The Ravenscar Dynasty (3 page)

‘There you are, darling!' Cecily exclaimed, rising, moving towards her daughter Margaret. ‘I was just wondering where you were and Ned said you'd probably gone to look in those old trunks.'

‘Yes, I did, Mama,' Meg answered, gliding into the room; she was as graceful as her mother, and she looked pretty this morning in a red wool dress, black stockings and black shoes.

Cecily knew Meg was blossoming into a very pretty girl indeed, and smiling at her youngest daughter, she murmured, ‘You didn't mention that Lady Jameson is giving a spring ball for Lillian's birthday.'

‘It's not actually definite yet, Mother. The invitations haven't gone out. And they won't for weeks and weeks. If it happens at all. Well, you see…Lillian is
hoping
, and so am I. It might be rather fun, don't you think? However, her mother hasn't actually said yes.'

‘Are boys going to be invited?' George asked, sitting up straighter, staring at her intently.

Meg laughed. ‘You're incorrigible, George, truly incorrigible. Imagine
you
thinking
you
could be invited.'

‘Why not? I'm a Deravenel. We're invited everywhere.'

‘The likes of Papa, not you,' Meg said with cool authority. ‘You're too young to go to cotillions, dances, that sort of thing.'

‘No, I'm not, am I, Mother?' He gave her an appealing look.

‘Well, George, perhaps…at this moment, let's say. By the spring you'll certainly be a little older,' Cecily replied quietly, wanting to mollify him.

‘There, you see, Margaret! Our mother says because I'll be older by spring I could go. I'll think about it, and maybe I will come after all…I shall give it considered thought, as Papa always says.'

Edward chuckled. ‘I hope you'll ensure I get an invitation, Meg,' he teased, winking at his sister, wanting to make light of all this, since George looked sulky.

She laughed and nodded. ‘Of course I will. And if you come you'll be the envy of every other man there.'

He looked surprised. ‘Why?'

‘Because all the young women will be falling at your feet,' George announced. ‘Everybody says you're a ladykiller.'

‘That's enough, George,' Cecily cut in, although she spoke mildly. ‘None of that type of vulgarity here, if you please.' Turning to Meg, she asked, ‘Well, did you find anything interesting in the trunks?'

‘Oh, yes, Mama, I
did
: some wonderful frocks, all beautifully packed away in cotton bags. They're like new. Will you come and look?'

‘I'll be happy to,' Cecily answered, taking her daughter's arm. Laughing, the two of them went out together.

The attics at Ravenscar were large, and ran the entire length of the house, under the eaves. Since she was such a stickler for cleanliness and perfect order, Cecily had them cleaned and dusted once a month. Because of this, it was easy to find everything, and her neatness and talent for organization meant easy access to the chests, boxes and trunks which were stacked there.

Earlier, Meg had taken out several gowns, and laid them across a sofa which had been covered in a dustcloth. The gowns were made of silk, a light featherweight silk, since they had been designed to wear over bouffant underskirts, or hoop skirts, which had been so prevalent in the middle of the Victorian era.

Meg ran over to the sofa and picked up one made
of pale green silk and held it against her. ‘I thought this colour would suit me. What do you think, Mama?'

Cecily stood facing her daughter, studying her for a moment. Then she nodded her head. ‘I must agree with you, it's a pretty colour and perfect for you. I am sure we can have several of them remodelled to fit you. Madame Henrietta is such a good dressmaker, and innovative, she'll create more up-to-date designs.' Reaching for another gown, Cecily handed it to Margaret. ‘Let me see how this shade looks: it's such a lovely blue, it reminds me of cornflowers.'

‘And Ned's eyes,' Meg murmured as she took the dress, held it in front of her.

‘Ah, yes, that is true,' Cecily acknowledged, Ned's eyes indeed. They were close, Edward and Margaret, with only a few years difference in their ages. Meg, like Richard, adored her eldest brother. He could do no wrong as far as she was concerned, and for his part Ned was protective of her, had kept a watchful eye on her since childhood. In turn, it was Meg who took charge of her younger brothers when necessary, mothering them when Cecily was away, guiding them in so many different things.

‘The blue is enchanting,' Cecily now exclaimed, liking the way the colour enhanced Meg's grey eyes. ‘We shall take the green and blue to London with us next week, and before we leave do go through the other trunks. Perhaps you'll find several more which can be remade.'

‘Oh, how kind, Mama, thank you so much.' Margaret stepped closer to her mother and hugged her in a sudden show of affection, the silk frock crushed between them.

Cecily, who was not a particularly demonstrative
person, began to laugh. ‘It's my pleasure, but Margaret, my dear, you're ruining the dress.'

Meg let go of her mother at once, and shook the frock out. ‘I don't think any real harm has been done,' she murmured, scrutinizing it with some intensity.

