The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth

He laughed. ‘Yes, my brothers were all over me like chickenpox.’

She smiled, her love for her eldest son written all over her face. Cecily leaned forward, fixed her soft blue-grey eyes, so like Richard’s, on him intently. ‘The reason I came to London today, instead of in a few weeks’ time, was to see you, Ned, and bring you this.’ She patted a small package wrapped in silk, which was on the desk.

‘What is it?’ he asked curiously, eyeing the odd-looking red bundle.

‘The famous missing notebook,’ she replied a little triumphantly.

‘I can’t believe it! I thought that was lost forever! However did you find it? Where was it?’ His excitement was apparent, his blue eyes sparkling.

‘In the priest hole.’

‘The priest hole. There’s a priest hole at Ravenscar?’

‘Yes, there is,’ she answered, and proceeded to tell him what had happened the day before, and explained the history of the old hiding place. When she had finished, she removed the red silk scarf, handed him the notebooks, and added, ‘There is a second book, Ned, full of jottings by your father. Most illuminating, I think, and it will be more useful to you than the actual notebook.’

As he took the two black leather books from her he seemed puzzled by this comment, and asked, ‘But why would that be? I mean, Oliveri said my father always had his nose in the notebook.’

‘Perhaps he did, but only your father understood what he was writing in it. I don’t. It’s full of numbers which seem quite meaningless. However, perhaps Oliveri will understand, or perhaps you yourself will. Your father spent a lot of time talking to you about Deravenels over the years.’

‘Yes he did, but he never spoke to me about numbers, Mother.’ Ned opened the smaller notebook, and began to read, scanned several pages, and then shook his head. ‘I see what you mean, I’m baffled, too. There are sentences here and there, as you no doubt saw, but I don’t have a clue as to their meaning. Oh, here’s a line that makes some sense. He wrote this…“Necessary to talk to my compadre about two and eleven”.’ Edward glanced up, gazed at Cecily and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What on earth can that mean?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Ned. I wondered when I read the sentence yesterday if it might be Oliveri he was referring to as his compadre.’

‘Perhaps. But it could be anybody, you know. However, do I have your permission to show the notebook to Oliveri?’

‘Of course. And as I said, I think you will find the second book much more fascinating, and it is going to help you achieve your goals.’

Edward jumped up restlessly, began to move away from the desk, obviously excited about the find, and anxious to delve into the pages. At the door, he swung around. ‘Thank you for bringing the books to London, Mother, and so promptly.’

‘It seemed the safest way to get them to you.’

Edward took the stairs two at a time, rushing to his room. Once inside he locked the door, not wishing to have any intrusions from his younger brothers. They had been so excited to see him, so happy, he half anticipated a visit from one of them, or both. He was glad they were here in London, being so attached to them, but at this moment he wanted total privacy, peace and quiet to read the notebook and the slightly larger book, which looked like a diary to him. From the way his mother had spoken, he believed the diary contained information about Deravenels, Henry Grant and his cronies. And Margot Grant. The look on his mother’s face, the intonations in her voice, had indicated this to him. He knew how much she hated the Lancashire faction, the usurpers, as she referred to them with great bitterness.

Settling himself in front of the fire, Edward put the diary on the floor, and looked at the notebook first, quickly flipping the pages.

Lines and lines of numbers, page after page; an occasional written comment that was meaningless, although he did realize that the comment usually referred to a number. The numbers two, eleven, thirty-one, and twenty-nine recurred a lot. Unable to decipher the notebook, not understanding what the numbers referred to, Edward impatiently put it on a side table and bent down to retrieve the diary.

After scanning the many pages swiftly, he sat back and turned to page one, the beginning of his father’s jottings.

There was no date at the top of the page, so he had no idea when his father had started to write this, except that the condition of the diary told its own story, in a sense. The ink was black, unfaded, the white page crisp, new looking, certainly.

Edward began to read, filled with eagerness and not a little trepidation.

‘I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what to doabout Margot Grant. She is worse than ever, and Iworry about Harry. My cousin is not a bad man, noris he evil, like his wife. Actually, Henry is just a poorsoul, out of his depth. We were such good friends whenwe were younger, spent much time together, and I wasnot only loyal to him, but a devoted cousin, his closefriend, just as he was mine.

The trouble with Henry is that he has always beenthe most pious of men, entangled with priests, full ofdevotion, wanting only to mingle with the clergy, andhe made them his companions, listened to them, tooktheir advice. And he loved to go to church, to studythe Bible. His thoughts were always on God, not business,and it is still that way. Deravenels never reallymeant anything special to him. Nor does it now. Ohyes, he was, and is, proud to be the chairman, sittingin the seat once occupied by his magnificent father, andhis grandfather before that. But he did not want to runthe company, cannot run it, and he knows that now.He is not capable of it. This is the reason I call himthe absentee landlord.

He is a vague, distracted, lazy man; contemplatingGod is his favourite pastime, and so he lets theFrenchwoman do his job, at least he permits her to giveorders to John Summers and James Cliff. They aredevoted to her, but they do not follow her guidelines.They dismiss her orders. They are far too clever andsmart for that, oh yes. Especially Summers. He takesafter his late father—like him he is a handsome man,personable, intelligent. And ambitious. He means totake more and more power, I know that.

