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Chapter Sixty-Three (#)
EPILOGUE
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
BOOKS BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#litres_trial_promo)
Part One (#u1d994e54-7FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
The Deravenels (#u1d994e54-7FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Dangerous Triangle (#u1d994e54-7FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Edward was of a gentle nature and cheerful aspect: nevertheless should he assume an angry countenance he could appear very terrible to beholders. He was easy of access to his friends and to others, even the least notable.
Dominic Mancini
When the Plantagenets started to kill each other the downfall of the dynasty began.
London citizen: 15th century
Ah, me, I see the ruin of my House!
The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;
Insulting tyranny brings to jet
Upon the innocent and aweless throne:-
Welcome destruction, blood and massacre!
I see, as in a map, the end of all.
William Shakespeare:
Richard III,
Act II, Scene IV
ONE (#)
Yorkshire 1918
It was a compulsion, the way he came down to this stretch of beach whenever he returned to Ravenscar.
A compulsion indeed, but also an overwhelming need to recapture, in his mind’s eye, their faces … their faces not yet cold and waxen in death, but still warm. Neville, his mentor, his partner in so many schemes and adventures; Johnny, the beloved companion of his youth. He had loved them well and true, these Watkins brothers, these cousins of his who had been his allies.
At least until a mixture of hurt feelings, overweening ambition, flaring emotions and dangerous elements had intervened and prised them apart. They had become sworn enemies, much to Edward’s chagrin, a pain which had never ceased to trouble him. And now Johnny and Neville were dead.
Edward raised his head, looked up at the clear blue sky, blameless, without cloud, a sky that appeared so summer-like and benign on this icy Saturday morning in December. Unexpectedly, his eyes felt moist; he blinked back sudden, incipient tears, shook his head in bemusement, still disbelieving their tragic end, here on this bit of shingled beach at the edge of the harsh North Sea.
How unexpected, how sudden and abrupt it had been. Their motorcar had shot off the dangerous, winding cliff road, had plunged six hundred feet, rolling down the face of the cliffs, crashing onto the rocks below.
Neville and Johnny had been thrown out of the car onto the shingle, and had died instantly.
It had been a terrible and unnecessary accident, one which Edward knew had been caused by Neville’s festering anger, frustration and bad temper. His cousin had been furious with him, and had been driving far too fast, spurred on by raging emotions he could not always control.
If only Neville had been handling the Daimler in a normal way, he and Johnny would be alive today, and perhaps they would have been able to reconcile their differences, end their quarrel, come to some sort of mutual rapprochement.
In a sudden flash of vivid memory, Edward saw Johnny standing before him … the serious Johnny, so sincere, so wise, full of the Watkins’s brilliance; then the happy-go-lucky Johnny, light-hearted and carefree, his handsome face full of laughter and the pure joy of simply being alive. Edward snapped his eyes shut, remembering so much from the past. Memories that haunted him rushed at him once more, overwhelming in their reality.
After a few minutes Edward opened his eyes, and placed his hand on his chest. He could not feel the medallion through the layers of heavy winter clothes, but it was there, lying against his skin … Johnny’s medallion.
Fourteen years ago, in 1904, Edward had presented a medallion of his own design to those men who had helped him in his fight to win back and take over the family business empire. The medallion was a badge of honour, in a sense, to mark their success. It was made of gold and bore the Deravenel family crest: an enamelled white rose on one side, the sun in splendour on the other, with the Deravenel motto Fidelity unto eternity embossed around the edge under the enamelled white rose.
Johnny apparently continued to wear his medallion despite the differences that had grown between them. This convinced Edward that Johnny Watkins had remained his faithful friend right to the very end, obviously a man torn between diverse family loyalties – torn between his influential older brother Neville, and Edward, his favourite first cousin.
It was his brother Richard who had discovered the medallion around Johnny’s neck after the car crash, when he had opened his cousin’s collar as he lay on the beach, the life seeping out of him.
Needing to determine Johnny’s true condition, Richard had loosened his tie, pulled open his shirt, and had instantly noticed the glint of gold on his neck.
On the night of the accident Richard had brought Johnny’s medallion to Edward, who had later removed his own identical medallion and fastened Johnny’s around his neck. And he had worn it ever since and would until the day he died.
The following morning Edward had given his own medallion to Richard, as a token of his love and regard for his youngest brother. Richard had been thrilled to accept it, understanding how meaningful it was.
Easter Saturday of 1914. That was the day they had died. So much had happened since then … the War had erupted a few months later, in August … friends and colleagues had been killed on the blood-sodden fields of France and Flanders … he and Elizabeth had had more children … the business had grown in importance … there had been deaths, births, marriages … Richard had been quietly married to Anne … the eternal cycle ever repeating itself.
Four years ago two men he had revered and loved had died on this beach where he now stood. Yet, to him it seemed as if it had happened only a mere few hours ago. He could not forget that fateful day, or expunge it from his mind.
The sound of a horse’s hooves thundering along the beach interrupted Edward’s melancholy reverie, and he turned his head, saw his youngest brother riding hell for leather down the beach.