With her head slightly tilted to one side, Cecily studied Margaret for a split second, realizing once again how pretty she had become, with her flowing fair hair and those large grey eyes, which were so beguiling. Instantly Cecily's thoughts turned to the girl's future, her marriage prospects. Meg would grow into a lovely young woman, that was clear. And she would definitely make just as good a marriage as Cecily's two eldest daughters Anne and Eliza had done.

‘I shall speak to Lady Jameson next week when we return to town, Meg, in an effort to ascertain what her plans actually are. It has suddenly occurred to me that perhaps your father and I should consider giving you a small afternoon tea dance later this year, to celebrate your fifteenth birthday.'

‘Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful!' Meg was startled by this suggestion, which was so unexpected, but the happy smile on her face revealed her genuine pleasure at the idea.

Cecily had also startled herself. She was not usually so spontaneous or impulsive, and normally spent days in deliberation about important things such as this. She wondered if she had made an error in bringing up the idea of a party for Meg, but immediately decided she could not backtrack now without upsetting her daughter. She would talk to Richard next week, but she was perfectly certain he would make no objection. He had
always been quite content to leave such matters to her…the raising of their children…the running of their homes.

Richard
. Such a good man. So devoted to his family, a wonderful father. The best husband any woman could ever have. She could not wait for him to come home. Her life was empty without him by her side, and lonely.

She hadn't really wanted him to go to Italy but he had felt obliged to do so. There was some sort of problem at the marble quarries they owned in Carrara, and as the assistant managing director of Deravenel and Company, he agreed with Henry Deravenel Grant, the chairman, that he was the best person to investigate the situation. And so off he had gone with Edmund, who had never been to Italy before and was genuinely excited about making the trip.

Her brother Rick and her nephew Thomas went along to keep her husband and son company; Richard and Rick had been extremely close friends for many years, enjoyed each other's company and travelling together. Also, Rick hoped to buy some paintings and sculpture in Florence; he was in the process of remodelling his town house in London and only the very best in art and artifacts would do. He was something of a connoisseur and had a great eye, and he had said to her only two weeks ago that the thought of Florence made his mouth water.

Rick and she had been close since childhood, and after their father's death it was Rick who had taken over the family business. If her father had been one of the greatest magnates in industry, then Rick had surpassed him a thousandfold; today he was one of the
richest men in the country, and because of his flair and genius in business her own inheritance had increased. This was a great relief to Cecily. Her husband was always at odds with Deravenels when it came to money, and it was a company that really belonged to him at that. At least he should have been running it, not Harry Grant. Like all the Lancashire Deravenel Grants, he was incompetent when it came to finance. As for Harry's French wife, Margot, she was a woman who was riddled with overriding ambition and greed who managed Harry like a puppet master and sought to run the company herself. She probably
is
running Deravenels, Cecily now thought, and more's the pity.

‘Shall we take the frocks downstairs, Mama?' Meg asked, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Oh, yes, of course, let us do that, my dear.' Cecily looked at her fob watch and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, it's almost time for lunch.' But as they went downstairs her mind went back to the Grants; they were never far from her thoughts. Henry Grant's father had always cut her husband out, cheated him, and the hatred had escalated over the years. Now, Margot Grant was making things even more intolerable. There was going to be another battle between Richard and Henry, of that she was convinced.

‘There's a sea fret coming up,' Richard said, swivelling around on the window seat in Edward's bedroom, and looking across at his brother. ‘I can't see any of the fishing cobles out there, Ned, it's thick like a fog.'

‘Well, it really is a fog in a sense,' Edward responded. ‘A fret usually comes up when cold winds blow in from the sea over the warmer land, in summer too, sometimes, as well as winter,' Edward explained, glancing up from the box of books he was packing. ‘And there wouldn't be any fishermen out this afternoon, you know. Tonight perhaps, if the fog lifts, Little Fish.'

Richard grinned. He loved this name Edward had given him years ago; sometimes Ned called him Tiddler, which also meant little fish, and this pleased him. Having nicknames bestowed by Edward made him feel very special indeed. ‘I'll be glad to go to London next week,' Richard said, introducing another subject. ‘Even though I have to work hard because Mr Pennington is coming back to be our tutor.'

Edward caught something odd in his voice, and
asked, ‘Don't you like it here at Ravenscar?' As he spoke he frowned and then gave Richard a piercing look. ‘Perhaps it's too cold for you here in winter, I realize that. On the other hand, I enjoyed winters at Ravenscar, when I was young. There's always so much to do.'

‘Yes. I love it here, Ned, but I like London because
you're
not so far away…I mean you're at Oxford and I get to see you more when I'm in London.'

