‘Mother, I’ve no intention of becoming intimate with Edward Deravenel! How could you think such a thing?’ Elizabeth looked askance.
‘Because if I were your age I’d take him into my bed at the drop of a hat!’
‘Mother! Really.’
Jocelyn Wyland smiled. ‘I know I’m contradicting myself, but he is quite extraordinary, and, I will add, irresistible to most women. Why should you be any different?’
‘I’m not, and you’re correct, Mother, but I’m not a fool. I’m hardly going to sleep with him now, when I want to marry him. That’s my aim. Nothing less than marriage will do for me.’
Jocelyn beamed at her eldest daughter. ‘I’m delighted to know that you have the right attitude about this. After all, sex is sex and it can be most enjoyable. With the right man. But we are playing for bigger stakes here, Elizabeth. Let’s not forget you’re a widow with two young sons, and not much of an income from Simon’s estate. Your father and I will continue to support you in the way you should be supported. However, I have big hopes for you, dreams of a good marriage.’
‘I know that, Mother, and I won’t let you down. I know how to keep a check on…my emotions, my feelings.’
‘You’re a great beauty, and most men would do anything to possess you, my dear. But only the one who puts a wedding band on your left hand will do.’
Elizabeth nodded, stood up, walked across the small sitting room of her house in Cadogan Square, stood looking out into the leafy square, thinking of Edward Deravenel. She wanted him desperately. After a moment she said, ‘I haven’t seen him a lot, you know. Only twice…he came for tea.’
‘Hasn’t he invited you anywhere, darling?’ her mother asked, frowning slightly. ‘To the opera? A concert? Perhaps to dinner at the Ritz. That hotel’s the most popular place with the denizens of society since it opened last year.’
‘No, he hasn’t invited me out,’ Elizabeth said again.
‘How peculiar. So how has he behaved when he’s come for tea? What has he said? What happened?’
Elizabeth stared at her mother, frowning slightly, wondering whether to tell her the truth or not. Opting for the truth, she said quietly, ‘He’s talked to me affectionately, attempted to be amorous with me, kissed me on the cheek, the last time on the mouth, and he’s tried to touch me…But I fended him off.’
Jocelyn had always been able to talk openly with her eldest daughter, more so than with any of her other children, and now she dropped her voice, and asked, ‘Was he…anxious? Aroused?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Very much so, and the last time he was here he left in an angry mood, because he was…rampant, raging to possess me.’
‘His frustration at not having his way with you got the better of him.’
‘I think so. He said I was a temptress, in a very annoyed voice.’
Jocelyn burst out laughing. ‘Continue to tempt him, my darling, but don’t let him get anywhere near you. Instinctively, I know the likes of him…a man who can’t resist women soon moves on to fresher fields once he’s picked the flowers in the field he’s standing in.’
Elizabeth laughed at this analogy, then confessed, ‘I’m head over heels in love with him, Mother.’
‘Keep yourself in check, Elizabeth. Save that love for later, after he’s married you. Don’t give him what he wants until then. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I do. You have my promise.’
‘Has he made any attempt to see you again?’
‘He sent a note this morning.’ Elizabeth glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘He’s coming in a few hours…this evening. Between six and seven.’
‘Has he invited you out to dinner tonight?’
‘No, he said in the note that he would come for a drink.’
‘Perfect. And if he does want you to dine with him, say you cannot. I think I’d prefer you not to be seen in public with him at this moment. He’s the most eligible man in London, and I don’t want people to think he’s had his way with you and then dropped you…that is, if nothing comes of this…’
‘I understand.’
‘I trust you do, darling. Your future depends on your chastity.’
FORTY-EIGHT
Yorkshire
Thorpe Manor was one of the loveliest houses in Yorkshire. Beautifully proportioned, with a flowing front façade, many windows and two towers with cream domes and shining spires, it was a perfect example of late Elizabethan architecture. Built of local pale pink stone, the window and door surrounds were outlined in cream limestone, and the whole building was soft and gentle in all of its aspects.
