‘The last of the late bloomers,’ Robert explained. ‘And it is a unique garden, actually. I was rummaging around in the attics here and found an old book on gardens. I fell in love with one of them, and have copied it here. This is pure Elizabethan, a Tudor rose garden from the 1560s. All it needs now are the finishing touches.’
Later, over a light lunch outside on the terrace, Robert suddenly said, ‘What’s happening with Mark Lott and Alexander Dawson, do you know?’
Ambrose put his fork down and frowned, shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Francis told me they’ve been up to Scotland on numerous occasions, and not always together. Is there a plot being hatched between them and the kilt, do you think?’
‘Doesn’t Francis know?’ Ambrose gave his brother a quizzical look. ‘After all, plots and intrigue are his business.’
‘No, he doesn’t, strangely enough, just implies trouble is brewing. He says everything is quiet in Edinburgh, although he did remark that he wondered if this was the lull before the storm.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Ambrose asked, sounding genuinely puzzled now.
‘I don’t know, but probably he’s thinking about the kilt. He did say that Marie de Burgh is working alongside her half-brother James, at Scottish Heritage. And that it’s not always tranquil between them, seemingly. Lots of fighting. She’s still single, and Francis did tell me she is more desperate than ever to grab herself a husband.’
‘She couldn’t possibly be interested in either Lott or Dawson, could she? They’re dummies, in my opinion!’ Ambrose asserted.
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ Robert cautioned. ‘They’re a couple of double-dealing buggers.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, she no doubt has her hands full with business right now.’
‘There’s one good thing – she hasn’t been screaming and shouting about Deravenels lately. And Norfell seems to be keeping his hands out of the cookie jar. He’s stayed away from her, I believe.’
‘If he does go near her, he’ll be hung, drawn and quartered!’ Robert couldn’t help chuckling when he added, ‘Cecil and I put the bloody fear of God into him. We threatened to … well … emasculate him is the polite way to put it.’
In all the years she had been coming to Stonehurst Farm, Elizabeth had never seen it looking quite so beautiful. Although it was September the gardens were extraordinary, filled with glorious flowers and exotic plants, flowering shrubs, bushes and the most magnificent trees. It was a typical English garden, the kind Elizabeth loved, and over the years Grace Rose had turned it into something quite spectacular.
Inside the house everything sparkled and shone and gleamed. Sunlight bounced off the mellow antique furniture, the polished wood floors, and the many large mirrors, and all the rooms were light-filled and beautiful. There were many silver and crystal bowls of roses scattered around on tables and chests, and these late-summer blooms filled the rooms with their sweet scent. And other delicious fragrances hung on the air … mouth-watering smells emanated from the kitchen … apples cooking, bread baking … fresh herbs and mint being chopped … all mingled together … and now, wafting in on the warm air, came the tantalizing smell of cheese being cooked.
Turning to her great-aunt, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘Grace Rose, you spoil me! I have a feeling it’s cheese soufflé for lunch. My favourite!’
‘And mine, too. And yes, that is what we’re having.’
‘Before I forget, I want you to know I did take your advice about charities, and in the end I went with your favourite, Parents and Abducted Children Together. I gave them a donation, and I’ll continue to do so, it’s such a good cause.’
‘I’ve given to PACT since it was started two years ago,’ Grace Rose said, and then paused, suddenly scrutinizing Elizabeth. She announced, ‘You’ve looked awfully pinched and drawn this past year. You are feeling all right, aren’t you?’
‘I’m in very good health. I’ve never felt better,’ Elizabeth was swift to reassure her great-aunt, knowing how she worried about her.
‘Sometimes you seem … so preoccupied.’ Grace Rose emphasized the last word. ‘And I know it’s not Deravenels or Robin that you are worried about. But I do think you are worried.’
‘To be honest, I’m very frequently concerned about Marie Stewart de Burgh. I get suspicious when she’s quiet, and it is totally silent up there in Scotland. Francis worries about that, too.’
Grace Rose was disconcerted to hear this. ‘Why?’
