The Ravenscar Dynasty (50 page)

Much later, after all of the wedding speeches had been made, and toasts drunk, the dancing began in the Great Hall. Many of the guests flocked inside, while others walked around the gardens, enjoying the beautiful evening.

It was then that Cecily Deravenel went in search of Vicky. She found her sitting at one end of the Great Hall with her husband Stephen.

‘Vicky darling, may I have a word with you?' Cecily asked as Vicky looked up and smiled as she approached.

‘But of course, Mrs Deravenel. Excuse me for a moment, Stephen.'

He had risen when Cecily had come to stop in front of them, and now he smiled at her. ‘It's a lovely day, isn't it, Mrs Deravenel?'

‘It is, Stephen, and a lovely wedding. I'm glad our families are joined.'

Taking hold of Vicky's arm, Cecily quickly led her to the far end of the Great Hall, and out into a courtyard that opened off it. ‘Vicky, I know everything,' Cecily began, wanting to get to the point at once. ‘Ned told me everything about Grace Rose. Just now, this afternoon.'

‘I always thought that you, more than anyone else, would notice the extraordinary resemblance between Ned and the child once you saw Grace Rose.'

‘I did. But I thought it might just be a coincidence.'

Vicky smiled, nodded. ‘Coincidence plays such an important part in our lives, doesn't it? And sometimes lives are built entirely on
ifs
…
If
Fenella hadn't opened Haddon House, Amos Finnister wouldn't have known where to take Grace…and
if
he hadn't worked for Neville he wouldn't have known
me
…and on and on, so many
ifs
in all of our lives.'

‘Yes, indeed, it's amazing at times. Could we go and find Grace Rose? I would love to look at her again, Vicky, just hold her…' Cecily's voice trailed off.

‘Yes, yes, let us go and find her!' Vicky exclaimed enthusiastically. Cecily Deravenel had had so many terrible things happen to her, so many losses in the last few years, Vicky wanted her to have a moment of joy now.

They hurried back to the centre of the Great Hall, where people were dancing. Music filled the air, and the sound of voices and of laughter swirled around them. The evening was just getting started. Supper would be served at eight.

Grace spotted Vicky first, and came running to her. The child's beautiful face was full of smiles. She came to a stop and said, ‘I've been dancing with Richard…he swirled me around and around, Mumma. It was fun.'

Vicky laughed. ‘You remember this lady, don't you, Grace? You met her earlier with Uncle Ned.'

Grace nodded, and offered Cecily Deravenel a small, shy smile.

Cecily bent down, took hold of Grace's hand. ‘I forgot to tell you something, Grace Rose…I am Uncle Ned's mother, and I want you to call me Aunt Cecily. Will you do that?'

The child nodded. ‘I love Uncle Ned! He's my friend.'

‘Can
I
be your friend?' Cecily asked.

‘Oh yes,' Grace Rose answered solemnly, staring at Cecily.

And then suddenly, much to Cecily's surprise, and Vicky's too, Grace moved closer to Cecily Deravenel, put her plump little arms around her neck and nuzzled Cecily's cheek, as if they were old friends.

Cecily held the little girl tightly in her arms, and thought: This is my grandchild, my first grandchild, and I can never claim her as mine. But I can surely love Grace Rose. I can surely do that.

Whenever she came to stay at Thorpe Manor, her nephew Neville and his wife Nan gave Cecily the room which had been hers when she was a child and a young woman, growing up here. This had been her father's favourite residence of all the houses he owned, perhaps because he himself had been born and grown up at the manor.

Philip Watkins had spent a great deal of time here in Ripon with his wife and children after he had inherited the manor from his father Edgar, who in turn had inherited it from
his
father; in fact, the house had been in the Watkins family for centuries, and they were the squires in this little village in the Dales.

Cecily loved this old place, with its well-proportioned, airy rooms filled with light from the many leaded windows, the highly-polished wood floors, the carved fireplaces, the funny little nooks and crannies, eccentricities so frequently found in Tudor architecture.

