Being Elizabeth (2 page)

Placing the brown leather pouches to one side, Elizabeth smoothed her long fingers over several red leather boxes from Cartier, then opened them all. One contained a superb diamond necklace, the next a pair of extraordinary emerald-cut emerald earrings, and the last a huge sapphire-and-diamond pin. The jewellery was not only fabulous, but obviously from the 1930s, and suddenly she couldn't help wondering which member of the family had bought such gems. And for whom. She also wondered if she would ever wear any of it. Perhaps not, but she would certainly wear the South Seas pearls she had examined with Cecil the other day.

Taking the pearls out of their black-velvet case, she held them up to the light. How lustrous they were … truly lovely. Yes, these she
would
wear.

After returning everything to the suitcase, she locked it and put it back in the cupboard to be dealt with later. There were more pressing things to do in the next few weeks. The bank vaults would have to wait, and so would the two houses, Waverley Court and the house in Chelsea, the house where Mary had lived for some years, and where she had died today. Later this week her sister would be buried in the family cemetery here, at Ravenscar, where all the Deravenels and Turners were buried. There was the funeral to think about and to be planned, people to be invited.

Elizabeth sat down at her desk, opened her diary and turned the pages, came to the page for today:
Sunday, November seventeenth,
1996
. At the top of the page she wrote:
My sister Mary
Turner Alvarez died at dawn this morning. She was forty-two
years old
.

Sitting back in the chair, staring at the wall, Elizabeth's mind raced. Going to Deravenels and taking over the running of the company terrified her. But she had no choice. How would she cope? What would she do first? How would she and Cecil implement her plans? And his, which were complex? She had no idea how she would manage. She had worked at Deravenels off and on since she was eighteen, and had grown to love the company until Mary had kicked her out last year. She was about to go back and run it. She was only twenty-five years old, and basically inexperienced. But she had to do it; she would just have to manage. Most importantly, she
must
succeed.

Elizabeth knew one thing – she had to prove to those who worked there that she was not like her sister, who had been incompetent and arrogant. It was bad enough that they were misogynists; Mary's lousy performance had simply underscored their inherent belief that women were not meant to be executives within that age-old trading company, that place of male supremacy.

I have to do it. I don't have a choice. I must be strong, tough,
clever. And, if necessary, devious. I have to win. I want to win.
And I want Deravenels. I want it all. It was left to me. I must
make it great again
.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth put her arms on the desk and rested her head on them, her mind still racing, plans evolving in her fertile brain.

C
ecil Williams sat at the Georgian partners desk in the spacious study, a room which had been occupied by Deravenel and Turner men for many centuries.

Elizabeth had insisted he use it when he had come up to Ravenscar several weeks ago, since she herself preferred the smaller office which opened off the dining room. He knew she had always loved Ravenscar, the beautiful old Elizabethan house on the cliffs at the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, and over the years she had been able to make it her own. Her sister Mary had loathed the house for some reason and had never spent any time here, preferring to be in London.

More fool her, Cecil thought, glancing around the beautiful room, admiring the fine, mellow antiques, the Moroccan-leather-bound books, and portraits of Deravenel men from long ago, and Turner men of more recent years. There was even a portrait of Guy de Ravenel, founder of the dynasty, the Normandy knight from Falaise who had come to England with William the Conqueror. It was he who started the trading company which had eventually become Deravenels, now one of the most famous global conglomerates and on a grand scale.

Dropping his eyes to the desk, Cecil concentrated on his notes about the events of the day so far, also jotting down the names of everyone he had spoken to since six o'clock that morning.

Elizabeth occasionally teased him about his perpetual note-taking, but it was his way of ensuring he remembered absolutely everything pertaining to business. He made his notes religiously every day, and he had done so since his school days. He had continued this practice as a student at Cambridge, then again when he was studying law, and later, when he began to work at Deravenels, first for Edward Selmere, then for John Dunley.

He had found it hard to break the habit; long ago he had decided he shouldn't even try. It was useful, and very frequently it had given him the advantage in business. He always had his notebook and could quickly refresh his memory. Not many other people could do it quite so easily.

