Being Elizabeth

‘S
he's dead!'

Cecil Williams made this announcement from the entrance to the dining room at Ravenscar, then, closing the door behind him, he walked across to the table in a few quick strides.

Against her will, Elizabeth Turner jumped up. ‘
When
?' she asked in a voice full of sudden tension, her eyes on his face.

‘This morning, very early. Just before dawn, to be exact.'

There was a silence.

Elizabeth took tight control of a sudden rush of emotion; even though this news had been long expected, deep down she had not believed she would ever hear those words. She took a moment to absorb them, then said, ‘There's nothing much to say, is there, Cecil? Nothing at all, actually, and anyway, what would be the point? I'm not a hypocrite, I'm not going to pretend I mourn her death.'

‘Nor am I. I understand your feelings perfectly, Elizabeth.' He put an arm around her shoulder, kissed her cheek, and looked deeply into her luminous dark eyes. They were glistening with tears, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the tears were not for the deceased woman. They were, in fact, tears of genuine relief.

‘It's over, Elizabeth,' he said, very softly. ‘
Finally
. Your torment is at an end, and you're safe, secure. No one can tell you what to do, not ever again. You're your own woman, in control of your own destiny.'

The tense expression on her pale face instantly lifted, and she exclaimed, ‘Yes, I am free. Free at last! Oh, Cecil, how wonderful that thought is! Yet, do you know, I can hardly grasp it.' A quavery smile flickered around her mouth and was immediately gone, as if she was not quite convinced of her new status.

He smiled at her. ‘I believe it's going to take a few days to sink in.'

She looked at him intently, her eyes narrowing slightly. He knew her well, truly understood her, and he was correct, it would take a few days for her to truly believe that everything had changed. She took a moment to steady herself, before saying, ‘I'm being rude, Cecil. Let me get you some breakfast, you must be famished. Lucas has brought in enough food to feed an army, so what do you fancy?'

‘I
am
hungry, I must admit. But I'll help myself. Go and sit down, drink your coffee and relax. You have every reason to do so today of all days.'

Elizabeth did as he suggested, glad to sit down in the comfortable chair. She was shaking inside and her legs felt weak and unsteady. As she settled back, trying to relax, she experienced instead an unexpected sense of dread. The future loomed up in front of her; it was an unknown future.
Overwhelming
. A wave of nausea swept over her at the prospect of moving on, leaving her old life behind, grasping her destiny with both hands. All those years of sleepless nights, early risings, often before dawn. Constantly worrying, always fearful, numb with anxiety, forever apprehensive. About her sister. Never knowing … never knowing what tricks Mary would pull, what accusations the woman would level at her. She had been living on the edge … on the edge of
danger, living on her nerves for as long as she could remember. Mary had tormented her since childhood.

A moment later, Cecil returned with a plate of food, and sat down next to her. After eating a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, he remarked, ‘You must have been up when it was still dark outside. I was surprised when I found your door open and the bedroom empty at six-thirty this morning.'

‘I couldn't sleep, so I finally got up. This past week has been quite wearing, horrendous really, and I'm afraid my feelings did get the better of me … it was the endless waiting and waiting, I suppose.'

He glanced at her, his steady grey eyes searching her face. He had worried about her for years, and he would always worry about her, he was well aware of that. His devotion to her was absolute, and his one thought at the moment was to protect her at all cost. But he made no comment, merely went on calmly eating his breakfast. He was a steady, careful man, and his plans were made and in place.

After finishing her cup of coffee, Elizabeth ran a hand over her mouth, and confided, ‘I never worried about her being ill, you know. I didn't. What was the point? And, after all, we knew she was dying, that the cancer was eating away at her, that she was deluded about being pregnant. But last week … well, I couldn't help remembering things from the past. The good things.
And the bad
. From our girlhood mostly … the time when our father disowned us both. Well, we
were
close then, if only for a short while. And the rest of the time I spent with her –' Elizabeth broke off, shook her head. ‘The rest of the time was extremely difficult. She was impossible. I was the enemy in her eyes. She was so very possessive of our father.
My
mother had usurped
hers
, and I had usurped her, my father, of course, being the great prize, that great bull of a man, to be cosied up to and adored.
Unconditionally
. She was competitive and, as everyone knows, she always believed I was plotting against her.' Elizabeth
let out a long sigh. ‘No matter what, I was in the wrong with Mary from the day I was born.'

‘All that's over, don't dwell on it. You're starting a new life … this is a new beginning for you,' he said reassuringly.

‘And I aim to live my new life well,' she answered, mustering a positive tone, and stood up, crossed to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee. A few seconds later, between sips of coffee, she asked, ‘Who knows about Mary's death? Everyone, I suppose?'

‘Not quite, not yet.' Cecil looked across at the grandfather clock standing in a corner of the dining room. ‘It's not yet eight. It
is
Sunday, so I've kept my phone calls to a minimum. For the moment. Nicholas Throckman was the first one to phone me, to tell me Mary was dead, and then immediately afterwards I heard from Charles Broakes, who announced the same thing.'

Staring at him, frowning, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘Your mobile! That's how everyone got in touch. No wonder I didn't hear any phones ringing.'

‘I asked Nicholas and Charles to call me on the mobile. Why should the whole household be awakened at six in the morning?' He shook his head. ‘Like you, I hardly slept last night, I knew she couldn't last much longer. I was on the alert.'

‘I assume Nicholas is on his way here? With the black box.'