‘Like me, he thinks her silence is odd. On the other hand, one must remember that he can’t stand her. He’s constantly said she’ll come to a sticky end, and I keep pointing out that he can’t possibly know that since he’s not an oracle.’
‘But I do trust him, Elizabeth. He’s a rather brilliant man, and he knows what he’s doing. He can also make clever judgements, realistic ones, about people. Take note of what he says. Remember, it could be gut instinct telling him things. I’ve always put great store in that.’
‘So have I.’ Elizabeth shifted in the chair. ‘What is it you wanted to give me?’
‘This key,’ Grace Rose replied, showing it to her. ‘It’s for the big black suitcase in the closet in my bedroom. The suitcase is full of papers, and many are valuable family documents which belonged to Edward Deravenel. In a sense, they are the history of the Deravenels, and, to some extent, the Turners as well. I thought you should be the custodian of them after I’m gone.’ Noticing Elizabeth’s anxious look, Grace Rose was swift to add, ‘Let’s just say I take great pride in our family history …’ Her voice trailed off, and she handed her the key.
‘I understand,’ Elizabeth said, putting the key safely in her handbag. ‘And I can’t wait to read them. You know how much I’ve been intrigued by the Deravenels all my life.’
At this moment Maddie, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway and told them lunch was ready. Elizabeth helped Grace Rose up out of the chair, and together they walked to the dining room.
Once they were seated, Maddie served them the cheese soufflés right from the oven, piping hot, all puffed up and brown on top in their individual white dishes.
‘They look perfect,’ Grace Rose exclaimed. ‘My compliments to the chef.’
‘That’s me, Mrs Morran,’ Maddie answered with a laugh.
Grace Rose smiled, and winked at her.
After lunch the two of them sat on the long, covered terrace overlooking the lawns surrounded by giant oak trees and sycamores which Stonehurst Farm was so renowned for. All of them were hundreds of years old and breathtaking in their dark green beauty.
They sipped passion fruit tea and talked about the Deravenel family, which had always been Grace Rose’s favourite subject. To Elizabeth she seemed preoccupied by the past, what had gone before, and more than ever. She mostly lived in the past these days, drifting along with her memories.
There was a moment or two of silence between them, and then Grace Rose suddenly said in a very clear, light voice, ‘You will be fine, my dearest Elizabeth. Whatever happens to you in your life, you will always come out on top … you’ll be the winner every time.’
Elizabeth leaned into her and squeezed her hand, so soft yet dry, like old paper. ‘I know I will, Aunt Grace Rose … because I’m a Deravenel just like you.’
The old woman smiled at her, and her face was full of love. And they sat together holding hands until Grace Rose finally roused herself. ‘I want to go inside. It’s getting too warm for me out here. Although I do enjoy seeing the garden. It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It’s lovely,’ Elizabeth responded, and helped her to her feet.
‘It’s Vicky’s garden really. My mother originally created it, you know …’ Grace Rose swayed slightly and clung to Elizabeth. In a worried voice, she said, ‘I don’t think I can make it inside.’
‘Sit down again.’ Elizabeth managed to settle Grace Rose in the chair, then stepped away, intending to fetch Maddie.
‘Don’t leave me, Elizabeth,
’ Grace Rose said in a whispery voice.
Immediately, Elizabeth sat down next to her and took her hand. ‘Don’t you feel well?’
Grace Rose smiled at her. It was the most radiant of smiles and the faded blue eyes somehow looked brighter, bluer all of a sudden. ‘I never felt better, my dear,’ Grace Rose murmured and closed her eyes.
After a moment she spoke again. ‘They’re all here with me … oh, my darling Charlie … there you are … with Bess … Father… wait for me … I’m coming to you … Charlie … wait, I’m running to your arms …’
‘Grace Rose! Grace Rose!’ Elizabeth exclaimed, leaning over her. Her great aunt was so very still, did not respond, and Elizabeth knew then that she was dead. She kissed her cheek, the tears trickling down her face, splashing onto the old wrinkled skin. Brushing her eyes with one hand, Elizabeth choked back the tears, and against her great-aunt’s face she said softly, ‘They came for you at last. All those whom you loved so much through your long life. And you have gone with them. How happy you must be now … God speed, Grace Rose. God speed.’