Raising a gloved hand, Edward waved, stepped over to Hercules, his white stallion, and with lithe agility swung himself up into the saddle. Galloping forward, he rode to meet his brother.
As the two men drew closer and reined in their mounts, Edward knew at once that something was terribly wrong even before Richard uttered a word.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he demanded, staring hard, his bright blue eyes sweeping over the younger man’s face.
Richard, his voice tight with concern, said, ‘It’s Young Edward. Something’s wrong with him, Ned, and –’
‘Wrong? Do you mean he’s ill?’ Edward cut in peremptorily, instantly worried about his little son.
Richard nodded. ‘Elizabeth thinks it’s the influenza and she sent me to fetch you. Mother has already telephoned Dr. Leighton. She spoke to his housekeeper. Seemingly, he and his wife are house guests of the Dunbars. He’s staying at The Lodge for the weekend, and he’s on his way already. He won’t be long.’ As he finished speaking Richard saw that his brother had gone extremely white.
‘My God, the Spanish flu,’ Edward muttered. ‘It’s lethal, you know that. Some of my chaps at Deravenels have been felled by it. It’s certainly fortunate that Leighton is nearby.’ Alarm filled his eyes, and he shook his head. ‘Come on!’ He rode off down the beach, galloping at breakneck speed, heading for Ravenscar.
Richard followed hard on his heels, catching up, riding alongside his brother, never very far from his adored Ned when he needed him.
TWO (#)
Ravenscar stood high on the cliffs above the sea, which was glittering like polished steel in the brilliant light of mid-morning.
The house was built of mellowed, golden-hued stone, and was ancient, dated back to the sixteenth century and Tudor times. A pure Elizabethan house of fluid symmetry and perfect proportions, it had been home to the Deravenel family for centuries.
Built in 1578 by Edward’s ancestors to replace the ruined stronghold still perched on the promontory below, it was a house which Edward had loved since childhood. He genuinely appreciated its overall beauty, cherished it for the meaning it had held for those Deravenels who had gone before, and those who would follow, once he had departed this world.
Now as he rode around the circular courtyard at the front and went on towards the stable block, he paid no attention at all to the grandeur and elegance of this stately dwelling, did not even notice the many windows sparkling in the wintry sunshine or the façade of honey-coloured stone aglow in that dazzling light so peculiar to these northern climes. He held only one thought in his head: his son. His heir. Edward, his namesake, whom he loved with all his heart.
Edward needed to see him. The very thought that his son had contracted Spanish flu filled him with dread. It was a virulent killer, had gone from epidemic to pandemic since it had broken out in the summer. People in Europe, England, and America, in many other countries around the world, had been laid low, and thousands had died.
Finally trotting into the cobbled yard behind the house, Edward jumped off his stallion, glancing around as he did, looking for the stable lads. Not one of them was in sight. ‘Ernie! Jim!’ he called, ‘I’m back.’
Richard had followed him into the yard, and as he dismounted he said, ‘I’ll deal with the horses, Ned. Please go into the house, I know how anxious you are.’
Edward nodded and hurried off without another word.
Richard watched his brother stride towards the back door, anxiety ringing his face. People thought that Edward Deravenel held the world in his arms, and, in a sense, perhaps he did. Certainly he had everything any man of thirty-three could ever desire. Yet at this moment, Richard knew, his brother was truly vulnerable, filled with concern for his son. His great success, immense wealth and undeniable power could not buy the boy’s recovery. Only God, and a good doctor, could do that. Silently Richard prayed that his little nephew would be all right. He loved him like his own, just as he loved all of his brother’s children, most especially his niece Bess.
Taking the reins of the horses, he led them across the yard towards the stalls just as Ernie, one of the stable lads, suddenly appeared, looking worried.
‘I’ll tek ’em from yer, Mr Richard,’ the lad said, then added apologetically, ‘Sorry I weren’t out ’ere when yer got back. It was Minnie, Mr Richard, that there young filly. Right skittish, that she is.’
Richard nodded his understanding as he handed over the reins. ‘She has calmed down, has she?’
The lad said, ‘Yeah, but can yer ’ave a look at ’er, sir? Mebbe there’s summat really wrong. Yer knows wot, I think it’s ’er front foot.’ Orseshoe might be loose. Mebbe she’ll get real troublesome again.’
‘Yes, I’ll examine her foot, Ernie, but I must be rather quick about it.’
‘Nowt but a minute, Mr Richard, it’ll only tek a minute.’
When Edward had entered the house he had been struck by the overwhelming silence, and now, after throwing his outer jacket onto a bench in the gun room, he rushed down the corridor, frowning. Usually this part of the house was filled with constant sounds, familiar sounds … the clatter of pots and pans emanating from the kitchen, as well as cheerful laughter and the dominant tones of Cook giving orders to the kitchen maids. But unexpectedly there was not a single sound at this moment, and Edward was puzzled because it was not at all normal.
He paused when he reached the Long Hall, curious about the absence of Jessup. The butler was generally hovering around in this area, wanting to be of service, but he was nowhere in sight.
