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Loyaulté Me Lie, loyalty binds me: That was Richard’s adopted motto and he was ever faithful to it.
It was Richard they were talking about this morning, facing each other across Edward’s desk, in his office at Deravenels.
‘I never wanted to go into all the details,’ Edward explained, ‘about the house. Don’t you think it would look strange? What I mean is, don’t you think it could appear that I’m boasting about all the things I’ve done for him over the years? Signalling that he’s obligated to me, perhaps?’
‘He might think that, but frankly I rather doubt it,’ Will answered, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No, no, it won’t look that way at all. It’s ridiculous to even think that, Ned. And he should know. And once he understands everything, he won’t continue to harbour a grudge and think that you put George before him … that is, if he does think that.’
‘Actually, you’re quite right, Will. I’ll be frank with him.’
‘Would you like me to explain the way things are?’
Edward couldn’t help laughing. ‘You know, that had crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed the idea as being somewhat silly, since I haven’t done anything wrong, quite the contrary, in fact.’
Continuing to chuckle to himself, Edward Deravenel pushed himself to his feet, walked across the floor to one of the tall windows, glanced down at the Strand, thinking how congested with traffic it was today. But then it was the Wednesday before Christmas, and London was busier than ever. This was the first festive Christmas in four years, now that the War was finally over. People were determined to celebrate, to have a good time, to rejoice that peace had come at last.
Christmas for his family was going to be exceptionally quiet at Ravenscar, but he didn’t mind. He rather welcomed it, if the truth be known. He had cancelled all of the invitations which had been sent to friends, and everyone had understood his dilemma, understood that he was endeavouring to protect Young Edward. And them as well. Only George had been truculent, as usual. Quite vile, actually.
Turning around, Edward strolled back to the centre of the floor and stood there for a few seconds, a reflective expression settling on his handsome face.
Finally, glancing at Will, he said, very softly, ‘The upset this past weekend was really my mother’s fault, Will, in a sense. Her desire to unite the family does seem to cloud her normal good judgement. She simply can’t accept that Richard cannot stand George anymore, or that Elizabeth detests him because he and Neville Watkins were responsible for the ruination of her father and brother. She would rather see George burning in hell than entertain him at Ravenscar. Unfortunately, my mother appears to brush everything to one side, keeps harping on about forgiving and forgetting, letting bygones by bygones. Because we are a family.’ He shook his head sadly, and finished in a Cockney accent, ‘That ain’t the way it is, me old mate, now is it?’
‘No. And George has always been Elizabeth’s enemy since your marriage. He loathes her as much as she loathes him …’ Will’s voice trailed off. There was no point in reminding Edward that people disliked his wife. Very beautiful she might be, but she was not a very nice woman. Her ambition for her family knew no bounds. She had inveigled Edward into giving several of her brothers positions at Deravenels, and Anthony Wyland, her favourite, played a powerful role in the company these days. But this brother he liked, knew him to be a decent man, talented, and worthy of respect.
After a moment’s silence between them, Edward changed the subject, remarked in a more buoyant voice, ‘Jarvis Merson’s been in touch with me. Yesterday evening. He’s after us to start up again in Persia. Drilling for oil. In Southern Persia, to be exact. He wants us to buy another concession from the Shah. Because we’re doing so well in Louisiana, he thinks we should begin expanding, now that the war is over.’
Sitting down behind his desk, Edward continued, ‘It’s not the right time, I know that, Will. However, I have decided to create a company, so that we’re ready to go ahead when things are right in the world, once we have all recovered from this awful Spanish flu pandemic, and recouped from the War –’
‘I agree it’s too soon to think about oil in Persia,’ Will interjected, leaning forward intently. ‘There’s far too much turmoil everywhere. I’m convinced we have to sit it out for the whole of this coming year. First, let’s get through 1919, and then seriously consider drilling for oil in mid-1920. I believe that’s when we should take the plunge. Notbefore. I know you’ve always had an odd rather compelling belief in Jarvis, and so do I, actually. He’s proved himself a thousandfold with the creation of the Louisiana oil fields, so I don’t doubt that he’s probably right about Southern Persia. On the other hand, Ned, I’ve lately heard that some of the top brass at Standard Oil, and also Henri Deterding of Shell, don’t fancy Southern Persia at all, don’t believe there are any strikes to be made there. I do trust Deterding’s judgement – he’s a great oil man.’
‘I’ve heard the same stories. However, I do trust Jarvis’s nose for oil. He and his new partner, Herb Lipson, are an unbeatable team, in my opinion. Anyway, as I just said, I aim to start a new company. I want to be ready. I’m thinking of calling it Deravco. How does that sound to you?’
