley appeared as if from nowhere, her face turning white when she saw the bewildered and terrified child running towards her, tears streaming down her face. Hurrying forward, Avis grabbed her tightly, held her close to her body protectively.

‘Pack up and go to Kent, Nanny. Today,’ Harry Turner told her in a fierce voice, glaring at her.

‘To Waverley Court, Mr Turner?’

‘No, to Stonehurst Farm. I shall telephone my aunt, Mrs Grace Rose Morran, and tell her you are arriving tonight.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Without another word Avis led Elizabeth towards the staircase, cursing Harry Turner under her breath. What a monster he was. He punished the child because of the mother. She loathed him.

Elizabeth looked at the photograph again, and then threw it into the wastepaper basket. Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought, as she left the bedroom.

THREE

Elizabeth ran down the wide staircase and crossed the Long Hall, then she paused, listening. She could hear male voices in the nearby library, and hurried there at once. She pushed open the door and went in, and immediately came to a stop, taken by surprise.

Having expected to see Nicholas Throckman, she was startled by the sight of Robert Dunley. Her childhood friend, whom she had known since they were both eight years old, was standing with Cecil near the window. The two men were deep in conversation and oblivious to her arrival.

But as if he sensed her sudden presence, Robert unexpectedly swung around. Instantly his face lit up. ‘Good morning, Elizabeth!’ he said, as he strode towards her.

‘Robin! I didn’t expect to see you here!’

‘You know I always turn up like the proverbial bad penny.’ He grinned as he swept her into his arms and hugged her to him. He released her, kissed her cheek, and explained, ‘When I spoke to Cecil earlier, I asked him not to tell you I was coming. I wanted to surprise you.’

‘Well, you certainly did that,’ she exclaimed, laughing with him. Tucking her arm through his, the two of them joined Cecil.

Elizabeth was glad Robin was here; he had always been her devoted friend, and she still remembered the nice things he had done for her when she was in disfavour with her sister. She never forgot that kind of gesture. Dear Robin, so special to her.

Cecil, staring at her through those clear, light-grey eyes of his, said in a quiet voice, ‘Only a bit of minor deception on my part, Elizabeth.’

‘I know,’ she answered, smiling at him.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne? Or something else perhaps?’ Cecil asked, walking over to the drinks cart.

‘The champagne, please.’ Letting go of Robert’s arm, Elizabeth stationed herself in front of the window, gazing out at the panoramic view of the North Sea and the cream-coloured cliffs that stretched endlessly for miles, all the way to Robin Hood’s Bay and beyond.

What a breathtaking view it was, and most especially today. The sun was brilliant, the sky the perfect blue of a glorious summer’s day, and, in turn, the sea itself looked less threatening and grim, reflecting the sky the way it did. This view had always thrilled her.

‘It looks like a pretty spring day out there,’ Robert murmured, coming to stand next to her. ‘But it’s an illusion.’

‘Oh, I know that.’ She eyed him knowingly. ‘Like so much else in life …’

He made no response, and a moment later Cecil handed her the flute of champagne. She thanked him, sat down, and looking at both men, said, ‘I wonder what has happened to Nicholas? Shouldn’t he be here by now? It’s almost one.’

‘I feel certain he’ll arrive at any moment,’ Cecil reassured her. He glanced at Robert, raised a brow and asked, ‘How was the traffic?’

‘Not too bad. But Nicholas might be a bit more cautious than I am. I’m lucky I didn’t get stopped by a traffic cop. I drove like a fiend.’

‘Nicholas is bringing me the black box,’ Elizabeth announced, looking at Robert. But before he could respond, she changed the subject abruptly. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you were rather friendly with Philip Alvarez, weren’t you? Didn’t you go to Spain with him a while ago?’

Robert nodded. ‘Yes. But I can’t say I was very friendly with him. Let’s put it this way – he was always pleasant to me, and at one moment he needed advice, mostly from my brother Ambrose. Actually, we went to Spain together, to do a small job for him.’

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something and instantly closed it when she saw the warning look on Cecil’s face.

Cecil cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think we ought to get into a long discussion about Philip Alvarez at this particular moment. Robert, you might be able to shed some light on that resort he was building in Spain, so do let’s plan to have a little talk. Later. I think Nicholas has just arrived.’ Rising, Cecil walked out into the Long Hall, said over his shoulder, ‘Yes, it’s him.’