‘He is. Actually, he's had possession of the box since Friday. Mary's people sent it to him that afternoon, so that he could bring it to you immediately. They thought she was about to die that day, but it was a false alarm and she didn't. This morning, within half an hour of hearing the news, he set off. He's driving up here right now, and he asked me to tell you that he looks forward to joining us for Sunday lunch.'

She smiled for the first time in days. ‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘Sidney Payne also phoned. He was all for rushing up here, but I told him not to, explained we would be in London later in the week, and I would be in touch then. He told me three
people had called him already, so the news of Mary's death is spreading fast.' Cecil grimaced. ‘Everyone loves to gossip, to speculate, so important news spreads like wildfire.'

Leaning forward, Elizabeth asked with sudden eagerness, ‘Who are we inviting to our first meeting?'

‘Your great-uncle Howard must be there, your cousins Francis Knowles and Henry Carray, Sidney Payne should come, plus some of the board members who have long been waiting for this day.'

She nodded. ‘I know who they are, and I can't wait to see them. But what about those in the company who are against me?'

‘What can
they
do?' Cecil asked, shaking his head. ‘Nothing! They cannot challenge you, Elizabeth. You are the rightful heir to Deravenels through your father's will.'

‘They can torpedo me, work against me, trip me up, do me in, call it what you will.' She shrugged. ‘They're Mary's cronies, and they'll never like me. They never have.'

‘Who cares?
Liking you
is of no import! They have to
respect
you. That's vital, the only thing that matters. And I'm going to make damn sure they do.'

Mary Turner, her sister, was dead. No, not Mary Turner, but Mary Turner Alvarez, wife of Philip Alvarez, the greatest tycoon in Madrid, a man who had used her money, weakened her resources, then abandoned her to die alone. But that's what men did, didn't they? Used women, then discarded them. Her father had taken all the prizes for doing just that. Don't think ill of him now, Elizabeth warned herself. It was
his
Last Will and Testament that had held in the end. She was his third and last heir. And now Deravenels was hers.

Towards the end, Mary had had no alternative but to follow Harry Turner's wishes. Nonetheless, earlier there had been
desperate attempts on her sister's part to cheat
her
out of her rightful inheritance.

Mary had first named her unborn son as heir apparent, that non-existent child she fantasized about, the one she thought she carried in her swollen belly. It was not new life reclining there but an inoperable cancer.

After this had come her most brilliant brainstorm, as Mary had called it. Her Spanish husband Philip Alvarez must inherit. After all, wasn't he the most famous businessman in Spain, a seasoned entrepreneur, and who better than him to run the ancient company?

When this idea was promptly scuttled by those who
could
scuttle it, Mary had seized on their cousin Marie Stewart, she of Scottish-French descent and upbringing, a woman who was ninety per cent French, barely English at all. At the time, Cecil had wondered aloud what this Gallic vamp could possibly know about running an eight-hundred-year-old trading company based in London, one that was a male bastion of self-centred chauvinism. Nothing, they had both agreed, marvelling at Mary Turner's gall.

Marie Stewart had long claimed she was the rightful heir, pointing out that her right to inherit came through her English grandmother, Margaret Turner, eldest sister of Harry Turner. But it was Harry who represented the direct male line from his father; therefore, his offspring, whether male or female, took precedence over his sister Margaret's line. It all had to do with the rule of primogeniture and the eldest son and his descendants being the true inheritors.

Once again, this idea of Mary Turner's had been swiftly killed. The board of Deravenels wanted nothing to do with Marie Stewart, whom they viewed as the enemy for a variety of reasons. And that would always be their stance.

And so at the very end her sister Mary had finally acknowledged
her
, although not actually by name. Something seemed
to prevent Mary from doing that. But ten days ago she had sent a suitcase with one of her assistants. It contained Turner family jewels and a lot of keys, for bank vaults, safes, and various Turner homes.

Her wise Cecil had pointed out on that recent afternoon, ‘This is her
way
of acknowledging you, Elizabeth. She
is
going to fulfil your father's Last Will and Testament in the end. You'll see. Her actions are more important than any words she might utter.'

But why couldn't her sister have said her name? Why couldn't she have said my sister, my heir Elizabeth Turner? Why had she merely muttered something about Harry Turner's rightful heir?

Because she hated you, Elizabeth now thought, and she couldn't bear the idea that you were about to take her place.

Let it go, let it go
, a small voice said inside her head, and she tried to push these thoughts away. What did it matter now? Mary Turner Alvarez was dead. She, Elizabeth Deravenel Turner, was alive and well and about to become managing director of Deravenels. It was all hers now: the company, the houses, the jewels, the power and the wealth. And she wanted it. Who wouldn't want it? Also, it was hers by right. She was a Deravenel and a Turner through and through. She was Harry's girl, and she looked exactly like him. Mary hadn't resembled Harry at all. She had looked like her Spanish mother, but she had also been much smaller than Catherine – somewhat squat, and not half as pretty.

Moving across the floor of her bedroom, Elizabeth opened the cupboard door, pulled out the case Mary had sent and carried it over to the bed. She found the key for it in her desk drawer, opened the case and rummaged around, looking at some of the brown leather pouches which had engraved silver nameplates stitched on the front. One said
Waverley Court, Kent
, another
Ravenscar, Yorkshire
, a third,
the Chelsea house
, and all of them were full of keys. Then there were pouches pertaining to bank vaults at Coutts, the Westminster Bank, and Lloyds, and keys for those vaults.

Cecil had told her that these bank vaults contained Deravenel and Turner jewels, other valuables such as diamond tiaras, silver objects and tea services, canteens of silver, gold objects and ancient documents. He had pointed out that she would have to visit each bank vault when they returned to London, to check on everything as the new owner.