The Ravenscar Dynasty

Her brother Rick and her nephew Thomas went along to keep her husband and son company; Richard and Rick had been extremely close friends for many years, enjoyed each other’s company and travelling together. Also, Rick hoped to buy some paintings and sculpture in Florence; he was in the process of remodelling his town house in London and only the very best in art and artifacts would do. He was something of a connoisseur and had a great eye, and he had said to her only two weeks ago that the thought of Florence made his mouth water.

Rick and she had been close since childhood, and after their father’s death it was Rick who had taken over the family business. If her father had been one of the greatest magnates in industry, then Rick had surpassed him a thousandfold; today he was one of the richest men in the country, and because of his flair and genius in business her own inheritance had increased. This was a great relief to Cecily. Her husband was always at odds with Deravenels when it came to money, and it was a company that really belonged to him at that. At least he should have been running it, not Harry Grant. Like all the Lancashire Deravenel Grants, he was incompetent when it came to finance. As for Harry’s French wife, Margot, she was a woman who was riddled with overriding ambition and greed who managed Harry like a puppet master and sought to run the company herself. She probably is running Deravenels, Cecily now thought, and more’s the pity.

‘Shall we take the frocks downstairs, Mama?’ Meg asked, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Oh, yes, of course, let us do that, my dear.’ Cecily looked at her fob watch and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, it’s almost time for lunch.’ But as they went downstairs her mind went back to the Grants; they were never far from her thoughts. Henry Grant’s father had always cut her husband out, cheated him, and the hatred had escalated over the years. Now, Margot Grant was making things even more intolerable. There was going to be another battle between Richard and Henry, of that she was convinced.

THREE (#ub7b0b04c-a0c3-5954-8f70-4723c4224835)

‘There’s a sea fret coming up,’ Richard said, swivelling around on the window seat in Edward’s bedroom, and looking across at his brother. ‘I can’t see any of the fishing cobles out there, Ned, it’s thick like a fog.’

‘Well, it really is a fog in a sense,’ Edward responded. ‘A fret usually comes up when cold winds blow in from the sea over the warmer land, in summer too, sometimes, as well as winter,’ Edward explained, glancing up from the box of books he was packing. ‘And there wouldn’t be any fishermen out this afternoon, you know. Tonight perhaps, if the fog lifts, Little Fish.’

Richard grinned. He loved this name Edward had given him years ago; sometimes Ned called him Tiddler, which also meant little fish, and this pleased him. Having nicknames bestowed by Edward made him feel very special indeed. ‘I’ll be glad to go to London next week,’ Richard said, introducing another subject. ‘Even though I have to work hard because Mr Pennington is coming back to be our tutor.’

Edward caught something odd in his voice, and asked, ‘Don’t you like it here at Ravenscar?’ As he spoke he frowned and then gave Richard a piercing look. ‘Perhaps it’s too cold for you here in winter, I realize that. On the other hand, I enjoyed winters at Ravenscar, when I was young. There’s always so much to do.’

‘Yes. I love it here, Ned, but I like London because you’re not so far away…I mean you’re at Oxford and I get to see you more when I’m in London.’

Touched by his brother’s expression of his love and his need, and pleased that he could articulate it so well, Edward put down the leather-bound book he was holding and walked across the bedroom, sat on the window seat next to the younger boy. Placing an arm around his narrow shoulders, giving him a quick hug, he said softly, ‘I’ll miss you, too, old chap, very much. And you’re quite correct, Oxford is much closer to London than it is to Yorkshire. And listen, I’ll come to town often, so that we can spend some time together. Would you like that?’

Richard’s young face filled with pleasure and his slate-grey eyes shone. ‘Do you promise me, Ned?’

‘I do, Dick, I do promise you.’

The eight-year-old visibly relaxed, his tense body growing slack as he leaned against Edward in a companionable way, fully at ease with him, as he had been since his toddler days. ‘Things are not the same when you’re not at home…I do miss you so.’