Touched by his brother's expression of his love and his need, and pleased that he could articulate it so well, Edward put down the leather-bound book he was holding and walked across the bedroom, sat on the window seat next to the younger boy. Placing an arm around his narrow shoulders, giving him a quick hug, he said softly, ‘I'll miss you, too, old chap, very much. And you're quite correct, Oxford is much closer to London than it is to Yorkshire. And listen, I'll come to town often, so that we can spend some time together. Would you like that?'

Richard's young face filled with pleasure and his slate-grey eyes shone. ‘Do you promise me, Ned?'

‘I do, Dick, I do promise you.'

The eight-year-old visibly relaxed, his tense body growing slack as he leaned against Edward in a companionable way, fully at ease with him, as he had been since his toddler days. ‘Things are not the same when you're not at home…I do miss you so.'

‘I know how you feel, I miss you too, Tiddler, but I'm not all that far away. Perhaps I could write to you occasionally.'

‘Oh, Ned, would you? How wonderful to have a real letter from you every week.'

Edward began to chuckle. ‘I didn't say
every
week
. But look here, Dick, it's not as if you're a boy alone when I'm at university. Meg is around, and you have George. Also, Edmund will be at home with you.'

‘Yes, I know,' Richard answered in an uncertain voice. ‘I love Edmund, but he's so busy, and sometimes he seems a bit…impatient.'

‘I know he's a very busy fellow indeed.' Edward laughed, added, ‘Doing what I don't know. But George is all right with you, isn't he?'

‘Oh, yes.'

Glancing at him swiftly, Edward asked, ‘Does George bully you too much? Tell me the truth, I don't want you to lie to me.'

Richard stared at his brother askance, and exclaimed, ‘I never lie, and I wouldn't fib to
you
. George
doesn't
bully me.'

‘I'm glad to hear it, but I do recognize that at times he can become over-zealous, shall we say, about certain things.'

‘I can defend myself.' There was a sudden flash of pride, a defiant tilt to Richard's dark head.

‘I know you can. After all, I taught you.' Edward gave him a light punch on the arm and stood up. He glanced out of the window, noticed how the sea mist was now obscuring everything; even the battlements at the bottom of the garden far below had been obliterated this afternoon.

Turning, Ned strode across the floor, went back to
the table where the large box stood. He put in another volume and then checked it off on his list.

Richard, watching him from the distance of the window seat, asked, ‘Will Edmund go to Oxford one day?'

‘I expect so, and George, too, and you yourself, Dickie boy. When you're old enough. That's what Papa wants, that we all should be Oxford-educated. Does that suit? Would you like to go? To be an undergraduate?'

‘Oh, yes, I really would. Why does everyone call it the city of dreaming spires?'

‘Because there are so many churches and buildings with spires and they look beautiful in the light.'

‘It's very old, isn't it? Meg told me it was.'

‘It is indeed. Twelfth century.'

‘Can I come and visit you one day, Ned?
Please
. I would like to see everything at Oxford. Will you take me to see everything?'

‘Of course, old chap, and especially the Bodleian, that's
my
favourite.'

‘What is it, Ned, the Bodleian?'

‘A library, a very lovely and very ancient library.'

‘Oh, I'd love to see it! Meg told me that in the Civil War Oxford was the Royalist capital, and that it was
besieged
by Cromwell's parliamentarians, but it wasn't hurt by them.'

‘That's correct.' There was a knock on the door and Edward called, ‘Come in.'

The door opened and Jessup, the butler, entered, inclining his head. ‘Master Edward, please excuse me.'

‘Yes, Jessup?'

‘Your mother wishes to speak with you. She's awaiting you in the library.'

‘Thank you, Jessup. You may tell her I shall be down in a few minutes.'

‘Mrs Deravenel did ask me to say that it was a matter of some urgency, Master Edward.'

‘Very well. Then I shall come right away.'

The room wasn't quite right. There was something curiously
wrong
about it.

Edward stood in the doorway of the library, hesitating, not wishing to enter.

It was far too dark, darker than usual, and this was not normal. It wasn't like his mother not to have the electric lights blazing; she loved sunshine and brightness, which was why she had had the electricity installed in the first place.

Only two small lamps were turned on in the vast room, even though it was late afternoon and gloomy as dusk descended outside. The shadow-filled room seemed decidedly odd to him, off-kilter. Unexpectedly, he was filled with sudden unease, felt a sense of desolation, and even of foreboding enveloping him.

Opening the door wider, he finally went inside, peering ahead in the dim light. He could make out his mother standing next to a high-backed wingchair at the far end; behind her, wrapped in shadow, a figure lurked, stood staring out of the window, his back to the room. Edward couldn't discern who it was.

Slowly he approached his mother, his mind racing, every one of his senses alerted to trouble. Fear, he decided, fear is present here, and the hackles rose on
the back of his neck at this unexpected and irrational thought.