A second later, Nicholas Throckman was greeting Cecil, Elizabeth and Robert, a wide smile on his face. They were all old friends, and enjoyed being together. After accepting a glass of champagne, and raising his glass to them, Nicholas said, ‘I’m so sorry to deliver this in such an unconventional fashion, Elizabeth.’ He chuckled. ‘In a Fortnum and Mason shopping bag, of all things. But actually, this is how it came to me. Anyway, here it is.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a Fortnum and Mason shopping bag,’ Elizabeth replied as she took it from him. Placing it on the floor next to her, she lifted out the black box; holding it in both hands, she stared down at it and felt a shiver run through her. The box was, in fact, more like a jewel case, and embossed across the lid in now-faded gold letters was the name she revered: Edward Deravenel.

Placing it on her knee, with her hands on top of it, she said slowly, it in a shaky voice, ‘When I was eleven, two years after my father had accepted me as his daughter again, he showed me this box. And he told me a story about it. Or rather, about what’s inside. Come and sit down for a minute or two. I’d like you to hear what Harry Turner told me fourteen years ago.’

The three men did as she asked, nursing their glasses of champagne. All were curious, wanted to hear the story.

Elizabeth did not immediately begin. Instead she looked down at the box once more, smoothed her hand over it, seemed suddenly thoughtful, far away, lost in memories.

Robert Dunley, watching her intently, could not help thinking how beautiful her hands were, long and slender with tapering fingers and perfect nails. He had half-forgotten her lovely hands …

For his part, Nicholas was admiring her gumption and disregard for convention. Here she was, wearing a bright red sweater and matching trousers on the day her sister had died, and she didn’t give a damn what any of them thought. But that was Elizabeth, honest to the core. He knew, only too well, that there had been no love lost between the sisters, and he admired Elizabeth for not pretending otherwise.

Cecil’s thoughts were on Elizabeth’s quick, keen mind, the way she had mentioned Philip, quizzed Robert about the trip to Spain. Dunley might well be a good source of information about the disastrous investment Mary had made … he would talk to him later.

Elizabeth shifted her position on the sofa, glanced up at the painting which had hung above the fireplace here in this library for seventy years or more … The life-size portrait of Edward Deravenel … what a handsome man he had been: her father had truly looked like him, and so did she.

Focusing on the three men, she said, ‘This box once belonged to him, my father’s grandfather, as you all know.’ She gestured to the portrait, then, lifting the lid off the box, she took out a gold medallion on a slender chain and held it up for them to see. It glinted in the sunlight.

On one side was the Deravenel family emblem of the white rose and fetterlock, the rose enamelled white; on the other side of the medallion was the sun in splendour, commemorating the day Edward had taken the company away from the Grants of Lancashire in 1904. Around the edge of the medallion, on the side bearing the rose, was engraved the Deravenel family motto: Fidelity unto eternity.

‘I’m aware you’ve all seen this medallion before, as have I. But my father first showed it to me when I was eleven years old, as I just told you. He explained that his grandfather had designed it, and had had six of them made. For himself, his two cousins, Neville and Johnny Watkins, his best friend Will Hasling, and two colleagues, Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister. They were the men who had helped him take control of the company, and were devoted to him for the rest of his life. Father then went on to confide that his mother, Bess Deravenel, had actually given it to him when he was twelve … just before she died. Apparently, her father had asked her to keep it safe for her younger brother, who would one day inherit the company. Well, you know that old story about the two Deravenel boys disappearing in mysterious circumstances. My grandmother explained to Father that she had been keeping it for his elder brother Arthur, who had unexpectedly died when he was almost sixteen. And now she wanted Harry to have it, because he would become head of the company –’

‘Didn’t Bess ever give the medallion to her husband, Henry Turner?’ Robert asked, cutting in peremptorily.

‘Obviously not,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘Actually, now that I think about it, my father never mentioned his father in that conversation about the medallion, he just told me how thrilled he’d been to get it, and proud. He said he treasured it because of its historical significance. He adored his mother, and I suspect it was extra special to him because it was one of her last gifts to him.’

‘And now it’s yours,’ Nicholas said, gazing at her fondly, his eyes benign and caring. Like Cecil and Robert, he was extremely protective of her, and would always defend her and her interests.

Elizabeth went on, ‘My brother Edward received it after my father’s death, even though he was too young to run the company, as you all know. It was his by right. And then it went to Mary when Edward died. Whoever wears it is the head of Deravenels, but basically it is only a symbol. Still, it’s always been tremendously important to the Turners, and it’s passed on to the next heir immediately.’

