Heirs of Ravenscar

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  All of Ned’s close friends were gentlemen, just as he was. They spoke the same language, led similar lives, had the same standards and beliefs, and would become the Establishment one day, the ruling class, as their fathers had before them. He missed them all tonight, felt lost without them. He could hardly wait to return to London, to be with them. Rising, he went and turned off the various lamps, returned to the chair, sat sipping the brandy, drifting with his thoughts, half asleep, half awake, lost in a world of his own.

  SEVENTEEN

  There was the slightest of sounds, like a long, drawn-out sigh, and he heard it vaguely, half dozing, sprawled in the chair in front of the fire. He was relaxed, feeling at ease and comfortable in his shirt, his jacket and tie discarded over an hour ago.

  There it was again … the long sigh, this time followed by another curious whispery sound. To him it seemed like the swish of silk, faint yet intriguing.

  Unexpectedly, the scent of gardenias fl
oated across to him on the warm air, and he struggled to sit up in the armchair, rousing himself.

  The library was awash with moonlight, and as he blinked and adjusted his eyes, he saw her standing in the doorway. Elizabeth. Lamplight from the Long Hall was shining behind her and her curvaceous figure was a tantalizing silhouette quite visible through the smokey-grey chiffon peignoir she was wearing. Her waist-length silver-gilt hair was loose, flowing around her face.

  To him it was still the most beautiful face he had ever seen, absolute perfection, as if sculpted by a great artist from flawless marble. She was pale as a ghost tonight, and seemed to float before him like a spectre. Suddenly, she turned, locked the library door, then took a step forward, simply stood there, her arms at her sides, staring at him intently, not saying a word.

  She had come to seduce him, he knew that at once.

  Edward immediately felt the heat flooding through him; even his face was suddenly hot. He could not take his eyes off her, he was mesmerized.

  Finally, he rose, went to meet her in the middle of the floor. She stared up at him, he looked down at her, their blue eyes met.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, and was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded, hoarse with desire.

  ‘I’m seeking my husband.’

  ‘He is here.’

  ‘Is he waiting for his wife?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Does he desire her?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘She is yours. Only yours.’

  Edward reached out his hand, enclosing her long, slender fingers in his, drawing her closer. Putting his arms around her, he lowered his mouth to hers, savoured her, breathing in the perfume of her.

  Elizabeth clung to him, her dearest husband. The man she loved, the only man for her. She ran her hands into his thick red-gold hair, pressed her body to his, let her tongue slide into his mouth sensuously, the way he liked. Instantly, he was aroused. She felt his erection against her body and her heart lifted. This was the right way, as her mother was forever telling her. This was the true way to win him back, to make him wholly hers again.

  ‘Enslave him,’ her mother had recently told her. ‘He’s a sensual man, sexually driven, very potent. Give him everything he wants from you. You are his wife, the mother of his children, so be his lover as well.’

  Elizabeth remembered her words now. She slid her hands down onto his shoulders, his back, and finally they came to rest on his buttocks; she pressed him into her.

  He was excited, and he muttered against the long silky hair, ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  ‘No, no, let’s stay here.’

  He released her without a word, took off his shirt and other clothes; she came to him, slid her peignoir over her shoulders, let it drop to the floor. And still they just stood there staring, their eyes locked, as if they had never seen each other before.

  He was amazed by her tonight. How unusually beautiful she was, and she seemed very young, like a young girl, untouched, innocent even. She was five years older than him, yet she was like a girl tonight.

  Watching Ned, aware of his eyes roaming over her, Elizabeth could hardly contain herself. He was so masculine, so tall and broad chested, with long legs. She had once told him he was an Adonis, and he had laughed, but it was true.

  He took hold of her hand, led her closer to the fire, and they lay down together on the thick rug. Taking a handful of her silky blonde hair, he kissed it tenderly, leaned over her, kissed her throat, her eyes and finally her mouth. His kisses were gentle at first, but as he realized her excitement was growing, felt the heat of her, he grew greedier and more passionate.

  She was trembling in his arms, and whispered his name against his ear. ‘Oh Ned, oh Ned, I want you …’ He lifted himself onto her so that he could look down into her eyes. And he said in a low, almost inaudible tone, ‘I do love you, you know …’

  ‘Prove it, Ned, prove it.’

  He did so, taking her to him in a way he had not done for the longest time. And Elizabeth gave herself up to him entirely, recognizing that he was different tonight. Tender and loving, yet bursting with a raging desire that verged on wildness. She abandoned herself to him, as he was doing with her, and she knew she had won him back. With great skill and expertise, much of it learned from him, she held him in her thrall, fed his desire for her all night. Elizabeth so inflamed him they reached heights they had not reached for years. Their quarrels and differences forgotten, at least for this night, they were man and wife again, loving each other without restraint.