The house was set in a vast parkland of sweeping green lawns and great spreading oak and sycamore trees, flower gardens, walled rose gardens, and several ornamental lakes. Swans floated on the surface of the lakes, and elegant peacocks strutted proudly on the terraces and lawns, colourful sentinels guarding this great manor house. It had been in the Watkins family for centuries, gifted to Neville by his father when he had married Nan. It had been their country home ever since.
Today the house was a hive of activity. The staff bustled everywhere; florists were filling urns and vases with roses and other flowers; chefs were preparing delicious food in the kitchen; caterers were arranging small gold chairs around the circular tables on the long terrace, straightening rose-pink organdie cloths.
In a few hours Kathleen Watkins, sister of Neville, would be married to Will Hasling in the private chapel on the estate. And afterwards the family and guests would mingle outside at the reception, a summer garden party. It was a glorious June Saturday, a perfect day for a wedding.
Will Hasling stood in his bedroom, staring at Edward worriedly. ‘Are you sure my cravat is correctly arranged?’ he asked. ‘Do I look all right, Ned?’
‘Never better, old chap. In fact, if I were a woman I’d marry you in a shot,’ Ned joked, grinning at his best friend.
‘Oh, do be serious!’ Will exclaimed, sounding impatient, shaking his head, looking exasperated.
‘All right, I’ll be serious. You’ve never looked better,’ Ned reassured him. ‘Tall, handsome, and Savile Row perfect down to the glassy toes of your shoes. Do stop being the proverbial nervous bridegroom, and stand still so that I can attach your boutonnière.’
Once the white rose was in place on Will’s jacket, Edward handed another white rose to him and said, ‘Now it’s your turn to fix mine.’ Both men were elegantly attired in morning suits—impeccably-tailored black frock coats, striped trousers and white waistcoats. Their cravats were of soft dove-grey silk, each held in place with a pearl stick pin.
Stepping away from Ned, Will eyed his friend, and joked, ‘And I would marry you at the drop of a hat, if I were a woman.’
The two friends laughed together, and then Ned said, ‘Do you feel a bit constrained? Having Neville in Paris when you’re on your honeymoon there?’
Will shrugged, looked unconcerned. ‘Not really. Actually, Kathleen and I will only be there for a couple of days before going on to the Côte d’Azur. Anyway, I doubt that we’ll see Neville. He’s going to be in meetings with Louis Charpentier on the few days he’s in Paris.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Actually, he’ll be finalizing the deal to take over the Charpentier silk mills in Lyons.’
Hearing the lack of interest in Edward’s voice, Will glanced at him swiftly. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘I’m not, I couldn’t care less, Will. I know Charpentier has a big business empire in France, and Neville craves it for us, but Deravenels is pretty solid these days. I don’t think we need the Charpentier French holdings, not really. I’m more interested in oil. I’m glad we sent that team of geologists to Persia with Oliveri and Aspen. I hope we can stake a claim out there, I really do. In fact, I’m becoming fanatical about it.’
‘You’ve always said oil is the future, and I agree. After the honeymoon maybe we ought to go out to Persia, Ned, take a look round, you and I.’
‘Maybe. A
lthough I have my hands full at the moment, as you well know. I have those Americans coming next month. They want to sell us their cotton plantations outright, and I’ve a mind to buy them out. It makes great sense to me.’
There was a light tap on the door, and Johnny Watkins walked in, looking as elegant as Ned and Will in his morning suit. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said to Ned, ‘and you have the tray of white roses, I see. I need one, old chap, and so do the other ushers. And Neville.’
‘There’s plenty here, and there’s even one for Richard, Johnny. I don’t want my Little Fish to feel left out.’
‘And George, what about him?’ Will asked, throwing Ned a cautionary look. We don’t want a temper tantrum today of all days.’
‘Only too true. There is a rose for George,’ Ned answered quietly. George could be troublesome these days; he worried Ned.
Ned attached the white rose to the lapel of Johnny’s jacket, and went on, ‘I hope you’re wearing your other white rose. You are, aren’t you?’
Johnny smiled at him, his light grey eyes sparkling. ‘I’ll never take it off, Ned. I told you, I’ll wear it ’til the day I die and even after.’ Picking up the small silver tray, Johnny now headed towards the bedroom door, explaining, ‘I must go downstairs and rally the troops, get them lined up.’