The reception room which Cecily liked the best was the Great Hall. Large and rather long, stretching almost the entire length of the house, it had a soaring brick
fireplace and a unique carved overmantle, a beamed ceiling and tall mullioned windows.

Now, as she sat in the window seat in her bedroom, Cecily's thoughts went back to the evening which had only just ended an hour ago…the dancing in the Great Hall, the elegant supper in the formal dining room, and the continuation of the dancing later. It had been an effortless evening, one full of music, merriment, and laughter, and Neville and Nan had been superb hosts. It seemed to Cecily that everyone had enjoyed themselves, and guests had stayed late.

Leaning her dark head against the window, she gazed out at the gardens. There was a large full moon tonight, a June moon, and its radiant silvery light gave the garden a magical look.

She sighed to herself. How often she had sat here as a young girl, dreaming of romance and marriage, of starting a family of her own. So long ago, at least so it seemed to her now.

Thoughts of her husband crept into her mind, but she instantly pushed them away. She could not bear that particular pain tonight, the pain of his loss, and the loss of her son Edmund, her brother Rick and her nephew Thomas…the bride's young brother…all should have been here today…

Cecily, always self-contained and protective of herself, allowed these unhappy thoughts to slide away, fully aware of her responsibilities. There were still two young sons to take care of, George and Richard, and Meg, her darling Meg, eighteen now and beautiful.

She smiled as she thought of Meg as she was a few hours ago. How lovely she had looked, how happy she
had been, dancing mostly with Edward. He had captured her for many dances, and the eighteen-year-old had been in her element with her brother, whirling around the Great Hall, light as air, her eyes sparkling.

Edward
. The story of Grace Rose had captivated her; she had been fascinated, touched and appalled, all at the same time. Of course Edward had always been impulsive, yet also loyal to family and friends, caring of them, and brilliant in so many different ways. But impulsive, yes. And easily tempted by women. Women threw themselves at him shamelessly. They had done so even when he was only twelve and thirteen. She had noticed it, as had his father; they had endeavoured to ignore it. Too much temptation had always been put in Ned's way.

Well, Tabitha had enticed him into her arms when he was thirteen, although, in fairness, Cecily believed Tabitha James had not known his true age. He was a strapping young man, very tall even then, and he had looked so much older. To impregnate a woman at fourteen, to become a father at fifteen, simply stunned her.

Cecily started to chuckle quietly all of a sudden, shaking her head, thinking what a product of the Victorian Age
she
must be…Centuries ago, young women had given birth at twelve, and boys of fourteen and fifteen had been fathers. But we don't live in medieval times anymore, she told herself reprovingly.

No matter what, Grace Rose was always going to be loved and looked after, and protected. Vicky and Stephen would not fail to do that, and Ned would always be there for his daughter. He was already there for her. Just as she was herself. Grace Rose had suffered;
however, the child would never suffer again, if she had anything to do with it.

Cecily turned her face to the window, once more looked down into the gardens, continuing to think of Ned. Observing him surreptitiously tonight, at moments when he was occupied with family and friends, she noticed that he appeared troubled. Despite the gaiety, the frivolity, the
bonhomie
that flowed from him, his bright blue eyes had been shadowed, dulled. She suspected that there was something wrong, something amiss in his life.

Trouble with women, she decided. That had to be what it was. She left the windowseat and climbed into the four-poster bed. On the other hand, he usually threw off trouble with women; they were just part of his everyday life. What occupied Ned the most, and engaged him totally, was Deravenels. And the running of the company he had inherited.
Was there a problem with Neville
? Ned had made a few curious remarks earlier this evening which had seemed oddly sarcastic, now that she focused on them.

She lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of her father Philip Watkins. He had been one of the greatest industrialists of the Victorian Age, a man who had made an immense fortune before he was twenty-five. Everything he touched had turned to gold. Tonight Ned had made mention of this, remarking to her that the Watkins family would have been nothing without her father and grandfather, Edgar, who had spun gold from the grim Northern pits, mills and factories of Victorian England.

