His mother had told him all about Charlie, and his ruined face, badly burned in the First World War, and the work done on it by plastic surgeons; how Grace Rose had befriended him after the untimely death of his wife Rowena, of cancer. Eventually Charlie and Grace Rose had married, much to the delight of the famous Amos Finnister. It was not long after their marriage that Amos had died, and his mother had explained, ‘Because he could let go at last, Harry. You see, he knew his beloved Grace Rose would always be safe with Charlie.’
Yes, Bess Deravenel Turner, his extraordinary mother, had been the most amazing storyteller, filling his head with fascinating tales of the Deravenels, instilling in him the history of the family. She never stopped reminding him that he was half Deravenel, half Turner, and that there must always be Deravenel blood in their great trading company.
She and his father had founded a new dynasty, the Turners, but his mother had kept the Deravenels alive in his head. Bess had been the one who had brought him up with his younger sister Mary, and she had been by far the greatest influence on him.
Harry had loved his father but they had not been all that close. Henry Turner had been struggling to keep Deravenels on an even keel and safe, during the years of his growing up. His father had carefully steered the company through the problems of the great Wall Street crash, the Depression in America and Great Britain, and the troubled times in the thirties, not to mention the Second World War. Because of his many business burdens Henry had very frequently been an absentee father, dealing with pressing matters, leaving the rearing of his four children to Bess.
Shifting on the sofa, taking a sip of the cognac, Harry thought now about his parents’ marriage. It had been happy, even though it had been an arranged union, cobbled together by his two grandmothers, Elizabeth Deravenel and Margaret Beauchard Turner.
There had never been a hint of infidelity on either of their parts, and when his elder brother Arthur had died unexpectedly his parents’ shared grief and sorrow had united them even more. He and his sisters Margaret and Mary had rallied around them as they had all mourned this terrible loss. And that was when he had become the heir apparent, and the one designated to take over Deravenels after his father.
When his mother had died at the age of thirty-seven, in childbirth, his father had been inconsolable, as they all had. For Bess to die so young was the biggest tragedy in the family; he had never ceased to miss his mother, and her golden visage, her lovely laugh, her positive attitude about life. It had been Grace Rose who had comforted him the most. Like his mother, Grace Rose had worshipped her father Edward Deravenel, and so she had become the keeper of the flame once his mother was gone.
What extraordinary dramas they had all lived through, these Deravenels … Jane Shaw, his grandfather’s mistress, grieving herself to death, leaving all of her money and possessions to Bess and Grace Rose when she had passed away not long after Edward. And then there had been the trauma his mother had experienced after the mysterious murder of her uncle. Richard seemingly had meant a lot to her. And there was the peculiar and even more mysterious disappearance of her brothers, who had never been found dead or alive. How strange that was. Another unsolved crime.
Elizabeth Deravenel’s lonely life after her husband’s death had haunted his mother. He had never liked her actually; nor had he liked his other grandmother, Margaret Beauchard Turner. She had tried to control and manipulate him when he was growing up, but he had managed to slip out of her clutches. Ever since then he had disliked strong, powerful, conniving women.
On the other hand, he had genuinely liked his other aunts, his mother’s late sisters Cecily, Anne, Katharine and Bridget, whom his mother had taken care of as best she could. His father had not always been kind enough to the Deravenel women in his opinion, and he had always resented his father’s attitude because it had hurt his mother.
His mind went back to his mother’s brothers, and after a moment, remembering something, he put the brandy balloon on the coffee table, hurried out of the library and up the grand staircase.
Once he was in his dressing room, Harry opened the safe, found the black leather box, opened it and lifted out the gold medallion. It had belonged to his grandfather; his mother had held it in safekeeping for her brother Edward, because it was his by rights. But Young Edward had never worn it … because he had disappeared at the age of twelve. It was his now. His mother had given it to him, and told him its history and why it was made.
Harry turned it in his hands … There was the sun in splendour on one side, an enamelled White Rose of York on the other, and inscribed around the edge was the Deravenel family motto: Fidelity Unto Eternity.
He held it for a long time, thinking of his mother, the power of the Deravenels and the immense power that Edward Deravenel had wielded. And he made a promise to himself at that moment. Once he had settled matters with Anne he would find a way to make Deravenels even greater … He would be the true inheritor, in the image of his grandfather.
FIFTY-SEVEN
From the moment he arrived at Catherine’s mews house off Eaton Square, Harry wished he had not come. The house, although of good size, somehow made him feel claustrophobic, and he had the terrible urge to flee immediately.
But he knew he could not. He had to stick it out, stay at least for a couple of hours. The thought of this made him shrivel inside; he had nothing whatsoever to say to her anymore.
He had not seen Catherine for almost eight months, and now he found it hard to accept the change in her appearance. She was forty-five, five years older than him, but she looked like a woman in her sixties. The red-gold hair of her youth had turned to a dull blondeness shot through with grey, and her once luminous light-blue eyes, always so expressive, seemed faded and without lustre. She was also far too thin, even scrawny.
