The Ravenscar Dynasty

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 understand what you’re saying, and I’ll be home in a flash, don’t you worry. Once I’ve done my business in Italy I’ll be back. But you know, Dick, I have a feeling that the two of you could keep an eye on things for me, couldn’t you? Or should I say four eyes?’

Richard forced a smile, but his slate-grey eyes were sad. ‘I suppose so.’

Funny how his eyes look more blue at times, Edward thought. Then they become the colour of wet slate, and sometimes they even turn black. They reflect his moods, I suppose. ‘Come along, old chap, let’s go upstairs,’ he suggested. ‘It’s time we both went to sleep, don’t you think?’

Richard simply nodded. Taking hold of Ned’s hand, he allowed himself to be led out of the study, across the Long Hall and up the wide staircase. It was only when they came to the first-floor landing that Richard tugged on Edward’s hand. ‘Could I sleep with you tonight, Ned? Like I did when I was really, really little and afraid of the dark?’

‘It will be my very great pleasure to share my bed with you,’ Ned exclaimed, smiling down at the eight-year-old boy, understanding that Richard needed to feel protected, safe and secure tonight. There had been so much pain and hurt and sorrow today.

Edward found himself the recipient of a wide and happy smile from his youngest brother, a smile that touched his heart profoundly.

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

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

Will Hasling stood waiting at the barrier at King’s Cross Station, stamping his feet to keep warm, and huddling himself deeper into his long winter overcoat. This was made of grey merino wool and had a raccoon fur collar; the coat was slender and elegant, made him look taller than his five feet nine, and added to the twenty-two year-old’s air of prosperity.

A pleasant looking young man, with a warm, expansive smile and light-brown hair, Will hailed from a prominent family of landed gentry in Leicestershire. His father was a landowner of considerable importance, with a stately home on hundreds of acres; the local squire and justice of the peace as well, he was something of a bon vivant. His son took after him in that he, too, enjoyed good food and drink but, unlike his father, rural life did not appeal to Will. Hunting, shooting and fishing held no interest for him.

After graduating from Oxford, he fully intended to live in London where he hoped to work in the City, possibly as a broker with a firm on the London Stock Exchange. He loved London, and especially the way it was these days. He found it glittering, glamorous and exciting, the place to be.

In the three years that he had been king, Edward VII had become even more popular than he was as Prince of Wales; everyone in the country adored him, from the aristocracy to the working classes and those in between.

Will, like the entire nation, mourned Queen Victoria’s passing, but he also felt that same sense of relief, and expectation, now that Edward was on the throne.

People were happy that the king had moved the monarchy back to London. He had lit the lights, thrown open the doors of Buckingham Palace, welcomed his friends inside, and the dancing had begun. It seemed to Will and his friends that after the constraints and repression of Victorian England a new era had begun—a time of jollity, gaiety, freedom and expressiveness. And he for one couldn’t wait to sample all of these excitements and pleasures when he left university.

Stamping his feet again, he moved around trying to combat the icy weather. There was a fog on this Wednesday evening, a fog Will hoped would not turn into one of those dreadful pea-soupers. There had been quite a few of those of late, and they blighted London, made the streets difficult to manoeuvre, whether on foot or in a hansom cab.

Will glanced around as he waited, amazed to see the railway station so busy; but then the majority of L.N.E.R. trains from the north and the northeast came into this particular station, most of them arriving during the early evening. So it was understandable that the place was teeming with folk meeting trains at this hour.

It was a normal mix of people waiting here tonight. There were a number of women, either accompanied by a woman friend or a man, hovering close to him at the barrier. Plain-looking women in long dark coats and cloche hats, obviously from the middle class. As his eyes roamed he spotted a lot of bowlers and a few Homburg hats, but no flat caps…funny how one could distinguish a class by its headgear. Not many toffs or working class men amongst the bustle, he realized, mostly chaps from the middle class, just like the women.

Adjusting the silk scarf wrapped around his neck, Will began to walk up and down, his thoughts turning to Edward Deravenel. His closest friend, indeed the man he considered to be his very best friend. He was deeply concerned about him, and had been since he had visited the Deravenel town house in Charles Street in Mayfair earlier that day.

His intention had been to ascertain when exactly Edward was arriving from Yorkshire, wishing to plan their journey to Oxford together, already set for the end of the week.

Mr Swinton, the butler, had answered the door, and he had known at once, as Swinton had invited him to come inside, that there was something horribly wrong. A dour expression had ringed the butler’s face and a mournful feeling permeated the house. After greeting him, Swinton had confided the terrible and tragic news.

Will had been shocked and stunned, so much so that Swinton had asked him if he would care to partake of a glass of brandy. He had declined, and had then asked for a few more details. Unfortunately, Swinton had not known very much, and had merely added that Mr Edward had telephoned that morning to announce his arrival at the Mayfair house in the early evening. He was travelling up to town with his cousin, and they would be on the afternoon train from York. And then Mr Edward had broken the sorrowful news.

When Will had inquired how Mr Deravenel senior and Mr Edmund had died, the butler had explained, ‘It was in a fire in Italy. Mr Watkins senior and his son Thomas were travelling with them, and they were also killed. A great tragedy for the two families, sir,’ the butler had finished in a shaken voice, looking on the verge of tears.

Further shocked and appalled, Will had offered his condolences to the butler, who had been in the family’s employ since boyhood, he being the son of an old family retainer. Swinton had thanked him, and the two had talked for a short while longer.

Will had eventually taken his leave, and had placed his calling card on the silver salver on the hall table as he went out. Feeling upset and worried, he had walked back to his rooms at the Albany, his senses positively reeling as he had strode down past Shepherd’s Market, through Berkeley Square and into Piccadilly where the Albany was located.

During his walk he had made up his mind to go to King’s Cross to meet the York train, to be there in case Edward needed him. And of course he would. To lose a father, brother, uncle and cousin in one fell swoop was something incomprehensible, and certainly Will knew that if such a catastrophe had happened to him he would need his best friend, and all the help he could get.

For Will the rest of the day had been miserable. He had paced his rooms, left his food untouched, and discovered that his concentration had totally fled. He had sat staring into the fire for hours, filled with sadness for his friend, and wondering how to console him in his loss.

Now, in the distance, Will heard a train hooting and he wondered if it was the one he was waiting for. He hoped so. Moving closer to the barrier, he peered ahead and was somewhat relieved when he overheard a man standing nearby tell his companion, ‘That’s the York train pulling in now.’

Train whistles blowing. Smoke, steam, fog mingling. Doors slamming. Hustle and bustle. Busy porters pushing luggage carts. Crowds hurrying along the platform.