‘I know how you feel, I miss you too, Tiddler, but I’m not all that far away. Perhaps I could write to you occasionally.’

‘Oh, Ned, would you? How wonderful to have a real letter from you every week.’

Edward began to chuckle. ‘I didn’t say everyweek. But look here, Dick, it’s not as if you’re a boy alone when I’m at university. Meg is around, and you have George. Also, Edmund will be at home with you.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Richard answered in an uncertain voice. ‘I love Edmund, but he’s so busy, and sometimes he seems a bit…impatient.’

‘I know he’s a very busy fellow indeed.’ Edward laughed, added, ‘Doing what I don’t know. But George is all right with you, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Glancing at him swiftly, Edward asked, ‘Does George bully you too much? Tell me the truth, I don’t want you to lie to me.’

Richard stared at his brother askance, and exclaimed, ‘I never lie, and I wouldn’t fib to you. George doesn’t bully me.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, but I do recognize that at times he can become over-zealous, shall we say, about certain things.’

‘I can defend myself.’ There was a sudden flash of pride, a defiant tilt to Richard’s dark head.

‘I know you can. After all, I taught you.’ Edward gave him a light punch on the arm and stood up. He glanced out of the window, noticed how the sea mist was now obscuring everything; even the battlements at the bottom of the garden far below had been obliterated this afternoon.

Turning, Ned strode across the floor, went back to the table where the large box stood. He put in another volume and then checked it off on his list.

Richard, watching him from the distance of the window seat, asked, ‘Will Edmund go to Oxford one day?’

‘I expect so, and George, too, and you yourself, Dickie boy. When you’re old enough. That’s what Papa wants, that we all should be Oxford-educated. Does that suit? Would you like to go? To be an undergraduate?’

‘Oh, yes, I really would. Why does everyone call it the city of dreaming spires?’

‘Because there are so many churches and buildings with spires and they look beautiful in the light.’

‘It’s very old, isn’t it? Meg told me it was.’

‘It is indeed. Twelfth century.’

‘Can I come and visit you one day, Ned? Please. I would like to see everything at Oxford. Will you take me to see everything?’

‘Of course, old chap, and especially the Bodleian, that’s my favourite.’

‘What is it, Ned, the Bodleian?’

‘A library, a very lovely and very ancient library.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see it! Meg told me that in the Civil War Oxford was the Royalist capital, and that it was besieged by Cromwell’s parliamentarians, but it wasn’t hurt by them.’

‘That’s correct.’ There was a knock on the door and Edward called, ‘Come in.’

The door opened and Jessup, the butler, entered, inclining his head. ‘Master Edward, please excuse me.’

‘Yes, Jessup?’

‘Your mother wishes to speak with you. She’s awaiting you in the library.’

‘Thank you, Jessup. You may tell her I shall be down in a few minutes.’

‘Mrs Deravenel did ask me to say that it was a matter of some urgency, Master Edward.’

‘Very well. Then I shall come right away.’

The room wasn’t quite right. There was something curiously wrong about it.

Edward stood in the doorway of the library, hesitating, not wishing to enter.

It was far too dark, darker than usual, and this was not normal. It wasn’t like his mother not to have the electric lights blazing; she loved sunshine and brightness, which was why she had had the electricity installed in the first place.

Only two small lamps were turned on in the vast room, even though it was late afternoon and gloomy as dusk descended outside. The shadow-filled room seemed decidedly odd to him, off-kilter. Unexpectedly, he was filled with sudden unease, felt a sense of desolation, and even of foreboding enveloping him.

Opening the door wider, he finally went inside, peering ahead in the dim light. He could make out his mother standing next to a high-backed wingchair at the far end; behind her, wrapped in shadow, a figure lurked, stood staring out of the window, his back to the room. Edward couldn’t discern who it was.

Slowly he approached his mother, his mind racing, every one of his senses alerted to trouble. Fear, he decided, fear is present here, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck at this unexpected and irrational thought.