Heirs of Ravenscar (49 page)

‘He has no grounds for divorce, it's not going to happen,' John stated flatly.

‘We've got to try and make it happen. I think we're on the line, John, seriously on the line. The firm is on the line. If we don't pull something out of the hat we may lose him as a client.'

John Upstone was taken aback. ‘After all these years? And in view of your very close relationship?'

‘Close relationships, I've discovered, don't much matter to our old friend Harry. Only Harry matters to Harry.'

‘Well, I'll endeavour to come up with something. Somehow.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Thomas murmured. Leaning forward he added, ‘Do anything. Anything at all in order to get him a divorce. Short of murder, of course.'

S
ir Tommy Morle, journalist, author, philosopher and barrister, was sitting with Harry Turner at a corner table in Rule's, enjoying an apéritif before dinner on this lovely Wednesday evening in June.

Having paid close attention to his old friend for the last half an hour, he said slowly, ‘Harry, please listen to me, and listen very carefully. This is a pipe dream, wishful thinking on your part. You cannot get an annulment. It's out of the question.'

‘That's what Wolsen told me, but some people who have been married a long time have been able to do so –'

‘Let me explain,' Tommy cut in peremptorily. ‘Under Canon Law, the grounds for an annulment are either an impediment to the union, including non-consummation of the marriage, or bigamy. Or cases of forced unions, or emotional or mental incapacity. Now, I know you and Catherine were in your right minds when you married, and
that no one forced you, and you've certainly consummated it – you have a grown daughter to prove it.'

Henry nodded, sighed, ‘I know,' he muttered. ‘Actually, I know everything. I've studied it upside down and inside out. I'm bloody stuck.'

‘You are indeed.'

‘I must have an heir, Tommy, you know that better than anyone else. You knew my father and how he was. That aside, though, I love Anne, and she loves me, and I want to be with her. I want her to have my child. My heir.'

Tommy sat back, a reflective look settling in his eyes, and then a shadow crossed his face. ‘You've asked me time and again for my advice, Harry, but unfortunately I've none to give. Not before, not now. You're married to a Roman Catholic, and one who is extremely devout.'

‘I've about as much chance of getting a divorce as a snowball in hell. I shall just have to live with Anne, and if she gets pregnant she gets pregnant. So the heir will be illegitimate.' He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He had surprised himself, and he suddenly grinned at Tommy and added, ‘There! I've finally said it. This is the only solution. We'll live together.'

‘No, it's not really the only solution. You could give Anne up, and accept the fact that you do actually have an heir,' Tommy retorted, but his tone was mild.

‘You mean Mary?'

‘Yes, I do. She is your legitimate heir.'

‘But she's a girl. I want –'

‘Better not let today's emancipated females hear you say that quite so scathingly. They'll have your guts for garters. This is 1970, not 1907. We're living in a new age … an age of modernity. And a lot of women are taking the reins of power in companies. And also in politics. I'm certainly keeping an eye on that young cabinet minister, Margaret Thatcher.'

‘Those in the know say she's going places,' Harry murmured. ‘I agree with you about keeping an eye on her.'

Tommy suddenly smiled. ‘She's going to the top, I'd say. She might even be Prime Minister one day, and in the not-too-distant future.'

‘A woman as Prime Minister?' Harry shook his head, looking sceptical. ‘I'm not too sure of that, not too sure at all.' He laughed.

Tommy laughed with him. ‘Everything is possible in this world.'

‘Except a divorce from a Catholic.'

‘Too true.' Tommy picked up his glass of whisky and took a sip, and went on, ‘The world is moving at a rapid pace these days, Harry. You never know what might happen. Catherine might say yes. Who would have ever thought that we'd put a man on the moon, two men to be exact … Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. But it happened, the Americans did it last year … such a remarkable feat. So in my opinion, anything's possible.'

‘Did you know that the maiden name of Buzz Aldrin's mother was Moon?'