I worry about Henry because he’s no match for her,or for them. He’s daft in the head, I believe. It has comeback, the dementia, the illness which so incapacitatedhim seven years ago. For one year he was like a zombie;he was wandering around, as if in catatonic shock, orin a trance. Until they put him in an asylum for theinsane. For treatment. But they lied to all of us in thecompany, said he was in a religious retreat.

Long before his marriage to the Frenchwoman hemade me his heir, because he knew full well I was thetrue heir, and the board asked me to take charge whenhe was put away. Put in a padded cell. And I did. Iexecuted my duties well. Then, suddenly, he was back.He had made a remarkable recovery. And I steppedaside, which was only right.

Within days she gave birth to her son, Edouard. Herheir. But was he Harry’s heir? Was he really his son? Idoubt it; many doubt it. Henry Grant has always beena monk, lived like a monk. In every way. And the dateswere doubtful. Everyone said so.

I was never her enemy, not in the beginning. But shehas always treated me as one, and over the years shehas been foul, vicious to me and mine. And she hassucceeded in turning me into her enemy. What a foolshe is.

And I fear for Henry, fear for his welfare. She hassuch dynastic ambitions. For her son. For herself. ForJohn Summers.

I have no proof, but I do believe he warms her bedat night, as his late father did before him. And surelyher son is his half-brother. So Edouard does not havea drop of Deravenel blood in him. Does he?’

Edward sat back, holding the book on his knee, staring into the flames, his thoughts racing.

First of all, his father had confirmed Amos Finnister’s story that Henry Grant had been in and out of insane asylums. Well, at least once, according to this diary. But wasn’t his father also saying that his cousin had always been as mad as a hatter…daft in the head, those were his father’s words.

Turning the page, Edward began to read once more, and then he realized that his father was now only writing about Ravenscar, and his great love for his ancestral home.

He scanned the pages swiftly, genuinely wanting to know what his father had to say, yet anxious and impatient to move on to more important entries.

There it was, a new entry on a new page, and the date was written very clearly: September the first 1902. Almost a year and a half ago.

Holding the book tightly, Edward read his father’s words rapidly; from the very first line he felt an unexpected tingle of anticipation and excitement.

‘I have made my mind up. I am going to do somethingat last. I shall no longer procrastinate. I shallgather all of my notes together, notes made over theyears, and I shall prepare my case. And I do have acase to present to the board of directors. Long, longago, my ancestors made a new rule—that any directorof Deravenels, whether a board member or a juniordirector, could present a case to them if he had a seriousgrievance against the company. I do. I have a complaintagainst Henry Grant. He is allowing Deravenels, oneof the greatest trading companies in the world, to berun into the ground. By himself, a man who is daft inthe head. I have the proof. I shall use it. I will assertmyself. I will take what is mine to take. They cannotrefuse to hear me. It is my right as a director, and asa Deravenel, which is even more important. I am goingto fight them. I hope I shall win. I think I shall win.The board must remain neutral, and they know this; Ibelieve there is enough neutrality among them to permitjustice and fair play to prevail. I must find my copy ofthe company rules; all of those old documents are important.For back-up. The board won’t deny my petitionto speak, but it is always a good idea to be prepared.’

There was not a single doubt in Edward’s mind that his father had given him powerful weapons to fight the Grants; first, he had confirmed that Henry Grant was a damaged man, mentally deficient and unable to properly run the company. Edward knew enough about the company rules to know that Deravenels could not under any circumstances be run by ‘stand-ins’, as his mother usually called Grant’s cronies. There was that fact, to begin with; now there was the old company rule that gave a director the right to present a case to the board.

Obviously, his father had never done what he’d vowed to do. But he would. By God, he would.

Edward continued to read the diary for another hour, finding a lot more information that would be useful to them. But as far as he was concerned he had already found the most important.

Later that evening, Edward and his mother discussed his father’s diary. They were both in agreement that he had some potent weapons in his hands now.

She promised to find the old documents amongst which were the company rules; he told her all about Amos Finnister and his discoveries.

They made their plans.

NINETEEN (#)

Edward Deravenel knew he would always remember how he felt this morning as he mounted one side of the great double staircase that rose up from the central lobby of Deravenels.

He felt different, felt like a new man.

He was filled with pride; he was happy; his self-assurance was at its height. As he glanced around he felt reassured by this gargantuan building which in a sense was his, and where he now knew he would spend the rest of his life. He was secure in the knowledge that he would win…not only a battle or two, either. He would win the war. And he would rule Deravenels. It was his destiny.

His parents had raised him to fully understand who he was, what he was all about, and where he came from. Naturally he had grown up to be self-confident. He was proud of his heritage but there was not one ounce of snobbery in him; he was at ease with himself and with everyone else, whatever walk of life they came from.

When he had started working here last week he had felt slightly inhibited, and certainly he had been totally on guard. Everyone was suspect, as far as he was concerned; and he was still wary of the men who were employed here, especially Henry Grant’s cronies, but he had a better understanding of the various echelons now, thanks to Alfredo Oliveri who had told him much.