Had her son meant that her brother Rick and his son Neville would not have been successful on their own? That their background and the family money they
had inherited had eased their way. Of course it had, no doubt about that. And yet the implication, somehow, was that Rick and Neville owed everything to their forebears and nothing to their own abilities. No, that's not true. My brother was brilliant, and so is Neville.

Neville
…Did he pull the strings? Was her son just a puppet? No, that could not be possible. Ned was made of stronger stuff than that. He had a backbone of steel. An iron will. And most importantly of all, perhaps,
total concentration
. That was the key to Edward Deravenel. His concentration, and his determination to win at all costs, no matter who stood in his way.

I mustn't worry about Ned, Cecily told herself, turning on her side, closing her eyes. My son knows what he is doing; he
will
be all right.

Edward sat in the Red Library, nursing a balloon of Napoleon brandy, staring into the dying embers of the fire. Even in June the nights were cool in Yorkshire, and the fires were always burning at Thorpe Manor just as they were at Ravenscar.

He had spent half an hour in here with Neville, after everyone had left, going over the details of the French deal. He'd had to muster up great enthusiasm, which he didn't truly feel, in order to delude Neville into thinking that he did indeed care. Fortunately, it hadn't been too difficult a task, and Neville had been very receptive.

Edward knew it was going to be rather strange at Deravenels for the next week or so. Alfredo Oliveri and Rob Aspen were still in Persia with the geologists, and they were now much closer to staking a claim for oil. Only the other day he had sent them a telegram giving them the authority to make a deal with the Shah of Persia for rights to a parcel of land that looked highly promising.

Will would also be away, on his honeymoon, touring
the South of France, visiting Cannes, Nice and Monte Carlo. And Neville's plans were taking him off to Paris. Even Johnny was to remain in the north this coming week, checking on their various holdings.

And so he would be all alone at Deravenels, minding the business by himself. He would miss Will Hasling, since they were enormously close, and the absence of his other colleagues would also leave a gap.

However, he would be busy. He did have a series of reports to read, written by a young oil-speculator from Texas. Jarvis Merson was a wildcatter, and had been introduced to Ned several weeks ago. Merson could teach him a great deal about oil. According to Merson. Maybe this was true, and he did need to know more, that was why he was gathering as much information as he could. Oil. He aimed to make it a big part of the future, the future of Deravenels.

He moved on in his head, suddenly starting to think of personal problems.

Elinor. She is my problem really. What to do about
her? She isn't well, I know that. That's why she hasn't
been up to town for several weeks. She did seem listless,
somewhat withdrawn, when I went to Devon, and
I begged her to tell me what was ailing her. She wouldn't.
The problem is I've lost interest in her, at least as a
lover. Can she sense that? Women are very intuitive.
I'm not a cruel man, and I must let her down lightly,
try not to hurt her too much. But I know myself, and
I'm not very clever at faking interest when it has fled
.

Then there is Elizabeth, the most beautiful woman
I have ever come across. Well, not quite. Lily was very
beautiful
.

He closed his eyes, thinking of his darling Lily, and then he fell down into his innermost thoughts once more.

There will never be a woman like Lily. I know that.
I must put her out of my mind. But she lingers there,
I'm afraid. Lily was not just beautiful, she was a good
woman. And how often do you find that? Not very
frequently, I'm certain
.

Elizabeth is a cracking beauty, but I think her character
is different, and her personality as well. She's not
like Lily at all; I have a feeling she can be tough, determined
to get her way. I think it's best I leave her to her
own devices at the moment. Nothing to be gained by
seeing her. Anyway, she's not in London; she has gone
to Gloucestershire for a holiday
.

I'm glad Will tipped me off about Neville's feelings
about the Wylands. They have always been chummy
with the Grants, but that doesn't mean they are beyond
the pale. Anyway, the matter won't arise
.

Neville has something up his sleeve. I just know it.
He is hugging a secret, one which brings a smile to his
face now and then. Perhaps he believes he is getting the
better of Charpentier in the deal. But I doubt that he
could. Louis is known to be a wily fox
.