  Edward felt a sudden cold wind blowing across his body, and he sat up in bed with a start. He saw immediately that he was in his own bedroom; the window had slipped the latch and banged back and forth against the wall. Icy cold North Sea air filled the room.

  Jumping out of bed, he closed the window, and glanced around. Moving across the floor, he peered into Elizabeth’s bedroom; it was in total darkness, the way she preferred, and he could see she was fast asleep. Closing the door quietly, he went back and sat down on his bed. He had a raging headache and his mouth felt dry. It was a hangover … he had a hangover from the large quantity of cognac he had drunk last night, just before she had come downstairs, and seduced him on the floor of the library. Thank God she had had the sense to lock the door, because he hadn’t even thought of it.

  Laughing, shaking his head, Edward stood up, went through into the adjoining bathroom. Running the tap, he filled a glass with icy water and drank it down, and then reached for the shaving soap and his razor.

  Elizabeth had set out to seduce him last night, very purposefully, and she had of course succeeded. Not that she had had to try very hard. He had found her most alluring, and had been an extremely willing and enthusiastic partner. And because for once she had not said the wrong thing and annoyed him, they had enjoyed a night of flawless lovemaking.

  If only she kept her mouth shut more often, things in general would be so much better between them. As it was, she forever made rather mean statements which, very simply, always got his goat.

  Edward stopped shaving for a moment, the razor hovering in mid air, as a sudden truth rushed at him. Elizabeth, intelligent and also clever in so many different ways, was actually dense. That’s it, he muttered under his breath, unexpectedly seeing his wife objectively, with great clarity. Certain things just didn’t penetrate her brain; she was insensitive to other people’s feelings, he realized.

  Sighing, he continued to shave, pondering Elizabeth. She was one of the most aggravating people he knew, and she was so inflammatory at times he became infuriated with her. But he would never leave her because he wanted a normal family life, and also there were the children. They had six now, and he loved them dearly and they needed him, needed both their parents, in fact.

  Also, to be scrupulously fair, his wife did have certain qualities and assets which were important to him. She was still sexually exciting to him even after eleven years of marriage; he was always drawn to her in the most sensual way. There was another thing – she didn’t mind having babies, even if she didn’t pay too much attention to them after they arrived.

  He paused again, staring at himself in the mirror, wondering if they had just made another baby last night. It wouldn’t upset her, and it certainly didn’t bother him, not in any way. Large families had been popular in the Victorian and Edwardian periods. And big families were still looked upon with great pleasure and pride.

  This aside, his wife was considered to be a world-class beauty, and indeed she was. She had enormous style in dressing, was chic, wore clothes well, carried herself with confidence and panache; he loved having her on his arm. She had also learned, much to her credit, how to run the Berkeley Square house. He did not worry about his house by the sea in Kent because Mrs Nettleton, the housekeeper, took care of it with efficiency, whilst his mother handled the running of Ravenscar with her usual skill, and enjoyed doing so. The estate itself now actually made money; she held the reins firmly, made sure th
at Alan Pettigrew, the steward, carried out all of her instructions exactly.

  Elizabeth, under his tutelage, was now a polished and charming hostess, but there was a downside. He now decided he must try to turn a blind eye to this if he could. She was argumentative, and managed to ruffle feathers very often; she said the wrong things to people who frequently took offence. He had tried to break her of this irritating habit without much success. ‘Her mouth’s always open and her foot’s always in it,’ Will was forever telling him, and this was the truth.

  Exciting though she was in bed, Elizabeth was, unfortunately, deadly dull out of it. Nor was she at all interested in any of the things which claimed his attention and were relaxing to him.

  Well, of course, he had Jane Shaw for companionship, enjoyed their shared interest in art, music and books. He focused on Jane for a moment; she was such a good person, and she was entirely happy with their relationship exactly the way it was. Marriage did not interest her. Not marriage to him or any other man. She had been married once, and that seemingly was enough for her. Certainly she had told him this many times.

  Will, his best friend and greatest confidante, constantly told him to accept his life as it was, had said only the other day, ‘Stop worrying so much about both women. You treat them extremely well, the same way you treat everyone in your family and your life well. You’ve nothing to chastise yourself about.’

  He hoped that was true.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Ah, there you are Ned, darling,’ Cecily Deravenel said, putting her cup down on the saucer. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning, Mama,’ he answered and smiled at her as he walked across the breakfast room. He stopped at her chair, kissed her cheek, and went on towards the sideboard.