Being Elizabeth

Mary looked down at the red-headed child who irritated her. ‘Yes, he does. Go on, go on.’

Elizabeth ran forward down the terrace, ‘Here I am, Father,’ she called as she drew nearer to the table where he was sitting reading the morning papers.

He lifted his head swiftly, and jumped up. ‘What are you doing here? Making all this noise? Disturbing me?’

Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him. She began to tremble.

He took a step towards her, his anger apparent. He stared down at her, and his eyes turned to blue ice. ‘You shouldn’t be on this terrace, in fact you shouldn’t be here at all.’

‘But Mary told me to come,’ she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

‘To hell with Mary and what she said, and I’m not your father, do you hear? Since your mother is dead, you are … nobody’s child. You are nobody.’ He stepped closer, shooing her away with his big hands.

Elizabeth turned and ran, fleeing down the terrace.

Harry Turner strode on behind her, followed her into the Long Hall, shouting, ‘Nanny! Nanny! Where are you?’

Avis Paisley appeared as if from nowhere, her face turning white when she saw the bewildered and terrified child running towards her, tears streaming down her face. Hurrying forward, Avis grabbed her tightly, held her close to her body protectively.

‘Pack up and go to Kent, Nanny. Today,’ Harry Turner told her in a fierce voice, glaring at her.

‘To Waverley Court, Mr Turner?’

‘No, to Stonehurst Farm. I shall telephone my aunt, Mrs Grace Rose Morran, and tell her you are arriving tonight.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Without another word Avis led Elizabeth towards the staircase, cursing Harry Turner under her breath. What a monster he was. He punished the child because of the mother. She loathed him.

Elizabeth looked at the photograph again, and then threw it into the wastepaper basket. Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought, as she left the bedroom.

THREE

Elizabeth ran down the wide staircase and crossed the Long Hall, then she paused, listening. She could hear male voices in the nearby library, and hurried there at once. She pushed open the door and went in, and immediately came to a stop, taken by surprise.

Having expected to see Nicholas Throckman, she was startled by the sight of Robert Dunley. Her childhood friend, whom she had known since they were both eight years old, was standing with Cecil near the window. The two men were deep in conversation and oblivious to her arrival.

But as if he sensed her sudden presence, Robert unexpectedly swung around. Instantly his face lit up. ‘Good morning, Elizabeth!’ he said, as he strode towards her.

‘Robin! I didn’t expect to see you here!’

‘You know I always turn up like the proverbial bad penny.’ He grinned as he swept her into his arms and hugged her to him. He released her, kissed her cheek, and explained, ‘When I spoke to Cecil earlier, I asked him not to tell you I was coming. I wanted to surprise you.’

‘Well, you certainly did that,’ she exclaimed, laughing with him. Tucking her arm through his, the two of them joined Cecil.

Elizabeth was glad Robin was here; he had always been her devoted friend, and she still remembered the nice things he had done for her when she was in disfavour with her sister. She never forgot that kind of gesture. Dear Robin, so special to her.

Cecil, staring at her through those clear, light-grey eyes of his, said in a quiet voice, ‘Only a bit of minor deception on my part, Elizabeth.’

‘I know,’ she answered, smiling at him.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne? Or something else perhaps?’ Cecil asked, walking over to the drinks cart.

‘The champagne, please.’ Letting go of Robert’s arm, Elizabeth stationed herself in front of the window, gazing out at the panoramic view of the North Sea and the cream-coloured cliffs that stretched endlessly for miles, all the way to Robin Hood’s Bay and beyond.

What a breathtaking view it was, and most especially today. The sun was brilliant, the sky the perfect blue of a glorious summer’s day, and, in turn, the sea itself looked less threatening and grim, reflecting the sky the way it did. This view had always thrilled her.

‘It looks like a pretty spring day out there,’ Robert murmured, coming to stand next to her. ‘But it’s an illusion.’

‘Oh, I know that.’ She eyed him knowingly. ‘Like so much else in life …’

He made no response, and a moment later Cecil handed her the flute of champagne. She thanked him, sat down, and looking at both men, said, ‘I wonder what has happened to Nicholas? Shouldn’t he be here by now? It’s almost one.’

‘I feel certain he’ll arrive at any moment,’ Cecil reassured her. He glanced at Robert, raised a brow and asked, ‘How was the traffic?’

‘Not too bad. But Nicholas might be a bit more cautious than I am. I’m lucky I didn’t get stopped by a traffic cop. I drove like a fiend.’