Elinor. Elizabeth. Neither can hold a candle to Lily.
Poor Elinor. She had had such hopes for our relationship
…wanting it to continue forever. But I'm no
longer fascinated by her. Sadly. When she was married
to Angus Talbot I eyed her with lust, coveting her; as
a widow she has grown quickly stale…I mustn't be
unkind. I will send a letter and flowers next week. I
must try to cheer her up
.

He went to the console, lifted the bottle of Napoleon, poured it into the balloon, returned to the fireside.

Women. They are the bane of my existence. I couldn't
do without them, though. I suppose they are my weakness,
my drug. What a strong woman my mother is,
quite remarkable. I'm pleased she has taken the advent
of Grace Rose in our lives so well. I had a feeling all
this would happen, that I would have to tell her the
truth. I was certain she would spot Grace's resemblance
to me
.

I think about Tabitha a lot, wonder about her fate.
She was a sweet and lovely young woman and there
were times when I was convinced she was an aristocrat,
and I was right in that. I also wonder about the
rotter Cedric Crawford, the guards officer. An officer
and a gentleman, so they say. He is certainly not a
gentleman. Is he still alive? Did he simply do a moonlight
flit? If I ever come across him I shall give him the
thrashing of his life
.

The other day Will said that Grace Rose being on
the streets may have saved her from a terrible fate. Who
knows what Crawford might have done with her if she
had remained with him. Poor Tabitha…what a life
of tragedy hers was. At least the child has been saved.
My little Grace Rose. My daughter
.

I can do a lot for her. Apart from the money I earn
at Deravenels, there is the money I inherited from
Lily, all of it now well invested. Yes, I can and will
use some of that money for Grace Rose
…

‘Ned, could I talk to you for a moment?
Please
.'

His brother so startled him, Edward almost dropped his brandy. Sitting up in the chair, glancing over his
shoulder, he muttered, ‘Yes, of course you can, Little Fish. But don't creep up on me like that in future. You gave me quite a start.'

‘Oh, sorry,' Richard muttered, walking over to the other chair in front of the dying fire. ‘It's just that I'm a bit troubled by several things, and I thought I could discuss them with you.'

‘Come on, Dick lad, come and sit with me,' Ned said, smiling at the boy. ‘Would you like a drop of Napoleon?'

Richard began to laugh. ‘Mother would be furious with you if she knew you'd offered me brandy!
Alcohol
.'

Ned grinned at his favourite. ‘I didn't mean it, actually,' he admitted. ‘It was a slip of the tongue, I'm afraid. You sounded like such a young gentleman. However, I do hope you know I would not have poured even one drop for you.'

‘I do.' Richard now leaned forward and said, ‘I need to talk to you…about Anne Watkins.'

Nodding, Ned took a swallow of the brandy, and looked across at his brother with interest. ‘Go on, then, Dick, what about Anne?'

‘When I marry her will the marriage take place here or at Ravenscar?'

It took Edward a moment to answer this question. He tried hard to swallow the laughter rising in his throat, to disguise his amusement. Finally, keeping a straight face, he responded, ‘It isn't really very pressing at this moment, is it? Surely not? After all, you are only eleven, Richard. Let's talk about this nearer the wedding, in about ten years' time, shall we say?'

‘I actually need the matter settled now, Ned.
Please
.
I shall worry about it, and quite a lot otherwise.' Richard sounded taut, and his voice was insistent. ‘George says he won't allow me to marry Anne here at Thorpe Manor. When I told him it was the tradition that a bride was married from her home, he laughed in my face. I said it wasn't his house, it didn't belong to him, and he said that it would be his one day. He was adamant that we couldn't have the reception here either.' Richard stared at his adored brother, waiting.

Sudden annoyance rushed through Edward. George was becoming a persistent troublemaker these days, and his behaviour was worrying.