Taking a deep breath, he murmured, ‘You wanted to see me, Mother.'

She said nothing.

Stepping over to the fireplace, Edward switched on a lamp standing on a small occasional table, turned to his mother. He noticed how dark her eyes were and huge in her face, and how they were filled with apprehension.

Alarmed, he stared at her more intently, waiting. Now he realized her face was without expression, wiped blank, or so it seemed to him, and it looked as if it had been carved from stone. She was very pale, all the colour had drained away.

‘What has happened? What is it?' he pressed, his voice sharp, rising and filling with urgency.

A shudder rippled through her and Cecily reached out, gripped the back of the chair as if to steady herself, her knuckles gleaming whitely in the faint glow from the lamp.

Edward felt that fear spreading out from her, touching him, and he asked again, ‘
What's wrong?
'

In a rush of words she said in a low, tense voice, ‘It's your father…there's been an accident. A fire. Your father…and Edmund.' She stopped, choked up, finished bleakly, ‘They're both dead, Edward.' Her voice broke, but she somehow managed to keep a strong hold on her emotions. In a wavering voice, she managed to say, ‘My brother and your cousin Thomas…they, too, were killed in the fire.'

Stupefied, disbelieving, Edward gaped at her. He found it hard to take it in, couldn't quite comprehend
what she was saying. He was frozen to the spot where he stood, unable to move or speak.

The figure near the window turned around and walked forward. Immediately Edward realized it was his cousin Neville Watkins, eldest son of Rick and brother of young Thomas.

‘
I
brought the bad news, Ned,' Neville announced, his voice thick with emotion. The cousins clasped hands for a moment, and Neville exclaimed, ‘It was I who brought death and sorrow here!'

Edward shook his head vehemently. ‘No! It's just not possible,' he cried. ‘Not my father. Not Edmund. Not Uncle Rick and Tom. It simply can't be, not our family gone like that in the blink of an eye.'

Cecily's heart clenched at the sight of Edward's pale and stricken face, the tears welling in his eyes; his devastation was palpable to her. Although she shared his overwhelming pain and sorrow, his utter disbelief that this tragedy had occurred, at this moment she thought only of her son. ‘How can I comfort you?' she asked, shaking her head helplessly. Tears began to seep out of her eyes, slid down her cheeks unchecked.

Edward did not respond. He was rendered speechless by the news. She knew he was in shock just as she was herself.

It was then that Cecily Deravenel uttered the words Edward would never forget for the rest of his life. ‘Oh, Ned, Ned, has no one ever told you that life is catastrophic?'

For a long moment he was transfixed, staring at her, and then he swung around and rushed out of the library without saying a word. All he knew was that he had
to get away, escape this death-laden room. He had the desperate need to be alone in his terrible grief.

Edward half stumbled across the Long Hall, making for the double doors that led to the garden. Once he was outside he fled down the paved path, through the tiered gardens, past the lawns until he at last arrived at the ruined battlements of the old stronghold on the promontory at the edge of the cliffs.

The sea fret had lifted. It had begun to snow and the tiny crystalline flakes stuck to his face, his burnished hair. He barely noticed. He was oblivious to the weather in his anguish.

Ned stood in the small, round enclosure which had once been a watchtower looking out over the North Sea. He pressed his face against the cold stones, his mind in a turmoil. How could they be dead? His father, his brother, his uncle and his cousin. It didn't seem possible. And it certainly didn't make sense…how had they all died together? Where had they been? When had it happened? Tragedy had struck not once but four times.

Papa is dead. And Edmund. Only seventeen…my lovely brother, so special, so full of promise for the future. And Tom, cousin Tom, with whom he had grown up. And Uncle Rick, the only other senior member of their closely-knit families, whom everyone depended on. They had all been constant, loyal to each other.

Papa and Edmund
. Oh, God, no. His throat closed and tears flooded his eyes as grief finally engulfed him.

A bit later he heard a step on the cold stones, felt a warm cloak go over him, a comforting arm slip around his shoulders.

‘Weep, grieve, let it come out, Ned,' Neville Watkins murmured against his ear. ‘As I did last night.'

Within moments the two cousins went inside and stood conferring in the Long Hall. ‘When did you receive the news?' Edward asked. ‘And who was it that contacted you?'

‘Aubrey Masters from Deravenels,' Neville answered. ‘He telephoned me last night as soon as he heard what happened in Carrara. He thought it better that Aunt Cecily and you and the children were told in person by me, rather than receiving a telephone call from him or a telegram. Much too impersonal, he said. I told him he had done the right thing.' Neville's face was deathly white and taut as he continued, ‘However, I had to come to grips with my own grief and my mother's distress before coming over to Ravenscar. I left Ripon as soon as I was up to it today, and came by carriage this afternoon. I hope you don't think I delayed too long.'