At thirty-eight Cecil was fully aware that he was now at the crossroads of his life, and that Elizabeth Turner was at the same point. Her sister's death at an early age meant that she was in control of this vast business enterprise; he also knew she considered him her trusted right hand and expected him to guide and advise her.

He had left Deravenels five years ago, understanding that he would never be able to work easily with Mary Turner. They were poles apart, thought differently about everything, and, when she came into her inheritance and took the power, he quietly departed, went to live in the country. But for a number of years he had helped manage some of Elizabeth's personal business affairs, and had continued to do so, along with her accountant, Thomas Parrell.

The sky's the limit, he decided, his spirits lifting. We
can
pull it off; we
can
revive Deravenels, bring it back to what it was when her father reigned supreme. After Harry's death things had grown a little shaky; that was everyone's opinion, not only his.

Elizabeth's brother Edward had inherited Deravenels, but he was only a schoolboy, and obviously could not run it. So his
maternal uncle, Edward Selmere, had become administrator, following Harry's instructions laid out in his will.

But Selmere had eventually blotted his copy book and was given the sack by the board, and John Dunley had taken over. He was another old hand at Deravenels, as his father Edmund Dunley had been before him.

John Dunley had managed to hold the company steady for the boy Edward, and he had helped, working closely with John. But with Edward's death at sixteen and the advent of Mary Turner, so much had gone terribly wrong. She had managed to damage the company, badly but not irretrievably. He hoped.

Cecil sat back, considered Elizabeth. He believed her to be one of the most brilliant people he had ever met. Apart from having had a superb education, and having shown her true mettle when working at Deravenels, she was fortunate in that she had inherited her father's intelligence, his shrewdness and perception, especially about people. Furthermore, she also had Harry's business acumen, and his ruthlessness. The latter was a trait she was certainly going to need when she was running Deravenels, starting next week.

Elizabeth was the Turner most like her father in character, personality and looks; neither her late brother Edward, nor the newly-deceased Mary had resembled him very much.

There was a light knock on the door, and it flew open to admit Elizabeth. She hovered in the entrance, flanked by the large portraits of her father and great-grandfather which hung on either side of the door.

‘Am I disturbing you?'

He shook his head, rendered mute for a split second.

The sun was streaming in through the windows, bathing her in shimmering light, and the vividness of her colouring was shown off to perfection – her glorious auburn hair shot through with gold, her perfect English complexion, so fair and milky white, and her finely-wrought features reminiscent of the
Deravenels. She was the spitting image of both men; the only difference was her eyes. They were a curious grey-black, whilst Harry Turner's and Edward Deravenel's were the same sky blue.

‘What is it? You're staring at me in the most peculiar way,' said Elizabeth, and walked into the study, her expression one of puzzlement.

‘Three peas in a pod,' Cecil answered with a faint laugh. ‘That's what I was thinking as you stood there in the doorway. The sunlight was streaming in, and the marked resemblance between you and your father and great-grandfather was …
uncanny
.'

‘Oh.' Elizabeth turned around, her eyes moving from the portrait of her father to the one of her great-grandfather, the famous Edward Deravenel, the father of Bess, her paternal grandmother. It was
he
she admired the most, he who had been the greatest managing director of all time, in her opinion … the man she hoped to emulate.
He was her inspiration
.

‘Well, yes, I guess we do look as if we're related,' she answered, her black eyes dancing mischievously. Taking a seat opposite Cecil, she went on, ‘Just let's hope that I can accomplish what
they
did.'

‘You will.'

‘You mean
we
will.'

He inclined his head, murmured, ‘We'll do our damnedest.'

Shifting slightly in the chair, Elizabeth focused her eyes on Cecil with some intensity, and said slowly, ‘What are we going to do about the funeral? It
will
have to be here, won't it?'

‘No other place but here.'

‘Have you any ideas about who we ought to invite?'

‘Certainly members of the board. But under the circumstances, I thought it was a good idea to turn the whole thing over to John Norfell. He's one of the senior executives, a long-time member of the board, and he was a friend of Mary's. Who better than him to make all the arrangements? I spoke to him a short while ago.'