Will watched Johnny go, and then swinging to Ned he said in a low voice, ‘Has Johnny asked you about the blonde you spotted at Maude Tillotson’s dance?’
‘No. Why?’ Ned’s eyes narrowed slightly.
‘Because he did ask me, quite recently. He wanted to know if you’d found out who she was, and I actually lied to him, Ned.’ Will shook his head. ‘God knows why I did that…I just felt I’d better not say she was a Wyland. I know Neville has never liked them, always been suspicious of the family, because of their long-held friendship, and connection, to the Grants.’
‘Thanks for being protective of me, Will, I appreciate it. But actually I haven’t seen her again. I mean, after the last time I had drinks with her at her house. She wasn’t very…cooperative, shall we say? Not at all willing to share her favours with me, so I backed off. Too much trouble…a widow with two young sons.’
‘I’ll say!’
There was another tap on the door and Vicky looked in, smiling at Will and Ned. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch the bridegroom and his best man.’ As she spoke she came into the room, looking beautiful in a pale blue gown. She was a matron-of-honour with Fenella Fayne. ‘Let me correct myself, chaps. I volunteered, so I could give you both a kiss.’ She walked across to her brother, and added, ‘And I want to wish you much happiness, Will darling, and all the luck in the world.’
Like her brothers, Kathleen Watkins had a strong resemblance to her aunt, Cecily Deravenel. She was a lovely-looking young woman, with a cloud of russet-brown hair, large pellucid grey eyes and a slender, aristocratic face, finely boned.
As she walked down the aisle of the small chapel on the arm of her brother Neville, she felt as though her life was just beginning. She had been in love with Will for years, since she was sixteen, and now her dream was about to come true. When she left the chapel she would be his wife. She would belong to him, he to her. He would be her husband. Her happiness soared.
Will, waiting at the altar for Kathleen, thought she had never looked lovelier than she did today. As she walked towards him on her brother’s arm, all of his nervousness fled.
He suddenly felt utterly calm, confident. He knew he was doing the right thing, marrying this special young woman. He felt Ned squeeze his arm, looked at him quickly, and nodded. ‘I’m all right,’ Will whispered, answering the questioning look in Ned’s eyes.
As for Edward Deravenel, the best man, he was relaxed and at ease with himself. He was happy for Will, knowing how much his friend had wanted to be married. He was lucky he had found the right person, someone who loved him so much in return.
Here she came now, his cousin Kathleen, a vision in white satin and white lace. There was the glint of pearls and orange blossoms in the small coronet on her head, and the tulle veil itself was like a great cumulus cloud around her face, soft, enfolding. She carried a magnificent bouquet of white roses, freesias, gardenias and orchids, and as she drew closer he caught a fleeting whiff of their mingled perfumes.
Behind her came her two matrons-of-honour, Vicky and Fenella, and behind them the bridesmaids, his sister Margaret, Neville’s daughters Isabel and Anne, and lastly, the flower girl, Grace Rose. All of the attendants were wearing pale blue silk, and the little girls, in particular, looked adorable, Ned thought.
In the background the organ was being played, and a lone soprano voice suddenly rang out:
‘O perfect Love, all human thought transcending,
Lowly we kneel in prayer before thy throne,
That theirs may be the love which knows no ending,
Whom thou for evermore dost join in one.’
Neville and Kathleen finally came to a standstill in front of the altar. The organ music faded away, and the Watkins family priest was in place standing before the bride and Neville.
Ned felt around in his pocket for the wedding rings. They were there. Safe. He relaxed once more.
And the marriage ceremony began.
Satin and lace. Flower petals and confetti. Laughter and tears. Happiness and joy to overflowing. Champagne in crystal flutes. Sunlight shimmering. Shady seats under leafy trees. Music in the air. Mozart and Brahms. English country airs. Popular songs. Glamorous people. Beautiful clothes. Jewellery glittering.
