why your aunt Grace Rose is so involved with the house? You once told me she had given it to your father.’
‘That was my understanding.’ Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Maybe she just loves it because she grew up there, and lived there as an adult, and after her marriage to Charles Morran. Incidentally, Kat’s right. I think the property’s worth a small fortune.’
‘Do you plan to sell it?’ Robert asked.
‘I don’t know. I can’t very well live in all these houses, now, can I? Stonehurst Farm is beautiful. However, I’ve always loved Waverley Court the best, and it does happen to be closer to London. I can’t sell Ravenscar, you know. It’s entailed, and must pass to my heirs when I die.’
‘Hey, no talk of dying today! You and I have a lot of living to do yet, my girl!’
‘That’s true, we do, Robin. Together.’
He threw her a surreptitious look, but made no comment.
NINE
Grace Rose had always had a flair for clothes, an individual unique style of dressing, and on this Sunday afternoon she looked quite wonderful, Elizabeth thought. Her marvellous abundance of luxuriant silver hair was stylishly coiffed, she was well made-up, and her outfit truly caught one’s attention. She wore a loose, raglan-sleeved jacket of purple silk brocade with a purple silk camisole and matching silk trousers. Ropes of large amethyst and turquoise beads hung around her neck, and small amethyst studs were fastened to her ears.
As she sat sipping her tea and studying her, Elizabeth found it hard to believe Grace Rose was ninety-six. Her looks belied this, and so did her mental capacities. There were no signs of senility or dementia – in fact, just the opposite. Grace Rose had a keen mind, total comprehension, and her dry wit was still intact. It was true that Grace Rose was a very old lady, the same age as the century, but her spirit was forever young. Elizabeth was well aware her aunt kept herself constantly busy, continued to work for her favourite charities, handled many of her own business affairs and was well informed about everything going on around her.
Putting down her teacup, and leaning forward from the waist, Elizabeth said, ‘I’ve never seen you looking better, Aunt Grace Rose. You’re just beautiful.’
‘Thank you, and I might say the same about you, my dear. Those russet colours really suit you, Elizabeth. I think that outfit is by Hermès. I used to favour those colours myself a long time ago.’ Grace Rose paused, then asked, ‘I wonder if you would do me a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you mind calling me Grace Rose? The way you did when you were a child and a young woman. In the last year or so you’ve been adding aunt, and it does make me feel rather old.’
Elizabeth chuckled, answered emphatically, ‘Grace Rose it shall be!’
‘Thank you.’ Settling back against the needlepoint cushions on the sofa, Grace Rose focused on Elizabeth, studying her as she herself had just been studied. After a moment, she announced, ‘Never let them see you sweat.’
Taken aback by this Elizabeth gaped at her, not quite sure how to respond.
Grace Rose, who never missed a thing, was fully aware that she had succeeded in truly startling her great-niece, as she had fully intended to do, and she smiled inwardly. Then that smile surfaced, as she explained, ‘That’s what my father used to say to me … “Never let them see you sweat.” And he never did. And you won’t either, will you, Elizabeth? Tomorrow. At the board meeting.’
‘I certainly won’t,’ Elizabeth managed, aware that Grace Rose knew about the board meeting because she was a shareholder.
Grace Rose continued, ‘My father had another rule he lived by in business, and it was this: Never display weakness, never show face. He once told me that his cousin, Neville Watkins, had drilled this into him when he was starting out in business at the age of nineteen. Edward Deravenel made it his mantra, and so should you. It will serve you well.’
‘You’re right, it will, and as you know I’ve always admired my great-grandfather.’
Grace Rose gave Elizabeth a long thoughtful look, finally remarked, ‘Everyone fell under his spell. Fatal charm, that’s what he had. In abundance. And he was a loving, generous man, and dependable.’ A small sigh escaped her, then she straightened, and continued in a brisker tone, ‘We’re the last, you know, you and I. The last of the Deravenels.’
Elizabeth nodded, afraid to say one word, afraid to remind her great-aunt that she was also a Turner, not wishing to offend her.
It was as if Grace Rose had read her mind, when she went on swiftly, ‘Oh, I know, you’re a Turner. But your father Harry did not resemble them. And neither do you. His genes and yours come from Bess Deravenel, my half-sister and your paternal grandmother. She and I were both redheads like you, you know.’ Grace Rose patted her hair. ‘It’s silver now but it was once a shimmering red-gold.’
Turning slightly on the sofa, Grace Rose shuffled some folders and documents, which were sitting atop an occasional table standing next to her. She found what she was looking for … a silver-framed photograph. Handing it to Elizabeth, she explained, ‘This is Edward with your grandmother and me … that’s me on the left. It was taken in 1925, about a year before our father died.’
Elizabeth had not seen this photograph before, and she sat holding it in both hands, gazing at it for a moment. Her grandmother Bess and Grace Rose looked very much alike, and both young women bore a strong resemblance to Edward. They were very beautiful. She said, with a wide smile, ‘There’s certainly no doubt who fathered the two of you! Or from whence I come, either!’
Grace Rose smiled, looking pleased, and asked, ‘Could you put the photograph back, over there on the console table, please, Elizabeth. There’s a space where it usually stands.’
Elizabeth nodded and rose, walked across the room to the console table between the two tall windows, and put the frame in its given place, then returned to the seating area in front of the blazing fire, settled in the armchair.
The two women were sitting in the elegant drawing room of Grace Rose’s flat in Chester Street, in the heart of Belgravia. It was a spacious room, and Elizabeth had always thought it charmingly decorated, with its restful cream, pink and green colour scheme, lovely antiques and extraordinary art. Grace Rose had quite a special and unique collection, and Elizabeth had always admired the paintings on these walls and in the other rooms.
On various tables around the room, arranged in groups, were photographs of the entire Deravenel family, the Turners, and also of Grace Rose’s late husband, the famous actor Charles Morran. Vases of flowers abounded, and the warm air was redolent with their fragrances mingled in with the faint scent of the potpourri Grace Rose favoured, made by nuns in Florence, which she bought at the Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella.
Once Elizabeth had finished her tea she placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table, and broke the silence when she ventured, ‘Kat told me you needed to see me, Grace Rose.’ She gave her aunt a questioning look.
‘Yes, I do.’ Grace Rose focused her faded blue eyes on Elizabeth. ‘You’ve led an extreme life, and I suppose it will continue to be extreme, given the circumstances.’ A puzzled expression struck Elizabeth’s face and she responded, ‘I’m not sure I know what you