Will grinned. ‘Sounds like an oil company to me. And it’s short. And sweet, let’s hope.’
There was a sudden loud knock on the door; Edward glanced across the room and called, ‘Come in.’ He immediately jumped up, a wide smile flashing across his face when he saw his brother in the doorway.
‘There you are, Richard!’ he cried enthusiastically. Grabbing Richard by the shoulders, he smothered him in a bear hug. ‘Did you get my message about lunch?’
‘I did. That’s why I came down to your office, to find out what time you wish to leave,’ Richard answered.
‘Pick me up at twelve forty-five and we’ll walk across to the Savoy Hotel,’ Ned said.
When Richard and Will left his office, Edward sat for a few minutes, going through the papers on his desk. After perusing them conscientiously, and making notes on a pad, he sat back in the chair and stared out into the room.
His mind went to the oil business in Southern Persia, and he felt a little rush of genuine excitement. He had always believed that oil was the business of the future; he wanted Deravenels to own more than their stake in Louisiana, and Merson was just the man to make his dream come true. He had believed in Jarvis from the day he had met that bright if rather talkative young man. And he had been proven right in his assessment of him.
Yesterday, when he had been meeting with Alfredo Oliveri to talk about the marble quarries in Italy, Oliveri had suggested they look farther afield, perhaps investigate the quarries in Turkey.
Swivelling around in his chair, Edward gazed at the map which hung on the wall behind him. His father’s map of the world, with all its little numbers written in so neatly. There was Persia sitting right next to Turkey. Perhaps they could kill two birds with one stone. He and Oliveri could go to Turkey to see about marble and then move on to Persia to see about oil.
Not yet, of course. Alfredo had pointed that out most vociferously. Europe was still in upheaval and disarray, and it was not possible to pursue the idea of buying Turkish marble quarries until travelling became much easier. And, as he and Will had just agreed, the same reasoning applied to oil.
Just the prospect of these trips gave him a boost, helped to dispel some of the irritation he was feeling about his brother George.
Opening his engagement book, Edward looked at the notations he had made in them last week. Always methodical, he wrote in his lunch date with Richard, and then frowned. He had arranged to see Jane tonight. For dinner. And he still had to buy a gift for her.
Today was the eighteenth, exactly one week from Christmas Day, and on Friday afternoon he was taking the train back to York and then driving out to Ravenscar. Tomorrow he had the private luncheon for his close friends in the company, a lunch he always gave across the street at Rules. Tomorrow night he was dining with Vicky and Stephen Firth. He had already bought their Christmas gifts, and also one for Grace Rose.
His lovely Grace Rose, growing more like him than ever, and already almost eighteen. Eighteen, he muttered under his breath, and he wondered where all the years had gone.
Because of his plans for the rest of the week, he had no alternative but to find a present for Jane today. After his lunch with Richard he would go to one of the fine jewellers. She loved emeralds, and that was what he would get her … emerald earrings or an emerald brooch.
As he flipped through the pages of his engagement book, Edward suddenly realized with a sense of dismay that he would be in Yorkshire for almost ten days. Ten days. Rather a long time to be ensconced with Elizabeth. Perhaps there was a way he could rectify that. Just as he had managed to rectify the problem of George and the private luncheon tomorrow. He had not wanted him to come. Once he had cancelled the invitation for George and his family to visit Ravenscar for Christmas because of Young Edward’s illness, George had behaved in his usual spoilt way. He had thrown a tantrum. To quiet George down, placate him, he had suggested that his brother should go to Scotland to represent him at a business meeting.
Edward smiled to himself, a smile that also held a hint of smugness. The ploy had worked. George had jumped at the chance to wheel and deal with the Scottish tycoon, Ian MacDonald. Good riddance, he thought, rather pleased with himself, and then got up, went to the cupboard on the other side of the room. Opening the double doors, he stepped inside and began to turn the dial of his safe, until it finally clicked open. Taking out a slim folder of papers, he closed the safe door and locked it.
A clean slate next year, he reminded himself. I want a clean slate next year. I’ve a lot of changes to make.
Richard and Edward sat opposite each other in the handsomely decorated Grill Room of the Savoy Hotel. After toasting each other with their flutes of Krug champagne, they had looked at the menus and ordered.
They had both chosen Colchester oysters, to be followed by steak-and-kidney pie, having similar tastes in food, as well as in other things. They shared a love of fine clothing, although Richard was much more conservative than his brother.
They enjoyed talking about books, English politics, and the coverage given to world events by the daily newspapers. They saw eye-to-eye on almost everything, because Edward had raised Richard after their father had been murdered in Italy, and he had imbued in the younger boy a love of justice and fair play.