As she led him into the drawing room he could hardly believe she was the beautiful young woman he had married over twenty years ago. Spanish by birth and of parentage, she had inherited the English rose complexion and colouring of her mother’s great-grandmother, who had been an Englishwoman from the aristocracy, but the Englishness of Catherine’s vivid looks had faded away altogether. She had become … drab.
‘You’re staring at me, Harry,’ she said as she seated herself in the chair opposite him. ‘Do I have a dirty smudge on my face?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ he exclaimed, caught short, and went on swiftly, improvising, ‘You look much thinner, that’s all, and I wondered if you’d been dieting again?’ He made this last remark sound like a question. ‘You shouldn’t, you know.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I’m not dieting, Harry.’ She wanted to add she was simply missing him, fretting over him, but she could not. She was not going to demean herself before him.
As if he could read her mind, he felt a surge of kindness, of tenderness flood him, and he smiled at her. ‘You must tell me if there’s anything you need, Catherine, and let me help you. I don’t want you to feel neglected.’
She gaped at him, utterly astounded by this comment, and before she could stop herself, she exclaimed, ‘Of course I feel neglected, Harry! I never see you, nor does Mary. We both feel neglected, actually.’
Realizing his mistake, knowing he had only himself to blame for opening up this aspect of her life, he had the good grace to look chagrined. ‘I’m sorry. It’s business. You know full well how I become so terribly embroiled with my projects.’ He sighed, feeling guilty.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and then glanced over her shoulder as the housekeeper came in carrying a large tea tray. ‘You can put it here on the coffee table, please, Mrs Aldford,’ Catherine said, and added, ‘Thank you very much.’
The housekeeper smiled at her, nodded to Harry, deposited the tray and hurried out.
Catherine looked across at Harry, continued, ‘Yes, I do know that business has always been your first love, Harry. You never let anything or anyone get in the way of it. And since you ask, I think it would be nice if Mary and I had somewhere to go in the summe
r months … perhaps a cottage by the sea?’ She focused her eyes on him, her face taking on a sudden hardness as she stared at him intently.
‘You can have Waverley Court, if you want. I’ll sign the deeds over to you immediately.’
Her face lit up for a moment, and then it fell. ‘At what price?’
‘A divorce, Catherine. Surely you know the answer to that.’
‘I do. And you know my response. It is not possible. However, I do have all of the jewellery you gave me when we were married, some of your family heirlooms, some of your mother’s jewels, and I’m planning to put them up for auction. Or perhaps I’ll sell privately. In that way I will be able to buy a country place for your daughter – and myself.’
His chest tightened, and he felt a sudden sense of guilt … about her. He had once been madly in love with Catherine, and she with him; she had been his brother’s widow, married only a few months to Arthur, and then Arthur had gone and died on her. Eventually, his father had suggested he marry Catherine, the widow. He hadn’t minded that at all. He had been in love with her since he had been a boy and had walked behind her down the aisle where his brother stood waiting to marry her. And so they had married, had a happy life together; it had been happy, there was no denying that. He and Catherine had shared so much, had held the world in their arms for quite a while; after the miscarriage of a son, one that had been so longed for, they had finally had their baby girl, Mary, and had been full of joy.
But no other children had come along … In fact, they had been dogged by stillbirths and miscarriages. It had broken Catherine, to a certain extent, he knew that. Because it had also affected him. Sadly, her inability to provide a son had eventually turned him away from her. Harry Deravenel Turner needed and wanted a male heir, most desperately, and apparently his wife could not give him what he longed for.
In the most calculated way, he had moved on. And one day his eye had been caught by a darkly beautiful young woman, a woman fifteen years his junior, whose enticing smile and come-hither looks had ensnared him. And once he had tasted her charms he was lost forever. There was only her, his Anne …
Harry leaned back on the sofa, watching Catherine pouring the tea, as always graceful, genteel; she was, without question, also a cultured and educated woman, one from whom he had learned much during their marriage. They had always been compatible, at ease with each other, and there had never been any major rows or quarrels. Their shared interests had given them great pleasure. But slowly Harry’s life had eroded, as had his love for his wife.
Deep within himself he had known the inevitable would happen and it did. He fell so deeply in love with the alluring sloe-eyed beauty, Anne Bowles, he could not let her go. Her sexuality lured him. She exuded sex, in fact; He was under her spell. Catherine had had no chance, no chance at all, once he had been inveigled into Anne’s possessive arms, suffused in her sexuality, thrilled by her desire for him, a willing partner in bed, a great companion out of it.
As all of these thoughts were running through his head, Catherine was thinking about the man who sat opposite. Her beloved husband. He had put on weight, and although he could carry it with his height, he looked much better when he was trimmer, in her opinion. But, despite the added weight, he had not lost his looks: he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen, with his red-gold hair and blue eyes, his height, his broad chest and long legs. He was powerful, charismatic.
She looked at him surreptitiously, and remembered how their colouring had once been the same. She wondered now why Mary had turned out to be just the opposite of them, with her dark hair and eyes? A throwback to her Spanish forebears, perhaps.
Harry Turner was a tycoon, one of the world’s great entrepreneurs, but she hadn’t read much about him lately in the newspaper. Now, as she handed him the cup of tea across the coffee table, she asked, ‘How’s business at Deravenels, Harry? No big deals in the offing?’
