line. It all had to do with the rule of primogeniture and the eldest son and his descendants being the true inheritors.
Once again, this idea of Mary Turner’s had been swiftly killed. The board of Deravenels wanted nothing to do with Marie Stewart, whom they viewed as the enemy for a variety of reasons. And that would always be their stance.
And so at the very end her sister Mary had finally acknowledged her, although not actually by name. Something seemed to prevent Mary from doing that. But ten days ago she had sent a suitcase with one of her assistants. It contained Turner family jewels and a lot of keys, for bank vaults, safes, and various Turner homes.
Her wise Cecil had pointed out on that recent afternoon, ‘This is her way of acknowledging you, Elizabeth. She is going to fulfil your father’s Last Will and Testament in the end. You’ll see. Her actions are more important than any words she might utter.’
But why couldn’t her sister have said her name? Why couldn’t she have said my sister, my heir Elizabeth Turner? Why had she merely muttered something about Harry Turner’s rightful heir?
Because she hated you, Elizabeth now thought, and she couldn’t bear the idea that you were about to take her place.
Let it go, let it go, a small voice said inside her head, and she tried to push these thoughts away. What did it matter now? Mary Turner Alvarez was dead. She, Elizabeth Deravenel Turner, was alive and well and about to become managing director of Deravenels. It was all hers now: the company, the houses, the jewels, the power and the wealth. And she wanted it. Who wouldn’t want it? Also, it was hers by right. She was a Deravenel and a Turner through and through. She was Harry’s girl, and she looked exactly like him. Mary hadn’t resembled Harry at all. She had looked like her Spanish mother, but she had also been much smaller than Catherine – somewhat squat, and not half as pretty.
Moving across the floor of her bedroom, Elizabeth opened the cupboard door, pulled out the case Mary had sent and carried it over to the bed. She found the key for it in her desk drawer, opened the case and rummaged around, looking at some of the brown leather pouches which had engraved silver nameplates stitched on the front. One said Waverley Court, Kent, another Ravenscar, Yorkshire, a third, the Chelsea house, and all of them were full of keys. Then there were pouches pertaining to bank vaults at Coutts, the Westminster Bank, and Lloyds, and keys for those vaults.
Cecil had told her that these bank vaults contained Deravenel and Turner jewels, other valuables such as diamond tiaras, silver objects and tea services, canteens of silver, gold objects and ancient documents. He had pointed out that she would have to visit each bank vault when they returned to London, to check on everything as the new owner.
Placing the brown leather pouches to one side, Elizabeth smoothed her long fingers over several red leather boxes from Cartier, then opened them all. One contained a superb diamond necklace, the next a pair of extraordinary emerald-cut emerald earrings, and the last a huge sapphire-and-diamond pin. The jewellery was not only fabulous, but obviously from the 1930s, and suddenly she couldn’t help wondering which member of the family had bought such gems. And for whom. She also wondered if she would ever wear any of it. Perhaps not, but she would certainly wear the South Seas pearls she had examined with Cecil the other day.
Taking the pearls out of their black-velvet case, she held them up to the light. How lustrous they were … truly lovely. Yes, these she would wear.
After returning everything to the suitcase, she locked it and put it back in the cupboard to be dealt with later. There were more pressing things to do in the next few weeks. The bank vaults would have to wait, and so would the two houses, Waverley Court and the house in Chelsea, the house where Mary had lived for some years, and where she had died today. Later this week her sister would be buried in the family cemetery here, at Ravenscar, where all the Deravenels and Turners were buried. There was the funeral to think about and to be planned, people to be invited.
Elizabeth sat down at her desk, opened her diary and turned the pages, came to the page for today: Sunday, November seventeenth, 1996. At the top of the page she wrote: My sister Mary Turner Alvarez died at dawn this morning. She was forty-two years old.
Sitting back in the chair, staring at the wall, Elizabeth’s mind raced. Going to Deravenels and taking over the running of the company terrified her. But she had no choice. How would she cope? What would she do first? How would she and Cecil implement her plans? And his, which were complex? She had no idea how she would manage. She had worked at Deravenels off and on since she was eighteen, and had grown to love the company until Mary had kicked her out last year. She was about to go back and run it. She was only twenty-five years old, and basically inexperienced. But she had to do it; she would just have to manage. Most importantly, she must succeed.
Elizabeth knew one thing – she had to prove to those who worked there that she was not like her sister, who had been incompetent and arrogant. It was bad enough that they were misogynists; Mary’s lousy performance had simply underscored their inherent belief that women were not meant to be executives within that age-old trading company, that place of male supremacy.
I have to do it. I don’t have a choice. I must be strong, tough, clever. And, if necessary, devious. I have to win. I want to win. And I want Deravenels. I want it all. It was left to me. I must make it great again.
Closing her eyes, Elizabeth put her arms on the desk and rested her head on them, her mind still racing, plans evolving in her fertile brain.
TWO
Cecil Williams sat at the Georgian partners desk in the spacious study, a room which had been occupied by Deravenel and Turner men for many centuries.
Elizabeth had insisted he use it when he had come up to Ravenscar several weeks ago, since she herself preferred the smaller office which opened off the dining room. He knew she had always loved Ravenscar, the beautiful old Elizabethan house on the cliffs at the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, and over the years she had been able to make it her own. Her sister Mary had loathed the house for some reason and had never spent any time here, preferring to be in London.
More fool her, Cecil thought, glancing around the beautiful room, admiring the fine, mellow antiques, the Moroccan-leather-bound books, and portraits of Deravenel men from long ago, and Turner men of more recent years. There was even a portrait of Guy de Ravenel, founder of the dynasty, the Normandy knight from Falaise who had come to England with William the Conqueror. It was he who started the trading company which had eventually become Deravenels, now one of the most famous global conglomerates and on a grand scale.
Dropping his eyes to the desk, Cecil concentrated on his notes about the events of the day so far, also jotting down the names of everyone he had spoken to since six o’clock that morning.
Elizabeth occasionally teased him about his perpetual note-taking, but it was his way of ensuring he remembered absolutely everything pertaining to business. He made his notes religiously every day, and he had done so since his school days. He had continued this practice as a student at Cambridge, then again when he was studying law, and later, when he began to work at Deravenels, first for Edward Selmere, then for John Dunley.
He had found it hard to break the habit; long ago he had decided he shouldn’t even try. It was useful, and very frequently it had given him the advantage in business. He always had his notebook and could quickly refresh his memory. Not many other people could do it quite so easily.
At thirty-eight Cecil was fully aware that he was now at the crossroads of his life, and that Elizabeth Turner was at the same point. Her sister’s death at an early age meant that she was in control