Like Edward, Richard was a compassionate man who understood the pain and suffering of others, and was empathetic to their plight. Ned had favoured Richard since his childhood, spoilt him, made him feel special, and he had protected him in every way. And so naturally he was Edward’s loyal ally, and defender, whenever that was necessary. Richard admired Ned, adored him.
The two brothers settled back in their chairs and sipped this finest and most expensive of all French champagnes. After a moment or two of silence, Edward leaned forward. ‘Look, Dick, there’s something I want to tell –’
Interrupting him swiftly, Richard exclaimed, ‘Before you say anything, I must apologize, Ned. I was wrong to quarrel with you about George, last Saturday. I’ve no excuse really, except to say that I let my hurt feelings get the better of me. I’m so very sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to apologize for, Little Fish,’ Edward murmured, affection ringing his face.
The use of this pet name from his childhood brought a smile to Richard’s mouth, and he suddenly began to laugh. ‘I’m a bit too old to be called Little Fish, don’t you think, Ned?’
His brother joined in his laughter, then answered, ‘No, because you’re only twenty-two, my boy. However, it was my fault, truly. I should have put my foot down when Mother asked me to permit him to come, after he had actually invited himself. I was indulging her need to bring harmony to the family.’
‘I know. And I promise I will be quite still tomorrow at the luncheon … I won’t say a word.’
‘George is not coming to the luncheon.’
‘Why not?’ Richard sounded and looked surprised.
‘He’s going away this afternoon. In fact, as we speak he’s boarding the train. He’s on his way to Scotland.’
‘Why?’
‘I asked him to represent me at the meeting in Edinburgh which I had set up for this coming Friday. With Ian MacDonald, regarding his liquor empire. As you know, Ian has no heirs, and he approached me about a takeover some time ago. I’d actually made a firm date with him but cancelled two days ago, on Monday. I used the excuse of Young Edward’s illness, not wanting to be away from him, etcetera, etcetera. I proposed George as my stand-in. Ian was a bit disappointed at first, but in the end he was all right with it. After all, George is a Deravenel.’
He doesn’t always behave like one, Richard thought, although he did not voice this, remained silent, listening carefully to Edward.
‘I then had a word with George –’ Edward went on.
‘And he agreed? Just like that?’ Richard interrupted snapping his fingers together, giving his brother a doubtful look.
‘He did,’ Edward answered. ‘Because I offered him an inducement that truly appealed to him. Actually, the offer was one George genuinely could not refuse.’
‘And what was it?’
‘Money. George’s favourite commodity. I said he would earn a large bonus from the company if he managed to make the deal with Ian MacDonald, a deal which has to favour Deravenels.’
‘And so you really want the MacDonald liquor business?’ Richard sat back.
Edward shrugged, and there was a moment’s pause before he replied, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I do.’
‘George could easily blow it, you know, if he mishandles the situation. He can be extremely volatile in negotiations.’
‘I know that, and if he does, he does. As far as I’m concerned, the deal can go either way and I won’t lose any sleep over it. Or the final outcome. The main thing is that I’ve got George out of my hair for the rest of this week, and also for Christmas.’
‘What do you mean by for Christmas?’ Richard asked, his voice puzzled.
‘Ian had invited me to stay on in Scotland for Christmas. He wanted me to take the family up to his country estate for the holidays. I’d refused politely, because I had invited a number of people to join us at Ravenscar. Then, when I spoke to Ian on Monday I asked him if he would invite George and his family, because I had had to cancel the Christmas festivities due to Young Edward’s illness.’
‘And MacDonald agreed?’
‘He did indeed. He is widowed, and his only child, his daughter, has three little girls … I think when he invited my lot he was hoping to create a happy holiday atmosphere at his house in the Lammermuir Hills. So yes, he welcomed the idea of George and his family. I can be very persuasive.’
‘We all know that, Ned.’ Richard hesitated, opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped abruptly.
Edward looked at him alertly, and asked, ‘What is it?’
‘I was going to say once again that you are putting the deal at risk.’
‘I’m fully aware of that.’ A smile spread across Edward’s face and he added, ‘The deal is not particularly crucial to Deravenels, Dick. I wouldn’t mind having Ian’s liquor company, because it flows beautifully into our wine business. However, the main consideration was to remove George for the moment.’
Richard nodded, and looked off into the distance for a split second before saying, sotto voce, ‘George has not gone off to Scotland so happily just because you’ve promised him a large bonus. He’s a glutton for power, and you’ve just given him a big dose of it … by making him your representative.’
‘Good point, Richard. But let’s move on, shall we? As I mentioned earlier, I’ve something to tell you – I’d like to be done with it before lunch is served, if you don’t mind.’
Richard merely nodded, wondering what was coming next.
