never ignore a woman’s intuition,’ Neville had murmured. ‘It is usually infallible.’
Cecily had gone on: ‘And you, Ned, will have to go to work at Deravenels, and as soon as possible when you return.’
Startled, he had literally gaped at her for a split second. ‘Am I not to return to Oxford then?’ he had asked.
‘No, you cannot. Your father is dead. You are, by the rules of primogeniture, his heir. So you must now go to work at Deravenels. That is the family rule…when the heir of a Deravenel is over sixteen or reaches sixteen, he must take his deceased father’s place. Obviously, not in the same capacity, in this instance as the assistant managing director, but somewhere a little way down the ladder. But the heir must go into the company, he has no choice. It has always been that way.’
‘I understand. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I do recall Father explaining about this old family rule several years ago.’
Neville had then volunteered, ‘And remember what I said earlier, Ned, I will help you any way I can.’
All he could do was nod. His mother had turned to face Neville. ‘When do you plan to leave Ravenscar?’ she had asked somewhat abruptly.
‘Tomorrow morning. My carriage will take us to York, and we will then proceed to London on the afternoon train.’ His cousin had paused for a moment, taken a swallow of the brandy, and finished, ‘Once in London I shall make plans for us to leave for the Continent on Friday or Saturday.’
‘I would appreciate it, Neville, if you would kindly stay in touch with me, and you, too, Edward.’
They had both promised they would.
At this juncture his mother had pushed herself to her feet, and they had also jumped up. At the doorway she had swung her hand and said, very quietly, ‘This has been the most horrendous day for everyone, and I must go and make certain that the children are resting quietly…there have been far too many tears today, and so much heartbreak.’
Left alone he and his cousin had talked for a while longer, mostly about their imminent travel plans, and then they had gone upstairs to retire for the night. Now Edward stared into the flames, thinking about his father’s death.
Revenge. Edward turned the word over and over in his mind. Neville truly believed that deadly factions within the Deravenel Company had hired someone to get rid of his father. However, Edward knew that Neville had nothing concrete to go on, no hard evidence; it was pure supposition on his part, a supposition tied to what Neville called his gut instinct.
Edward was well aware that his father had been complaining and grumbling about the way the company was run for a number of years, and of late his voice had become louder, more strident and insistent. His father’s chief target was Henry Deravenel Grant, who had descended down the Lancashire line of the House of Deravenel. Henry was chairman of the board, and his father’s cousin. ‘An absentee landlord,’ his father had called him disparagingly, along with a number of other choice names.
But would Henry’s colleagues resort to foul play? Edward wondered. They could have quite easily rendered Richard Deravenel useless by restricting his power in the company. Or they could have forced him into retirement.
Sitting back in the chair, closing his eyes, Edward pondered on these matters for a long time, but he did not have any answers for himself. None at all. What’s more, additional questions flew into his head, and again all of them were unanswerable. One question, in particular, stood out…why had his father gone to Italy to look into problems at the marble quarries in Carrara? Surely that was a job for Aubrey Masters, head of the Mining Division. And why had Edmund, Uncle Rick and Thomas been killed if his father was the target? He was truly baffled, and it suddenly struck him that he would remain in a state of bafflement until he arrived at Carrara and started asking pertinent questions of the local authorities, as well as the manager of their quarries. Only then perhaps would he have a better understanding of the fire, the cause of it, and the manner in which his family had died.
As he continued to gaze into the roaring flames, Edward remembered that he had not looked in his father’s desk. He had meant to do so earlier, but he had become so distracted by the children’s plight, their sorrow and their need for him, it had slipped his mind. Rising, he hurried out of his bedroom and along the corridor, quickly went down the wide staircase into the Long Hall.
Within seconds he was turning on the lights in his father’s spacious study and striding over to the desk positioned near the window. He knew exactly where the key was hidden; some time ago his father had shown him the hiding place. ‘Just in case you ever need to get into my desk when I’m not here,’ his father had explained.
Kneeling down in front of the mahogany Georgian partner’s desk, Edward pushed his head and shoulders into the space between the sets of drawers and reached his hand towards the back for the key. It hung on a hook on the section of the desk just beyond the knee space.
Slowly, carefully, Edward searched each drawer. His father had been meticulous, and everything was neatly placed. But he came up with nothing of any importance. There were no notes, no records, no diaries, and no files on anything to do with his father’s work or the Deravenel Company. Everything in the desk was innocuous, personal, and of very little consequence.
Sitting back in the chair, feeling frustrated, Edward let his eyes roam around the study, thinking of his father, and how much he had loved this particular room at Ravenscar. Every piece of furniture in it he had chosen himself and placed; he noted his father’s collection of ancient coins, the many photographs of the family in silver frames, and his treasured books. The Moroccan-bound volumes were carefully arranged in low shelves placed against one of the long walls.
And then there were the portraits…the paintings of so many Deravenels, from long ago to the present. Guy de Ravenel, the founder of their dynasty, his likeness somewhat faded now in the extremely old painting. And, on the other wall, there was the recently-completed portrait of his father, commissioned by his mother and hung there by her only a few weeks ago. As he stared at his father’s image a lump came into Edward’s throat. He swallowed hard, pushing back the incipient tears. How he would miss him.
His eyes continued to another wall, and he spotted a couple of Deravenel Turners from Wales, along with portraits of the Deravenel Grants from Lancashire. The Grants might spell trouble, but certainly the Turners were relatively docile, and there were not many of them left, only two or so he believed. That line had dribbled down to nothing. Well, that was how his father had put it…
A rustling sound, followed by a faint cough, brought Edward’s eyes to the door. He was startled to see his brother Richard standing there, bundled up in his woollen dressing gown, staring at him.
‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour, Little Fish? It’s the middle of the night!’ In a flash Edward was on his feet, hurrying across the room to his small brother, concerned for him. Leading him over to the fireplace, Edward went on, ‘It’s very late for you to be up, old chap.’ He sat down, brought Richard close to him.
‘I couldn’t sleep. I went to your bedroom, Ned, but you weren’t there.’ Looking into his face intently, Richard frowned, and asked, ‘You will come back, won’t you?’
‘I certainly will, I promised, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. But you see, well, Ned, I don’t think George and I are old enough to look after Mama and Meg…but you are. So you have to come home.’
‘I