Taking the tea from her, he made a face, looked regretful. ‘No, there’s nothing much happening, Catherine, but you know me, I’ll make it happen. And soon. I’ve got my eye on a couple of companies.’
‘Looking to take them over, are you?’ she said, and sipped her tea, then gestured to the small almond cakes. ‘Those are your favourites, Harry.’
‘I know. Macaroons. Did you make them yourself?’
‘Yes, just for you, for your birthday.’ There was a pause, and she went on, ‘You’re good when you take companies over, you know. You’re not an asset-stripper, thank God. You make them work.’
He stared at her, his eyes narrowing sharply. He had forgotten how she had enjoyed talking about his business with him, and what a good understanding she had had of it. He thought of his daughter then, and remembered Tommy’s words. He said, ‘Where’s Mary, by the way? I thought she would be here for my birthday tea.’
‘She’ll be down in a moment. She wanted to give us a little while to be alone together. A chance to talk.’
‘I see.’ After eating two macaroons, and swallowing the cup of tea, he said, ‘I’ve been wondering … what do you think she wants to do? Has she any thoughts about a career?’
‘She’s interested in art, as you well know, Harry, but at the moment she hasn’t settled on anything in particular. Perhaps you should talk to her.’
He nodded. ‘I will, when I get back from Paris.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘To celebrate your birthday, I presume.’ She threw him an icy stare.
Automatically, he shook his head. Why wave a red rag in front of a bull, he thought and said, with a light smile, ‘No, no, not at all. I’m going to Paris on business. Rather pressing business, in fact.’
Catherine merely nodded, and then she glanced over at the door swiftly, a smile bringing a sudden radiance to her face.
Harry followed the direction of her gaze, and there was his daughter Mary – slender, tall, and quite beautiful. She walked into the room, carrying several gift-wrapped packages, and her smile was wide, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
He smiled back at her, discovered he was pleased to see her.
She said, ‘Hello, Father, I’m so glad you’re here. Happy Birthday for tomorrow!’
‘Come here, sweetheart, and give your father a kiss.’ As he spoke he stood up, opened his arms to her.
Putting the birthday presents on a chair, Mary ran into her father’s welcoming arms and clung to him for a moment, filled with love for him.
Harry stayed on for several hours, enjoying Mary, and even Catherine at times. She had always managed to entertain him; and frequently she made him laugh this afternoon. At one moment he could not help thinking that if Catherine had been able to give him a son and heir he would have never left her. They would have been a happy family, and his life would have been very different. And so would hers. They would have all bypassed tragedy.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Paris
Anne Bowles walked swiftly down the avenue Montaigne, looking for a taxi. Although she was not aware of it, preoccupied as she was by business, she cut quite a swathe, and people glanced at her admiringly as she swept past them. She was simply dressed in tight black jeans, a white cotton shirt, high-heeled black sandals and large pearl earrings. On her shoulder was slung a wide black cloth satchel and she carried a white-leather quilted Chanel bag.
Simply dressed though she was, she had, nonetheless, a certain unique style and an undeniable Gallic chic, quite aside from her unusual and striking looks. Her dark hair was long, falling almost to her waist, and she had coal-black eyes in an arresting finely chiselled face. Women found her elegant and wanted to emulate her, copy her style; men found her sexy and alluring and wanted to get her into their beds.
When a taxi came to a screeching stop next to her she jumped in and gave him the address of her destination in perfect French.
Whatever else she was, Anne Bowles was a genuine Francophile. She had lived in Paris, on and off, ever since she was a
very small child. Taken there by her parents when she was a baby, along with her older sister, she became bilingual; certainly French was her preferred language and Paris her ultimate place to live.
When her father, a British diplomat, had been posted back to England, the family had returned to London, a city where she had immediately felt somewhat out of place, uneasy even. Within a few years she was back in the City of Light studying art history at the Sorbonne; later, after graduating, she had opened an antiques shop on the Left Bank, and within two years another one in London. Now she commuted between the two cities, relying on her brilliant assistants, one in London, the other in Paris. In the last year she had branched out, become an interior designer by popular demand.
Today she was on her way to the seventh arrondissement, which was the area of the city she loved the most. So much so, she was hoping one day to have an apartment in the seventh. For the moment she lived in a relatively modern building on the avenue Montaigne, a choice made because Harry liked to stay at the Plaza Athénée Hotel. Since this was located on the avenue, it was easy for him to move between the hotel and her flat, which is what he liked to do.
Her mind settled on her newest client, a charming American woman called Jill Handelsman, who had recently bought a beautiful flat in the rue de Babylone. Jill had hired her to do the design and decoration, and she was thoroughly involved in it at the moment. Her client had good taste and a genuine love of French antiques, and they had taken to each other at once, were enjoying working together. Jill’s husband was in the fashion business in New York, and because he was spending a great deal of time in France these days the couple had decided to buy a place in Paris.
This afternoon she was going to go over fabric samples with Jill, and also walk her through the floor plans. The placement of furniture was vitally important to Anne, and she wanted the pieces Jill had bought from her to be shown off properly, to the greatest advantage.