‘Nicholas is bringing me the black box,’ Elizabeth announced, looking at Robert. But before he could respond, she changed the subject abruptly. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you were rather friendly with Philip Alvarez, weren’t you? Didn’t you go to Spain with him a while ago?’

Robert nodded. ‘Yes. But I can’t say I was very friendly with him. Let’s put it this way – he was always pleasant to me, and at one moment he needed advice, mostly from my brother Ambrose. Actually, we went to Spain together, to do a small job for him.’

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something and instantly closed it when she saw the warning look on Cecil’s face.

Cecil cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think we ought to get into a long discussion about Philip Alvarez at this particular moment. Robert, you might be able to shed some light on that resort he was building in Spain, so do let’s plan to have a little talk. Later. I think Nicholas has just arrived.’ Rising, Cecil walked out into the Long Hall, said over his shoulder, ‘Yes, it’s him.’

A second later, Nicholas Throckman was greeting Cecil, Elizabeth and Robert, a wide smile on his face. They were all old friends, and enjoyed being together. After accepting a glass of champagne, and raising his glass to them, Nicholas said, ‘I’m so sorry to deliver this in such an unconventional fashion, Elizabeth.’ He chuckled. ‘In a Fortnum and Mason shopping bag, of all things. But actually, this is how it came to me. Anyway, here it is.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a Fortnum and Mason shopping bag,’ Elizabeth replied as she took it from him. Placing it on the floor next to her, she lifted out the black box; holding it in both hands, she stared down at it and felt a shiver run through her. The box was, in fact, more like a jewel case, and embossed across the lid in now-faded gold letters was the name she revered: Edward Deravenel.

Placing it on her knee, with her hands on top of it, she said slowly, it in a shaky voice, ‘When I was eleven, two years after my father had accepted me as his daughter again, he showed me this box. And he told me a story about it. Or rather, about what’s inside. Come and sit down for a minute or two. I’d like you to hear what Harry Turner told me fourteen years ago.’

The three men did as she asked, nursing their glasses of champagne. All were curious, wanted to hear the story.

Elizabeth did not immediately begin. Instead she looked down at the box once more, smoothed her hand over it, seemed suddenly thoughtful, far away, lost in memories.

Robert Dunley, watching her intently, could not help thinking how beautiful her hands were, long and slender with tapering fingers and perfect nails. He had half-forgotten her lovely hands …

For his part, Nicholas was admiring her gumption and disregard for convention. Here she was, wearing a bright red sweater and matching trousers on the day her sister had died, and she didn’t give a damn what any of them thought. But that was Elizabeth, honest to the core. He knew, only too well, that there had been no love lost between the sisters, and he admired Elizabeth for not pretending otherwise.

Cecil’s thoughts were on Elizabeth’s quick, keen mind, the way she had mentioned Philip, quizzed Robert about the trip to Spain. Dunley might well be a good source of information about the disastrous investment Mary had made … he would talk to him later.

Elizabeth shifted her position on the sofa, glanced up at the painting which had hung above the fireplace here in this library for seventy years or more … The life-size portrait of Edward Deravenel … what a handsome man he had been: her father had truly looked like him, and so did she.

Focusing on the three men, she said, ‘This box once belonged to him, my father’s grandfather, as you all know.’ She gestured to the portrait, then, lifting the lid off the box, she took out a gold medallion on a slender chain and held it up for them to see. It glinted in the sunlight.

On one side was the Deravenel family emblem of the white rose and fetterlock, the rose enamelled white; on the other side of the medallion was the sun in splendour, commemorating the day Edward had taken the company away from the Grants of Lancashire in 1904. Around the edge of the medallion, on the side bearing the rose, was engraved the Deravenel family motto: Fidelity unto eternity.

‘I’m aware you’ve all seen this medallion before, as have I. But my father first showed it to me when I was eleven years old, as I just told you. He explained that his grandfather had designed it, and had had six of them made. For himself, his two cousins, Neville and Johnny Watkins, his best friend Will Hasling, and two colleagues, Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister. They were the men who had helped him take control of the company, and were devoted to him for the rest of his life. Father then went on to confide that his mother, Bess Deravenel, had actually given it to him when he was twelve … just before she died. Apparently, her father had asked her to keep it safe for her younger brother, who would one day inherit the company. Well, you know that old story about the two Deravenel boys disappearing in mysterious circumstances. My grandmother explained to Father that she had been keeping it for his elder brother Arthur, who had unexpectedly died when he was almost sixteen. And now she wanted Harry to have it, because he would become head of the company –’

‘Didn’t Bess ever give the medallion to her husband, Henry Turner?’ Robert asked, cutting in peremptorily.