People talking, laughing, moving…all around him. The garden party was a success, Ned already knew that. But he wanted to move away from the lawn, move up onto the terrace, to sit down, to reflect for a moment. His mind was so full…
He walked fast, moving through the crowd, climbing the broad stone steps to the smaller terrace, which had been decorated with comfortable white wicker chairs and loveseats. As he sank down into one of the chairs, he saw his mother coming towards the terrace, and he raised his hand, waved. A moment later, he noticed Vicky, holding Grace Rose’s hand, and they too were wandering across the lawn heading in his direction.
As his mother came up the steps, he stood, waiting for her, a wide smile on his face.
‘How beautiful Kathleen looked,’ Cecily said. ‘Such a lovely ceremony, Ned, wasn’t it?’
‘It was indeed, Mother.’
Suddenly Grace Rose was running towards them, and as she came to a standstill, Ned crouched down. ‘Hello, Grace Rose, you were the perfect bridesmaid,’ he murmured.
‘Was I really, Uncle Ned?’ she asked, smiling prettily.
‘Oh yes, indeed!’
Turning to Vicky, Grace cried, ‘Mumma, did you hear that? Hear what Uncle Ned said?’
‘I did, my darling. Now, come along, we must go inside for a moment.’ Vicky smiled at Cecily and said, ‘Hello, Mrs Deravenel, it’s such a happy day, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed, Vicky, my dear.’ Cecily glanced at the child. ‘And your name is Grace Rose, is it?’
‘Yes,’ Grace said, bobbing a small curtsy.
‘Well, hello, Grace Rose,’ Cecily murmured, and smiled.
‘Hello,’ Grace answered shyly, and then she put her hand in Vicky’s and the two of them left.
Cecily Deravenel watched them go into the house, and then she turned to Edward and asked, ‘Is that Vicky’s child, Ned? She called her Mumma.’
‘Thereby hangs a long tale,’ he answered. ‘Sit down, and I’ll tell you.’
After Edward recounted the story of how Amos had found Grace on the streets and brought her to Haddon House, he then told her about the birth certificate in the photograph frame.
Cecily sat up straighter in the wicker chair, and frowned. ‘So Vicky found out who the child’s parents were. How amazing!’
‘She discovered who the mother was. The father’s name was not on the birth certificate.’
‘Illegitimate. Grace Rose is illegitimate then.’
Cecily frowned. ‘And what did the note reveal, Ned?’
‘The name of the father.’
‘And who is the father?’
‘Actually, Mother, I am.’
FORTY-NINE
Cecily sat staring at him. She was perfectly still, her face devoid of all expression. And she did not say a word.
Finally, Edward spoke. ‘You don’t appear to be surprised, Mother.’
‘I am, then, yet again, I am not. The moment I set eyes on that child walking behind the bridesmaids down the aisle in the chapel, I was struck at once by her extraordinary resemblance to you. At that moment I didn’t actually know who she was. When I saw her with Vicky on the terrace, saw how you were so gentle and sweet with her, I assumed…’ Cecily sighed, shook her head. ‘Forgive me, Ned, but I thought you and Vicky had had an affair, and that Grace Rose was the result.’
‘Mother. How could you think such a thing? Vicky’s a married woman!’
‘When has that ever stopped you?’
‘My God!’ Ned shook his head. ‘I must have the most dreadful reputation.’
‘Well, I don’t know that I would use that word…from what I hear, most men envy you, and most women would…well, let’s leave it at that. The less said about women and their sex lives, the better.’
Edward couldn’t help chuckling. After a moment, he said, ‘There’s no one like you, Mama. No one at all.’
‘So who is, or was, the mother of Grace Rose? I’m assuming the child was correct when she said her mother was dead.’
‘She is dead, yes. At least so I believe. Fenella thinks so, too, but actually I’m jumping ahead. Let me explain something…Grace’s mother was Tabitha James. She was the wife of the choirmaster at a church in Scarborough. I met her when—’ Edward paused, compressed his mouth, then said vaguely, ‘when I was very young. We became…involved, but she was afraid we’d be caught out, and disappeared from my young life, but then I ran into her again one day. In Whitby. She was widowed by this time, and had gone to live there with her sister-in-law, her husband’s spinster sister. Toby James had left her…destitute.’
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 43