Barbara Taylor Bradford – The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth (страница 23)

Although Stonehurst was large and rambling, with several new additions, it boasted a great deal of cosy welcoming warmth. This was due in no small measure to Vicky’s perfect taste, and her talent and skill as a decorator.

Comfort abounded everywhere, was evident in the blazing fires, large overstuffed sofas and chairs, thick rugs on the wooden and stone floors, and the velvet draperies at the many windows which kept out the winter chill in the evenings.

Edward had stayed here before, and he had always been given the same room, one which he particularly liked because it looked out towards Romney Marsh and the sea beyond.

Conveniently, and obviously intentionally, Lily’s room was located immediately opposite his, just two or three steps across the corridor. They had, so far, enjoyed two nights of passionate lovemaking and had both revelled in the fact that they could share the same bed all night, waking to savour each other in the early morning.

Lily had always managed to soothe him, to lift him out of himself, to chase away the demons that frequently dogged him. But this weekend had been somewhat different, much to his surprise and dismay. Somehow she had done exactly the opposite, upset him on several occasions with her unfortunate desire to bring up the terrible crime which had so afflicted him and his family. He found this hard to comprehend, and she was beginning to get on his nerves, to irritate him. It had never happened before in the relationship.

Now as he sat in front of the fire in his bedroom he asked himself why this rather clever and usually understanding woman was being so insensible to his feelings. What prompted her to constantly mention certain aspects of this tragedy? It was like gouging at a wound on his body, a very deep wound. Why wouldn’t she let it heal? He had been shocked a short while before, and had come up here in order to calm down, to settle himself. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the chair, let himself slide down into his innermost thoughts.

I must remain cool and controlled, in charge of myself. I cannot let Lily agitate me, or distract me away from my purpose. Neville has warned me several times now about allowing women to interfere too much in my life. He told me I must use them, enjoy them, but keep them at arm’s length emotionally. Easier said than done, I told him last week, and he agreed with me. But he also reminded me that he and I are about to set out on a very important mission. A campaign to bring down the House of Grant, bring it to its knees. We must win, Neville informed me, and of course we will. I have more to gain than Neville, because once the Grants are gone Deravenels will be mine, and I will have avenged my father. Not only avenged his murder but the usurpation of Deravenels sixty years ago, which left him to inherit an inferior position within the company. Yes, we will do it, and we will do it fast. I promised my mother that, after the funerals at Ravenscar and at Ripon. In fact, I made a vow to her, and I know this pleased her. I am the head of the Deravenel family now, and I have to protect and look after my mother and my siblings, see to their welfare and their comfort, and to the future. It will be done. I can do it, Neville assured me of that. Of course my mother is safe, because she has her inheritance which Neville will now manage, but I must take from the company all that which is my due. I must find out why my father was always so impoverished, and rectify that situation as soon as I can. And I must find myself a house, a proper place to live. My mother owns the house in Charles Street, and although she offered it to me I cannot take it from her. That would be most unfair since it is actually hers by inheritance from her father.

My mother is self-contained, but then that is her nature, and knowing her as well as I do, I understand that her grief for my father and Edmund is very raw. It will take a long time to heal, if it ever does. But she is stoic and she will go on doggedly, and unbowed, taking care of Richard and George, and my sister Meg, raising them as my father would want them to be raised.

Before I left Ravenscar I informed my mother about the black notebook, which Alfredo Oliveri had mentioned to me in Carrara. A notebook constantly used by my father, who made daily jottings in it. She and I searched for it, but had no success whatsoever. She will continue to look for it, as I did in his rooms at Charles Street before coming down here to Kent. No luck so far.

Oliveri will be most useful to us, and he has promised to help in any way he can. He is an undoubted ally. I am lucky to have him on my side. He says we can win. I believe him.

Will had been coming to Stonehurst ever since his sister had bought the place twelve years ago. She had purchased the property not long after the death of her first husband Miles Tomlinson, wishing to leave the hustle and bustle of London for the tranquillity of the Kentish countryside. She had also turned the restoration of the old farmhouse and its decoration into a project to help keep grief at bay.

To some extent she had succeeded in this effort, and Will had been her willing helper over the years. He had grown to care for Stonehurst as much as she did, in winter as well as summer. The old farmhouse was surrounded by a hundred and fifty acres of wonderful land—there were fields and pastures, as well as a pond and a bluebell wood, and beyond the vast flower gardens was the Romney Marsh.

To Will, the Marsh was mysterious, a magical kind of place with its wild, blowing grasses and winding paths, its perpetual mists which rose at dusk and floated over the landscape, obscuring everything. And at this particular twilight hour the salty smell of the sea was carried in on the light breeze, reminding everyone how close the English Channel was.

In olden days the locals had latched their windows at this time of day, believing that the mists caused the ague; others had fastened their shutters tight because they were certain ghosts were at large on the Marsh.

Vicky generally laughed at these old wives’ tales which were still told to whomever would listen, and when it came to the mention of ghosts she usually muttered under her breath to Will, ‘More like the local smugglers winding their way inland from the sea, hauling their tobacco, their wines and brandy from France.’ He agreed with her, fully believed the smugglers still plied their dubious trade here.

This afternoon, as he strode along the flagged path which led from the back terrace to the gardens, he could not help thinking how beautiful the landscape was even on this cold February Saturday. It was growing late, was almost dusk already, and the grey sky of early afternoon had changed, darkened, and was filled with rafts of fiery red and purple along the horizon. Or was that the sea? Some of the low-lying Marsh beyond the gardens was well below sea level, and frequently it seemed to him that the sea in the distance was high in the sky. A most curious illusion.

‘Will, Will! Wait for me!’

He swung around at the sound of Ned’s voice, and stood waiting as his friend hurried down the path at a fast pace.

‘Why didn’t you ask me to come for a walk with you?’ Ned demanded, peering at Will. ‘Or did you feel like being alone? Am I intruding?’

Linking his arm through Ned’s, Will shook his head, drew closer to his friend as they walked on together. ‘I thought I’d better leave you to your own devices after lunch. You seemed so upset this morning, and were rather silent at lunchtime.’

‘I was, and with good reason, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do. Anyway, I knew you were up in your room alone, since Lily and Vicky took the horse and trap into the village after you disappeared. I just saw them coming back and so I ducked out here.’

‘For a man who doesn’t like rural life, who protests so much about country living, and who prefers the gaiety, bright lights and razzle dazzle of London, you certainly seem rather attached to Stonehurst,’ Ned remarked, sneaking a surreptitious glance at Will as they headed down the path together.

‘I have grown attached to it, actually, perhaps because I helped Vicky bludgeon it into shape, and because we shared something rather special, a unique relationship during that time, just after Miles died. I was fourteen or fifteen, thereabouts, and we worked well together and we bonded. She has always reminded me that I helped her to combat her grief. But to be honest, Ned, I wouldn’t want to live in the country permanently. I like to visit Vicky because we’re so close. I’m also fascinated by the Marsh. There’s something curious about that land out there that spells mystery to me.’

Ned laughed. ‘Ah yes, I do understand. It appeals to the young adventurous lad that still exists inside you…stories of smugglers, and baccy and brandy-running, and God knows what else. But I understand what you mean, and I also appreciate that the Romney Marsh has a genuine history to it.’ Peering ahead as they came to the edge of the lawns, Ned added, ‘And there’s romance there, too…a fair wind for France tonight, and all that, eh?’