FORTY-TWO
‘She gave birth on Saturday night,’ Francis Walsington said, looking from Elizabeth to Robert. ‘It’s a boy … to be called James, after his grandfather James Stewart. And one day Scottish Heritage will be his.’
‘So she beat me to it. She has produced an heir,’ Elizabeth said at last. Settling back in the chair, she went on, ‘Well, some good it will do her. She borrowed trouble when she married Henry Darlay, and we’ve known that right from the beginning. And even though he is a relative of mine, through his mother who’s my cousin, this doesn’t bring her any closer to Deravenels.’ She glanced at Cecil, and finished, ‘Let’s not forget that other clause in Father’s will.’
Cecil stared back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘However much she insists she has no knowledge of that clause, it doesn’t matter. The clause is in your father’s will, you’re correct, Elizabeth, and it is absolutely clear and it’s legal. Harry Turner debarred not only foreigners from inheriting Deravenels, but his sister Margaret’s line as well. And we know he did that because he loved his younger sister better, was closer to her. Anyway she was married to his childhood friend Charles Brandt, who was actually Harry’s best friend all of his life.’
‘That is why my brother also favoured their descendants, our Greyson cousins, as do I, I’ve told you that all along,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’ve never not understood that,’ Cecil replied crisply. ‘But in any event, Marie Stewart de Burgh cannot challenge you.’
‘Cecil’s correct,’ Francis interjected. ‘And the kilt has never done anything but spout a lot of codswallop. Truly, there is no reason for you to worry. Anyway, she’s got her hands full at the moment, between Henry Darlay and a new baby, wouldn’t you say?’
Elizabeth couldn’t help laughing at Francis’s expression. It was gleeful. ‘And I actually do own sixty-five per cent of the shares. Don’t let’s forget that fact.’
‘I’m surprised she carried that child to full term,’ Robert said, glancing at Francis. ‘A lot of women would have miscarried if they’d seen their personal assistant murdered in the street before their eyes. My blood runs cold thinking about that horrendous incident.’
‘I agree,’ Elizabeth exclaimed, but then she usually did agree with Robert; they were so attuned in their thoughts. ‘Imagine, David del Renzio got mugged in front of her, stabbed to death. And his briefcase grabbed. I wonder what they imagined was in it?’
‘Money, more than likely … and the police never caught anybody,’ Francis pointed out. ‘Although Nicholas has his own ideas about that murder.’
‘Who’s taking my name in vain?’ Nicholas Throckman asked, coming into Elizabeth’s office and closing the door behind him. ‘No doubt it’s something to do with up yonder beyond the border. I suspect you’ve heard already that there’s a new heir to Scottish Heritage. As if anybody would want to inherit that company –’
‘Not doing too well, is it?’ Francis cut in, moving along the sofa so that Nicholas could join them. ‘It’s hardly worthy of the name conglomerate.’
‘Just before Marie Stewart married Darlay her half-brother was complaining to me that her knowledge of business was nil and the ideas she wanted to introduce were witless,’ Robert told them. ‘He was not happy with her interference, and he even confided that he needed to borrow money for the company.’ Robert grimaced. ‘He wanted me to recommend a bank.’
‘You should have offered to lend it to him,’ Cecil murmured, a small amused smile playing around his mouth. ‘Eventually we would have had them by the short hairs, and we could have probably taken them over,’ he finished drily.
Robert laughed, as did Francis and Nicholas, although Cecil was poker-faced.
Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘I wouldn’t have permitted that! And I wouldn’t touch Scottish Heritage with a barge pole. In fact, they couldn’t even give it to me.’ Turning to Nicholas, she said, ‘What about the murder? What did you hear?’
‘Rumours, a lot of them, about a jealous husband. But I’m sure Francis knows more than I do.’
‘Not much. It happened in March, over two months ago now, and the police haven’t come up with a thing. Naturally Darlay has been under suspicion. But there’s no evidence to show he was in any way involved. Two masked men grabbed David del Renzio, stabbed him, snatched his briefcase and ran like hell. They’d disappeared in an instant. And Marie Stewart was standing there all alone on a street in Edinburgh, her personal assistant bleeding to death at her feet. And she was pregnant to boot.’