‘I certainly didn't! What an extraordinary coincidence,' Tommy said, and raised his glass. ‘Here's to Miss Moon, whose son walked on the moon. Now, getting back to women in business, what
about
Mary?'

‘My daughter hasn't shown any interest in the business, Tommy. Look, I'll grant you that Edward Deravenel made it possible to place a Deravenel woman in the top job at Deravenels, but I don't think Mary would want it, actually. She's more interested in art and music.'

‘Most young women are interested in art, music and the like, but she may well have a head for business. Have you ever asked her about joining the company?'

‘No, I haven't, and anyway, I believe that a woman must
want
to go into business in order to be a success, don't you agree? And there
would
be opposition.'

Tommy nodded. ‘And a woman ought to be ambitious as well, if she's going to succeed.'

Wishing to move away from the subject of Mary, not really wanting to continue it, Harry now said, ‘Anne is ambitious.'

Don't I know that, Tommy thought, but did not say. He merely sipped his whisky and looked contemplative. Anne Bowles was the most ambitious, tough, scheming, determined, clever woman he had ever known. He did not like her, and deep down he did not approve of Harry's liaison with her; he much preferred the sweeter, quieter Catherine. But he was Harry's friend, and he remained true and loyal to him, and he hoped he would be able to influence his friend, steer Harry in the proper direction whenever he deemed it necessary.

Harry touched Tommy's arm, and said, ‘Come back, Tom, you're drifting. Anne has a very good business head, as I was saying. The antique shop in Paris has been doing extremely well lately, and so has the one here in London. She has quite the most extraordinary taste. And a superb eye. She's very talented, even though I do say so myself.'

Tommy was saved the problem of thinking up an appropriate response when two waiters arrived with the first course: smoked trout, fresh from the highland streams of Scotland, to be served with creamed horseradish sauce and thin slices of brown bread and butter.

‘Now doesn't that look appealing, rather tasty, I must say,' Tommy murmured, glancing at Harry, hoping Anne Bowles would not continue to be the topic of conversation over dinner. It was the most boring subject he could think of and Harry was relentless when he got going.

Having said the words aloud to Tommy over dinner, Harry Turner felt more confident with the idea of living with Anne. Actually, he had never been diffident about this; it was Anne who was the problem. She seemed to find this step a difficult one to take. But he could persuade her, he felt quite certain of that.

It was Charles Brandt who had helped him to sort things out in his own head on the drive from Yorkshire. And it was Charles who had listed the inducements he could use to tempt Anne, convince her that he would never abandon her, no matter what.

When he went to Paris on Sunday to join Anne and celebrate his fortieth birthday, he would present everything to her. How could she resist what he had to offer her … so many material benefits as well as himself. It was a
fait
accompli
. He truly believed that.

And he could say to Anne, in all truth, that he had made a last-ditch effort, had talked to Thomas Wolsen yet again, and had dinner with him to discuss the great matter of the divorce. On Saturday, before he went to Paris, he would swallow his pride, take a deep breath and go to have a birthday tea with Catherine. But that would not be the real purpose; once more, and for the last time, he would ask his wife to set him free. If she refused, then he would take matters into his own hands, and set up house with Anne. But, at least by seeing Catherine, he could inform Anne truthfully that he had done his damnedest to get a divorce.

Rising, Harry walked across the library to the drinks' table in the corner, poured himself a cognac. Carrying it back to the sofa, he sat down, sipping it, drifting with his thoughts.

Eventually, his eyes moved up to regard the painting over the fireplace … the famous Renoir of the two auburn-haired sisters. It had been hanging here in the Berkeley Square house for many years, ever since Edward Deravenel had bought it
because it reminded him of his daughters Bess and Grace Rose.

At the thought of Grace Rose Harry smiled to himself. She was his favourite aunt … still alive, seventy years old now and acting half her age, a remarkable writer of bestselling historical books. And her husband Charles Morran was fit and strong, and something of a living legend now in his eighties. What a wonderful actor he had been, a star of the London stage, and on Broadway.

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.