Keeping his irritation in check, Edward smiled, almost languidly, and then he laughed. ‘Oh Richard, my boy, don't pay any attention to George. I do believe he is suffering from delusions…empty dreams of glory. His own. Naturally you will marry Anne here at Thorpe Manor—her father does own this house, you know. Actually, it's been in their family for hundreds of years. It will never belong to George. However, as I said, you won't be marrying Anne for a very long time, and perhaps you might even change your mind about her when you're older.'

Richard shook his head; those grey-blue eyes turned the colour of slate, and his narrow mouth tightened. ‘I will only ever marry Anne. And she will only ever marry me. If we don't marry each other, we won't marry at all.'

Edward smiled indulgently. ‘Do you want some lemonade? There is some in a jug over there.'

‘No, thank you, Ned, and thank you for telling me
the truth. May I have your permission to relay your words to George?'

‘If you want to,' Ned answered, smiling at Richard's attempts to sound very grown up. ‘You said you had several matters to discuss.'

‘Oh yes, the other one is rather…well, it's not nice. I mean, what George said…about
you
, Ned.'

Edward rose, walked to the fireplace, stood with his back to it, regarding the youngster. Before Richard said another word he knew what scurrilous things George had probably passed around today. Ned had much insight into people, and particularly his brother George. For years he had acknowledged George's jealousy and envy. George wanted it all.

‘I'm waiting,' Edward said, his cornflower blue eyes resting on Richard.

‘When George saw Grace Rose at the wedding he said she was your illegitimate daughter, and that this was obvious because she looked so much like you. It was Meg who reminded him that Grace was the child of Vicky and Stephen Forth. He answered her by saying you had had an affair with her, I mean with Mrs Forth, but I know that's not true. And I said so to George. It isn't, is it?'

‘You are absolutely correct, Little Fish. I have never had an affair with Will's sister, Vicky Forth. That was a wretched thing for George to say, and it was very wrong of him to impugn the reputation of a respectable woman. I shall certainly have to reprimand him.'

‘How?'

‘I don't know yet. But I will think of something appropriate.'

‘When, Ned?'

‘Tomorrow, you can rest assured of that.' Edward wished he could tell Richard the truth; he detested lying to anyone, most especially his youngest brother, his favourite. But he did not dare speak out, for fear of hurting Vicky and Stephen. They saw the child as their own now, and there was also Grace Rose to consider. The less she knew about her past now, the better.

After a second, Edward cleared his throat and asked, ‘Who else did he tell, other than you and Meg?'

‘I'm not sure. He sort of whispered it to me and Meg. He didn't shout it out, the way he often does when he has something mean to say about…someone. You know he can be nasty about people.'

Ned nodded, and then he muttered, ‘Chinese whispers.'

‘What are they? Chinese whispers?' Richard looked perplexed.

‘Little tiny whispers…whispers that go from one person to the next, tiny, tiny whispers that become a crescendo, cause mountains of trouble. For everyone. Don't ever fall into that trap, Richard. Promise me you won't whisper behind people's backs, or gossip.'

‘I won't! I do promise you, Ned. You'll never hear Chinese whispers from me.'

‘I believe you, Little Fish.'

The two brothers continued to sit and talk for a while longer, Richard waiting for Ned to finish his brandy. They spoke of Will and Kathleen and their wedding, all the excitement and happiness of this special day. And then as the clock struck midnight Edward put down his
glass, and together he and Richard left the Red Library, crossed the Great Hall and went upstairs to bed.

Later, alone in his room, Ned thought about George for some time, and he knew, without a single doubt, that he would always have to watch his back where George was concerned. Over the years he had discovered his brother was a liar, treacherous, and therefore dangerous. One day George would do him ill, if he could. Edward realized that now.

There were moments when he missed Lily so acutely there was an ache inside him, a longing so overwhelming it brought him to a sudden standstill. He had to be alone when this happened, to draw on his inner resources, to steady himself. And he had to remind himself that his beautiful, soft, feminine Lily was dead. He could not win her back. How could he? Death was the most final thing on this earth.