Elizabeth nodded, a look of relief on her face. ‘The family chapel holds about fifty, but that's it. And I suppose we'll have
to feed them –' She shook her head, sighing. ‘Don't you think it should be held in the late morning, so that we can serve lunch afterwards and then get them out of here around three?'

Amused, Cecil began to chuckle. ‘I see you've already worked it out. And I couldn't agree more. I hinted at something of the sort to Norfell, and he seemed to acquiesce. I doubt that anyone even really wants to come up here in the dead of winter.'

She laughed with him and pointed out, ‘It's so cold. I put my nose outside earlier, and decided not to take a walk. God knows how my ancestors managed without central heating.'

‘Roaring fires,' he suggested, and glanced at the one burning brightly in the study. ‘But to my way of thinking, fires wouldn't have been enough … we've got the central heating at its highest right now, and it's only comfortable.'

‘That's one of the great improvements my father made, putting in the heating. And air conditioning.' Rising, Elizabeth strolled over to the fireplace, threw another log on the fire, and then turning around, she said quietly, ‘What about the widower? Do we invite Philip Alvarez or not?'

‘It's really up to you … but perhaps we should invite him. Out of courtesy, don't you think? And look here, he was always well disposed towards you,' Cecil reminded her.

Don't I know it, she thought, remembering the way her Spanish brother-in-law had eyed her somewhat lasciviously and pinched her bottom when Mary wasn't looking. Pushing these irritating thoughts to one side, she nodded. ‘Yes, we'd better invite him. We don't need any more enemies. He won't come though.'

‘You're right about that.'

‘Cecil, how bad is it really? At Deravenels? We've touched on some of the problems these last couple of weeks, but we haven't plunged into them, talked about them in depth.'

‘And we can't, not really, because I haven't seen the books. I haven't worked there for four and a half years, and you've been gone for one year. Until we're both installed, I won't know
the truth,' he explained, and added, ‘One thing I do know though is that she gave Philip a lot of money for his building schemes in Spain.'

‘What do you mean by a lot?'

‘Millions.'

‘Pounds sterling or euros?'

‘Euros.'

‘Five? Ten million? Or more?'

‘More. A great deal more, I'm afraid.'

Elizabeth came back to the desk and sat down in the chair, staring at Cecil Williams. ‘
A great deal more?
' she repeated in a low voice. ‘Fifty million?' she whispered anxiously.

Cecil shook his head. ‘Something like seventy-five million.'

‘I can't believe it!' she exclaimed, a stricken look crossing her face. ‘How could the board condone that investment?'

‘I have no idea. I was told, in private, that there was negligence. Personally, I'd call it criminal negligence.'

‘Can we prosecute someone?'

‘She's dead.'

‘So it
was
Mary's fault? Is that what you're saying?'

‘That is what has been suggested to me, but we won't have the real facts until we're in there, and you're managing director. Only then can we start digging.'

‘It won't be soon enough for me,' she muttered in a tight voice. Glancing at her watch, she went on, ‘I think I had better go and change. Nicholas Throckman will be arriving here before we know it.'

Elizabeth was in a fury, a fury so monumental she wanted to rush outside and scream it into the wind until she was empty. But she knew it would be unwise to do that. It was an icy morning and there was a bone-chilling wind. Dangerous weather.

And so instead she rushed upstairs to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, fell down on her knees and pummelled the mattress with her fists, tears of anger glistening in those intense dark eyes. She beat and beat her hands on the bed until she felt the anger easing, dissipating, and then suddenly she began to weep, sobbing as if her heart was breaking. Eventually, finally drained of all emotion, she stood up and went into the adjoining bathroom where she washed her face. Returning to the bedroom she sat down at her dressing table and carefully began to apply her make-up.

How could she do it? How could she tip all the money into
Philip's greedy outstretched hands? Out of love and adoration
and wanting to keep him by her side? The need to keep him
with her in London? How stupid her sister had been. He was
a womanizer, she knew that only too well. He chased women,
he had even chased her, his wife's little sister
.

And the duped and besotted Mary had poured more money
into his hands for his real estate schemes in Spain. And without
a second thought, led by something other than her brain. That
urgent itch between her legs … driving sexual desire … how it
blinded a woman
.