‘Two years ago, after you and Anne were married, Nan Watkins gave you a gift. Am I not correct?’
‘You’re talking about the deeds to Neville’s house in Chelsea, aren’t you?’
‘It was never Neville’s house, Richard. It was always Nan’s house. Oh, he bought it right enough, and with his own money, but he actually bought it for Nan. He gifted it to her immediately, and the deeds are in her name, not his.’ When Richard didn’t speak, Ned asked, ‘Well, they are because I saw them myself. Nan showed them to me.’
Richard sighed. ‘Nan gave the deeds to Anne, and she merely glanced at them, and showed me Nan’s letter. Then she put the deeds away.’
‘So you never saw them?’
‘No. Why? Does it matter? After all, Nan gave us the house.’
‘No, she didn’t, Richard. I gave you the house.’
Startled, Richard exclaimed, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just before you were married, actually quite a few months before, I went to see Nan Watkins. I told her I wanted to purchase the Chelsea house from her because I wanted to give it to you and Anne. At first she didn’t want to sell. She had actually had the same idea, and was going to give it to you both as a wedding present. However, I pointed out one thing to her, and it was this – that George, being the way he is, so dreadfully greedy, might object if she gave the house to you and Anne. I mentioned that he might actually try to get it away from you, by reminding her that Isabel and Anne are the joint heirs to Neville’s estate after her death. And, there-fore, Isabel was part owner of the house by rights.’
‘You’re correct, Ned! He could have done that! He’s certainly capable of it, devious enough. And avaricious, as you say. So how did you persuade her to sell it to you?’ Richard asked swiftly, filled with curiosity.
‘I managed to convince Nan. As I reminded her, my knowledge of George is far greater than anyone else’s in this entire world. I also explained that I would buy the house for you and Anne, so that George could never get his hands on it, and that she could still give it to you, as if it were her present to you both.’
‘That was a nice gesture, Ned, and obviously she accepted. But I wonder why? Why didn’t she tell us the truth at the time? That would have been more honest, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid I’m guilty again. I convinced her to say she was giving you the house, and to hand you the deeds Neville had presented to her years ago, so that everything would appear quite normal to you. And, of course, to George. In order to completely forestall George, in case he tried to make any trouble for you and Anne later, I had Nan’s solicitors and mine draw up additional documents – a bill of sale, new deeds in my name, and a third legal document which gifts the house to you outright.’
‘Do you mean you have given it to us, Anne and me, or actually to me?’
‘Only to you, Richard. I couldn’t take any chances. I didn’t want Anne’s name on any legal documents. In other words, I bought the house from Nan Watkins, and then, as the new legal owner, I gave it to a third party. All very legal. Essentially, what it did do was cut Anne and Isabel out, because I had bought it from their mother, who had every right to sell, because it was hers, not part of Neville’s estate.’
For a moment Richard sat there in silence, looking slightly stunned.
Smiling, Edward took the thin folder he had removed from the safe, and handed it to Richard. ‘Here are the deeds to your house. They would have always been secure with me, but I decided you ought to have them. After all, the house is yours.’
‘You didn’t give them to me before because you were protecting Nan, weren’t you?’
‘I suppose so … I didn’t want to take the credit away from her. In a sense, she was only the innocent bystander, and she had wanted to give you the house anyway.’
Richard had taken the folder and he held it tightly for a moment, looking at it. But he did not open it. He put it on the floor next to his chair and then sat gazing at his brother, at a loss for words. Finally, he said softly, ‘Thank you, Ned. You’re the best brother any man could have.’
‘And so are you, Little Fish: well trusted and well loved.’
SIX (#)
Jane Shaw sat at her dressing table in the bedroom of her charming house in Hyde Park Gardens.
Leaning forward, she peered at herself in the antique Victorian mirror, brought a hand to her face, touching the fine wrinkles around her eyes with one finger. Crow’s feet they were called. What an ugly name, she thought and sighed. There were also tiny lines above her top lip, hardly visible, but they were there, much to her dismay. And the lip rouge ran into those lines sometimes, she had begun to notice. Her jaw was not as taut as it had once been either, and she knew her neck had begun to sag, only slightly, but, nonetheless, this was visible.
Sitting back in the chair, trying to relax, Jane looked at herself again in a more objective way, and at once she was reassured that she was still a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was, very simply, growing older.
Ten years.
Not many years … not really. In 1907 ten years had not seemed much at all. Even in 1910 they were still a mere nothing in her mind. But today, in December of 1918, those ten years had assumed enormous proportions all of a sudden.
She was now forty-three.
Edward Deravenel was thirty-three.
She was ten years older than he was, and whilst this had not seemed too big an age difference between them before, it did now … because it was beginning to show.