Edward shrugged, and had begun to walk towards the staircase when Jessup came hurrying out of the butler’s pantry, asking swiftly, ‘Do you need anything, Mr Deravenel?’
‘No, but thanks anyway, Jessup. I’m on my way upstairs to look in on Master Edward. Have you seen him this morning?’
‘Yes, I have, sir. A bit under the weather he is, poor little mite. But then he’s a strong young fellow, isn’t he, sir?’
‘Yes, indeed he is. Please bring the doctor up immediately when he arrives, Jessup, won’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, right away.’
With a slight nod Edward was gone, taking the stairs two at a time, heading for the nursery floor where the children spent most of their time. Striding rapidly down the corridor, he realized he could already hear the sound of his five-year-old son coughing before he even reached the bedroom, and he felt his chest tighten. He stood outside the door for a moment, filled with sudden apprehension, and took a deep breath to steady himself before going inside.
Elizabeth was leaning over their son, and she glanced around as Ned hurried to the bedside. ‘He’s feverish,’ she murmured, smoothing the boy’s red-gold hair away from his damp forehead, ‘and exhausted from this frightful coughing.’
Edward moved closer and squeezed her shoulder, wanting to reassure her. When he leaned over the child himself, he was shocked, disturbed when he saw his son’s appearance. The child looked as though he was burning up with fever and his blue eyes were glazed. Beads of sweat stood out on his face and Edward was more alarmed than ever, realizing that his son did not even recognize him.
He turned to his wife, asked quietly, ‘Don’t we have any cough medicine in the house? Surely there’s something? Somewhere?’
‘We gave it to him already, Ned, but I was afraid of giving him too much, over-dosing him. It is rather a strong syrup. Your mother then remembered the raspberry vinegar concoction she used to make for you and your brothers. She went downstairs to explain to Cook how to prepare it. She said she gave it to you when you were a child.’
‘That’s true. It’s made of raspberry vinegar, butter and sugar, all boiled, and like a lot of those old remedies from the past it seems to work very well.’
‘I hope so.’
Looking over at the bed, Edward remarked in a low voice, ‘I think he’d feel better propped up against the pillows, rather than lying flat. It might help him, ease the congestion in his chest, if he were sitting up.’
Without waiting for her response, Edward gently brought their child closer to him, wrapping his arms around him, and said to his wife, ‘Please move the pillows, Elizabeth, lean them against the headboard.’
She did so without a word; he placed the boy against them, kissed his forehead and straightened the bedclothes.
Edward looked towards the door as it opened to admit his mother, who was carrying a tray. Cecily Deravenel exclaimed, ‘I’m relieved you’re here, Ned,’ and immediately put the tray down on a chest of drawers. ‘I’m going to try and get him to take this syrup of mine. I also found another medicine downstairs that might be helpful as well.
It’s that Creopin mixture, for inhaling. I bought it in London recently.’
‘Is Creopin better than Friar’s Balsam, do you think, Mother?’
‘I’m not sure, Ned, we’ll ask the doctor when he gets here,’ Cecily replied, and began to attend to her grandson, spooning the raspberry mixture into his mouth.
After a moment, Edward touched Elizabeth’s arm and whispered, ‘Let’s go outside for a moment, darling.’ Taking her arm, he guided her to the door. Once they were in the corridor alone, he pulled her into his arms and held her close, stroking her hair. Against her cheek, he said, ‘Do try not to worry. We’ll get him well, Elizabeth, I promise.’
‘Do you promise me that, Ned?’
‘Oh, I do, Elizabeth, I do promise you he’ll soon be as right as rain.’
Elizabeth let her body relax against his, comforted by his presence, his warmth and his love. When it came to his children’s welfare she trusted him implicitly. Also, Ned’s self-assurance, his confidence in himself, his belief that he could control everyone and everything had always made her feel safe. Some thought these characteristics reflected his arrogance. She knew otherwise; and no one knew him better than she did.
THREE (#)
‘Mr Deravenel wishes me to take you upstairs straight away, sir,’ Jessup explained to the doctor, after putting his hat and coat in the hall cupboard. ‘If you’ll come this way, please.’
‘Thank you, Jessup,’ Peter Leighton answered, and followed swiftly on the heels of the butler, crossing the Long Hall to the grand staircase.
Before they had reached the nursery floor, Edward, who had heard their voices, was standing at the top of the stairs, impatiently waiting for them.
‘Good morning, Dr Leighton,’ he exclaimed at the sight of the doctor, and added, ‘Thank you, Jessup.’ With a brief nod Edward dismissed the butler, who hurried off down the stairs.
As the doctor stepped onto the landing, he thrust out his hand and shook Edward’s. ‘Good morning, Mr Deravenel. So, Young Edward’s poorly, is he?’
‘Yes. My wife thinks it’s Spanish flu. He’s got a fever, a hacking cough. Earlier, there were flecks of blood in his handkerchief, my wife tells me. As you can imagine, we’re extremely worried. I can only add that we are very glad you happen to be staying with the Dunbars this weekend, so close to us.’
