ago, understanding that he would never be able to work easily with Mary Turner. They were poles apart, thought differently about everything, and, when she came into her inheritance and took the power, he quietly departed, went to live in the country. But for a number of years he had helped manage some of Elizabeth’s personal business affairs, and had continued to do so, along with her accountant, Thomas Parrell.
The sky’s the limit, he decided, his spirits lifting. We can pull it off; we can revive Deravenels, bring it back to what it was when her father reigned supreme. After Harry’s death things had grown a little shaky; that was everyone’s opinion, not only his.
Elizabeth’s brother Edward had inherited Deravenels, but he was only a schoolboy, and obviously could not run it. So his maternal uncle, Edward Selmere, had become administrator, following Harry’s instructions laid out in his will.
But Selmere had eventually blotted his copy book and was given the sack by the board, and John Dunley had taken over. He was another old hand at Deravenels, as his father Edmund Dunley had been before him.
John Dunley had managed to hold the company steady for the boy Edward, and he had helped, working closely with John. But with Edward’s death at sixteen and the advent of Mary Turner, so much had gone terribly wrong. She had managed to damage the company, badly but not irretrievably. He hoped.
Cecil sat back, considered Elizabeth. He believed her to be one of the most brilliant people he had ever met. Apart from having had a superb education, and having shown her true mettle when working at Deravenels, she was fortunate in that she had inherited her father’s intelligence, his shrewdness and perception, especially about people. Furthermore, she also had Harry’s business acumen, and his ruthlessness. The latter was a trait she was certainly going to need when she was running Deravenels, starting next week.
Elizabeth was the Turner most like her father in character, personality and looks; neither her late brother Edward, nor the newly-deceased Mary had resembled him very much.
There was a light knock on the door, and it flew open to admit Elizabeth. She hovered in the entrance, flanked by the large portraits of her father and great-grandfather which hung on either side of the door.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
He shook his head, rendered mute for a split second.
The sun was streaming in through the windows, bathing her in shimmering light, and the vividness of her colouring was shown off to perfection – her glorious auburn hair shot through with gold, her perfect English complexion, so fair and milky white, and her finely-wrought features reminiscent of the Deravenels. She was the spitting image of both men; the only difference was her eyes. They were a curious grey-black, whilst Harry Turner’s and Edward Deravenel’s were the same sky blue.
‘What is it? You’re staring at me in the most peculiar way,’ said Elizabeth, and walked into the study, her expression one of puzzlement.
‘Three peas in a pod,’ Cecil answered with a faint laugh. ‘That’s what I was thinking as you stood there in the doorway. The sunlight was streaming in, and the marked resemblance between you and your father and great-grandfather was … uncanny.’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth turned around, her eyes moving from the portrait of her father to the one of her great-grandfather, the famous Edward Deravenel, the father of Bess, her paternal grandmother. It was he she admired the most, he who had been the greatest managing director of all time, in her opinion … the man she hoped to emulate. He was her inspiration.
‘Well, yes, I guess we do look as if we’re related,’ she answered, her black eyes dancing mischievously. Taking a seat opposite Cecil, she went on, ‘Just let’s hope that I can accomplish what they did.’
‘You will.’
‘You mean we will.’
He inclined his head, murmured, ‘We’ll do our damnedest.’
Shifting slightly in the chair, Elizabeth focused her eyes on Cecil with some intensity, and said slowly, ‘What are we going to do about the funeral? It will have to be here, won’t it?’
‘No other place but here.’
‘Have you any ideas about who we ought to invite?’
‘Certainly members of the board. But under the circumstances, I thought it was a good idea to turn the whole thing over to John Norfell. He’s one of the senior executives, a long-time member of the board, and he was a friend of Mary’s. Who better than him to make all the arrangements? I spoke to him a short while ago.’
Elizabeth nodded, a look of relief on her face. ‘The family chapel holds about fifty, but that’s it. And I suppose we’ll have to feed them –’ She shook her head, sighing. ‘Don’t you think it should be held in the late morning, so that we can serve lunch afterwards and then get them out of here around three?’
Amused, Cecil began to chuckle. ‘I see you’ve already worked it out. And I couldn’t agree more. I hinted at something of the sort to Norfell, and he seemed to acquiesce. I doubt that anyone even really wants to come up here in the dead of winter.’
She laughed with him and pointed out, ‘It’s so cold. I put my nose outside earlier, and decided not to take a walk. God knows how my ancestors managed without central heating.’
‘Roaring fires,’ he suggested, and glanced at the one burning brightly in the study. ‘But to my way of thinking, fires wouldn’t have been enough … we’ve got the central heating at its highest right now, and it’s only comfortable.’
‘That’s one of the great improvements my father made, putting in the heating. And air conditioning.’ Rising, Elizabeth strolled over to the fireplace, threw another log on the fire, and then turning around, she said quietly, ‘What about the widower? Do we invite Philip Alvarez or not?’
‘It’s really up to you … but perhaps we should invite him. Out of courtesy, don’t you think? And look here, he was always well disposed towards you,’ Cecil reminded her.
Don’t I know it, she thought, remembering the way her Spanish brother-in-law had eyed her somewhat lasciviously and pinched her bottom when Mary wasn’t looking. Pushing these irritating thoughts to one side, she nodded. ‘Yes, we’d better invite him. We don’t need any more enemies. He won’t come though.’
‘You’re right about that.’
‘Cecil, how bad is it really? At Deravenels? We’ve touched on some of the problems these last couple of weeks, but we haven’t plunged into them, talked about them in depth.’
‘And we can’t, not really, because I haven’t seen the books. I haven’t worked there for four and a half years, and you’ve been gone for one year. Until we’re both installed, I won’t know the truth,’ he explained, and added, ‘One thing I do know though is that she gave Philip a lot of money for his building schemes in Spain.’
‘What do you mean by a lot?’
‘Millions.’
‘Pounds sterling or euros?’
‘Euros.’
‘Five? Ten million? Or more?’
‘More.