Cecil said, ‘It’s a beautiful thing, and when your father wore it on special occasions he did so with great pride.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, he did. You know, there’s another bit of family lore attached to this particular medallion, which Father told me about. Seemingly, Neville Watkins and Edward Deravenel had a terrible falling out, a genuine rift that went on for years and was devastating to everyone.’ She took a sip of champagne, and continued, ‘Johnny, Neville’s brother, was torn between the two of them, and tried to broker a rapprochement, but couldn’t. Ultimately, he had to take his brother’s side, he had no choice. When he was killed in a car crash in 1914 he was wearing the medallion under his shirt. Edward’s brother Richard brought Johnny’s medallion to him, and Edward wore it for the rest of his life. His own he gave to his brother.’

Now picking up the medallion again, leaning forward, Elizabeth showed them the side bearing the image of the sun in splendour. ‘If you look closely, you can see the initials J.W. which apparently Edward had engraved on the rim here, then he added his own initials. When my father received the medallion, he added his initials, as did Edward, and also Mary.’ She passed the medallion to Cecil, who looked at it closely then gave it to Nicholas, who did the same and handed it to Robert.

After staring at the series of initials, Robert glanced at her, and announced, ‘You must wear it today, Elizabeth. Now. Because it’s yours and it signifies so much, the history of your family. Next week I’ll have your initials added to the rim, if that’s all right with you?’

‘Why that’s lovely of you. Thank you, Robin.’

Rising, he went over to her, opened the clasp and fastened the gold chain around her neck. ‘There you are,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘You’re now the boss!’

Before she could say anything, Lucas appeared in the doorway of the library. ‘Lunch is served, Miss Turner,’ he announced.

‘Thank you, Lucas, we’ll be right in.’

Jumping up, Elizabeth hugged Robert, and said softly against his ear, ‘You always manage to do the right thing, ever since we were little.’

‘And I can say the same thing about you,’ he answered, taking her arm and leading her out of the library into the Long Hall, followed by Cecil and Nicholas.

Once they were in the dining room, Elizabeth turned to Cecil, and said, ‘Come and sit next to me, and Nicholas, Robin, please sit opposite.’

They all took their seats, and Elizabeth said, ‘We’re having Yorkshire pudding first, then leg of lamb, roast potatoes and the usual vegetables. I hope you’re going to enjoy it.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘A traditional Sunday lunch is my favourite meal of the week. I’ve been looking forward to it all morning.’

‘I bet you didn’t get many of those in Paris, did you, old chap?’ Cecil said. ‘And by the way, I for one am glad you’re back.’

‘So am I,’ Nicholas asserted. ‘And from what I’ve gathered from our phone conversations, there’s a lot for us to do.’

Cecil nodded. ‘That’s true, but before we start reorganizing the company, and getting it on a more profitable level, I think we have to do something about the board. It’s top heavy.’

‘It certainly is!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘Mary added far too many additional board members, and in my opinion it should go back to the way it was in my father’s time. Eighteen.’

‘Agreed, and –’ Cecil broke off as Lucas came in carrying a tray followed by a young maid.

The butler placed the tray on a side table, and then he and the maid gave everyone a plate on which there was a large, round Yorkshire pudding.

After serving the gravy, the butler asked, ‘Shall I pour the wine now, Miss Turner?’

‘Why not, Lucas. Thank you.’

Once they were alone again, Nicholas looked across the table at Cecil and Elizabeth, and said, ‘A large board is unwieldly, don’t you think? And also too many voices and lots of differing opinions create monumental problems in the long run. I’m glad you’ve decided to tighten it up.’

‘The whole company needs tightening up,’ Robert said. ‘There’s been a lot of waste. Not only of money, but of talent as well. The company needs new blood, new young blood, quite apart from anything else.’

‘Robert, you took the words right out of my mouth,’ said Cecil, inclining his head. ‘And now, here’s a toast to you, Elizabeth.’ He picked up his crystal goblet of red wine, and raised it to her. ‘To a new beginning at Deravenels and your great success!’

The other two men repeated her name, and lifted their glasses; Elizabeth smiled at them, her dark eyes glowing, and they all took a sip of the vintage claret.

‘Thank you,’ she said as she put the glass down on the table again. ‘I just want to say that I’m happy the three of you are here with me today, and that we’re going to face the future together at Deravenels. I don’t think I could do it without you.’

‘Oh, you could,’ Robert said confidently. ‘But it’ll be better with us around, don’t you think?’

She laughed, began to eat, and the men followed suit.

From time to time Robert looked across the table at her and held her gaze until she glanced down at her plate and continued to eat. She was so happy he had decided to come up, be with her on this very special day. He looked wonderful, so good-looking, so very glamorous. All of a sudden she realised she was staring at him, perhaps a little too intently, when he raised a dark brow and threw her a questioning look. Her stomach tightened and she felt herself flushing. Much to her astonishment, she had become very aware of him physically in the last hour or so, extremely conscious of his presence.

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