Nicholas nodded. ‘I’ve heard stories … gossip … those Chinese whispers we loathe, and the one story which keeps going the rounds is that Darlay was virulently jealous of David del Renzio, misguidedly believed he was Marie Stewart’s lover, and hired assassins to do his dirty work. But you must remember Darlay is no longer popular, he’s turned out to be an arrogant young pup who likes his wine and his women, and can’t get enough. Marie Stewart wishes she’d remained the de Burgh widow. Apparently she regrets ever marrying Darlay, so I’ve been told.’
‘The toy boy,’ Elizabeth muttered. ‘Younger than her.’
‘And somewhat depraved, as I understand it,’ Robert volunteered. ‘Drugs, and all that.’
‘You reap what you sow,’ Cecil said. ‘Darlay will come a cropper before we can say Jack Robinson. In the meantime, I have a meeting in a few minutes. If you’ll excuse me, Elizabeth, gentlemen.’ He left for his own office.
Elizabeth now said to Nicholas, ‘I suppose what you were saying is that if Darlay is involved in del Renzio’s murder he’s probably going to get away with it. Get away with murder.’
‘Indeed. However, as I’ve said before, we must not dwell on our highland lassie. She’s no threat to you or this company, Elizabeth. Take my word for it. Today is Monday, June the twenty-first in the year two thousand and four, and you’re going to be thirty-three in September, and I guarantee you’ll grow old in that chair. You’ll still be sitting in it when you’re sixty, mark my words.’
‘Oh, Nicholas, you do make me laugh,’ Elizabeth declared. ‘There’s just nobody like you.’
There is nobody like Nicholas, that’s absolutely true. And there is no one like my dearest Robin, the love of my life. I was upset last night when we went home, because I hate violence. And David del Renzio’s murder had haunted me all that day. I kept asking myself, and then Robin later, what Marie Stewart had done to make her young husband so suspicious of her. I had no real answer to that, and neither did Robin. Except that he did eventually explain that some men are naturally jealous and suspicious of their wives, for no reason. And he also reminded me that my oddball cousin Henry Darlay had a reputation for being spoiled, arrogant and dim-witted. That he was extraordinarily good-looking attested to the bit of Turner blood he had in him, Robin also said, teasing me. But Darlay was good-looking and ambitious. And I agreed with Robin in the end that his suspicions were ridic
ulous in that his wife was so heavily pregnant. How horribly vindictive of Darlay to set assassins on del Renzio when the man was actually with Marie Stewart in the street. How easily she could have lost the baby.
A baby. Last night, after we had made love. Robin asked me if I’d ever wanted a baby. I suppose I sort of fudged the answer the best I could because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and if I’d said ‘no’ I would have done just that. Instead, I answered his question with a question. ‘Haven’t you always wanted a child?’ I said, and he admitted he had often thought about it, but added he wasn’t particularly concerned if he didn’t become a father.
He’s not here. He went to Paris this morning with Nicholas Throckman to check on Deravenels, and hopefully hire a new manager for our head office in France. He’ll be gone for a few days. And I shall look at more of the Deravenel papers and documents which Grace Rose left in my care. I can’t believe she’s been dead almost two years. I miss her.
As for Marie Stewart, I must put her out of my thoughts. I felt a degree of sympathy for her yesterday, when we were discussing del Renzio’s murder and the circumstance of it, but I think I have to set that aside. Francis reminded me that she is my enemy. And her own worst enemy, perhaps. Francis Walsington has always predicted she would come to a bad end, and Grace Rose had enormous faith in his ability and many talents. Well, we shall see. I know I’ve not heard the end of Marie Stewart just yet …
‘I think we might have to ask Norfell to step down,’ Cecil Williams said to Elizabeth, his voice low. He did not relish this discussion because it involved Robert Dunley, and he’d been putting it off for days.
‘Why? Has he been dabbling in Scottish matters?’ she asked and then chortled. ‘Hardly possible, Cecil, since madame up yonder is solely interested in her new infant.’