Barbara Taylor Bradford – The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth (страница 26)

It’s going to rain after all, he decided, lifting his eyes to the sky. And this thought had hardly surfaced when he felt the first drops of cold rain on his upturned face.

Swinging about, Neville hurried up through the garden and went into the house, crossed the central gallery, deposited his overcoat in the hall closet, all this accomplished in the space of a few minutes.

He made his way back to the library, a large and elegantly appointed room, his favourite in the lovely old house that dated back to the Regency period. He had always thought of the library as his haven, one which closed him off from the ugliness of the world outside.

A fire blazed in the hearth and the softly-shaded lamps had all been turned on during his absence in the garden, giving the room a welcoming, roseate glow. He realized he had grown slightly chilled outside, and he went and stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, thawing out.

His mind was alive with ideas and plans. He was going to put Ned in the seat of power, however long it took him. And he himself would be the one to wield the power.

FOURTEEN

Ravenscar

The North Sea glittered like highly-polished chain mail, rippling under the light breeze. Above, the sky was a cloudless arc of brilliant azure blue filled with golden sunlight. Sunlight without warmth on this cold wintry morning. Nonetheless, Cecily Deravenel had been lured outside by it, and wrapping herself warmly in heavy woollens and a fur-lined cape she had braved the cold.

At this moment she stood inside the old ruined stronghold on the promontory, somewhat protected by its high walls, staring out across the sea. Her thoughts were with Edward in London: a week ago he had presented himself at Deravenels, and his professional life had begun. She shivered, but not from the cold. How would they treat him? And how would he fare in the long run? She was well aware that Ned had dreaded going there. In the past week he had told her little, his two phone calls kept to the briefest of conversations. Yet Neville had reassured her, as best he could, that it would be all right. At least for the moment. No one would make any kind of move against Ned. Too soon, he had explained. Also, Alfredo Oliveri was there; ostensibly, he was on a business trip to the London headquarters from his base in Italy. But, more specifically, he was really there to keep an eye on Ned. Keep an eye on him. What a silly euphemism that was. Protection was what he would ultimately need. Her son was sitting in the middle of a nest of vipers.

Cecily shivered again and hunched into her warm clothes; her gloved hands fumbled with the ends of the scarf tied around her head. As she tightened it her mind raced.

Neville had been honest with her the other day; he had admitted that all of her sons were in danger. Still, he had also managed to convince her that her two youngest were quite safe here at Ravenscar. She trusted her nephew implicitly, knew how clever he was, highly intelligent and brilliant of mind. He was also loyal to family, just as Ned was, and as her father and brother had been…family was all to them. Rick, her only sibling, was gone forever, and Thomas, his youngest, was dead and buried with him. Now she must rely on Neville, and his brother John, both older than Ned. Dear Johnny. Her face softened at the thought of him. Less flamboyant, less ambitious than his brother, a loving young man, and wholly devoted to Ned.

We are a strong family unit, the Watkins and the Deravenel clans. We will stand together in this battle to come. We will prevail. These thoughts made her suddenly lift her head higher, and with great pride as she remembered who she was, her lineage, and whom she had married: Richard Deravenel, rightful heir to the Deravenel business empire. His widow now. She must do his memory justice. Unexpectedly her eyes blazed with a new determination.

She came to a sudden decision. She would not permit herself to be frightened by the likes of Henry Grant and his avaricious French wife, or by their subordinates. Never. She would stand up to them, stand tall, just as her father had taught her to do.

As for her overwhelming grief, caused by her devastating losses, she would bury it deep. Her grief was something private, not for public consumption. Nor for sharing with anyone, not even her children.

Her children. She must focus all of her attention on them now, protect them at all costs, ensure their safety. ‘Of course nobody’s going to come and murder them in their beds,’ Neville had reassured her with a laugh when he was in Yorkshire recently. ‘All I’m saying i s…well, just keep an eye on them.’ And that she would certainly do…she would protect them with her very life.

Turning around, chilled from the wind coming off the sea, Cecily went back to the house, climbing the steps intersecting the tiered gardens, entering the house through the French doors on the terrace.

She was shedding her cape and heavy jacket in the Long Hall when she heard a yell, almost a war cry, and to her surprise there was George on the stairs, almost hurtling down them, blond hair rumpled, his clothes askew, his face flushed with anger. Margaret was fast on his heels, looking equally distressed. Only Richard, following them slowly, seemed sedate, and perfectly in control.

‘Good Heavens! Children! What on earth is going on here?’ Cecily demanded in her crisp, businesslike tone as she pulled off her gloves and scarf, threw them on top of her outer garments on the chair.

‘It’s not my fault! Not mine, Mama. I didn’t smash the wall in,’ George yelled as he scurried towards her down the hall, and as usual flung himself onto her body, clutching at her. ‘It’s not my fault, Mama,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not to blame, she pushed me.’

Automatically, Cecily’s arms went around the eleven-year-old boy in that particular protective way she had with him, but she looked over his head to his sister Meg, who was straightening her jacket, then smoothing her blonde hair back into the black silk bow at the nape of her neck. She looked as if she had been in a tussle, and obviously with George.

Hesitantly, Meg took a few steps towards her mother, and said in a trembling voice, ‘It was George’s fault. He started it all.’

‘No, I didn’t!’ he shouted back.

‘Be quiet!’ Cecily exclaimed, staring down at George. Instinctively, she believed Meg, who was usually so loyal to George. Why would she turn on him unless he deserved it? Looking across at her daughter, Cecily continued, ‘Please explain the situation to me, Meg, since you at least seem to be in control of yourself.’

‘I’m the one in control,’ Richard volunteered.

‘I see that,’ his mother answered. ‘Come now, Meg, what is this fuss about?’

‘We were in the old nursery playroom. Richard was reading, I was working on my stamp collection. George was idling his time away, and growing bored. Suddenly, he swooped down on me and took my album. Actually, Mother, he grabbed it. Then he pranced around the room, waving it in the air. I thought he would damage some of my best stamps which Papa had given me over the years, so I jumped up, tried to get it. But George kept dodging away from me, taunting me, and he made me angry. I lurched towards him, and naturally he tried to avoid me, and as he did so he tripped over a foot stool and fell against the wall next to the fireplace. It caved in, just like that. George fell inside the wall, but it was very strange because there’s actually a room there.’

Cecily froze. The priest hole. Closed permanently by Richard when Anne, their first child, was born, her husband had decided that the concealed door must be nailed down, and so it was. He was fearful that a small child might lock herself inside and suffocate before she could be rescued. And so he had made it safe. And no one had ever known about the priest hole except them, and the Deravenel ancestors, of course.

Cecily opened her mouth to speak and then closed it as the youngest in the family came forward, slowly approached her. His face was solemn, his eyes grave, thoughtful, as they frequently were. He was totally in control of himself, just as he had said he was, much more so than his siblings.

What had silenced Cecily was the black leather notebook Richard clutched in his hands. Surely it was her husband’s missing black notebook, wasn’t it? The one she had searched for, and Ned, too, in his father’s rooms in London.

‘I climbed into the wall,’ the boy was saying to her. ‘To help Georgie, Mama. He was flat on his back on the floor. Between the walls. That’s what I thought at first, but when I went to him I found I was in a little room. There’s a chest in there, and after I helped Georgie to get up I opened the drawers, well, not all of them because one was locked. Anyway, Mother, I found this.’ Moving closer to Cecily, he thrust the black leather book at her.

Cecily disentangled herself from George’s clinging embrace, and accepted the book from her youngest child. ‘Thank you very much, Dickie,’ she murmured.