Being Elizabeth (27 page)

‘I always rather liked Mary,' Alexander announced, and then absently glanced around the Grill Room of the Dorchester Hotel. ‘Bloody hell, talk of the devil!' he suddenly exclaimed. ‘There she is. Elizabeth. Over there. And who's the handsome guy she's with? Don't tell me she's ditched Dunley for an older man? That would be a belly laugh indeed.'

‘That's Marcus Johnson, you twit, the famous PR man. I was at Eton with him. His father's Lord Johnson of Beverley. A Yorkshire family with pots and pots of it. And as far as I know, he wouldn't be interested in her. Marcus has different interests … he used to have anyway.' Mark sat back and smiled at Alexander. ‘He's married though. Now, getting back to the spas. As I just said, they're going to cost a lot of money, and she's borrowed ten million pounds from the bank. Now tell me this, my lad. What if the spas fail? Who pays back the money? Elizabeth or the company? My guess is the company, because she won't have the money to repay the bank loan.'

‘No, no, you're wrong.' Alexander shook his head, his
expression vehement. ‘You're forgetting she's going to make at least fifty to seventy million pounds on the Sotheby's auction of those antiques and possessions she's inherited from the Deravenels and the Turners.'

Mark frowned, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you certain of that, Alex? It seems an awful lot of money to me. What on earth is there to sell? Do you know?'

‘Yes, I do. Because it just so happens that my niece works at Sotheby's, and I was staying with her parents in Hampshire last weekend. She was there, too, and she made mention of the auction. She says it's the biggest auction Sotheby's have had in many years, and that the stuff is simply marvellous. A lot of diamond tiaras and mind-boggling jewellery, but mostly she raved about the art. Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings that will go for millions.'

‘Get on with you!'

‘It's
true
,' Alexander insisted. ‘Believe me, it is, Mark. Elizabeth's fallen into a sweet pot of shit, and the art is extremely valuable. Apparently a great deal of it came from Edward Deravenel's mistress, a woman called Jane Shaw. Matisse, Manet, Monet, Van Gogh … big-name artists. In fact, my niece, Venetia, told me the first estimates are now considered too low, and the auction house is currently re-adjusting them.'

‘So what you're telling me is that she's not vulnerable after all?' Mark's brow lifted. ‘That we can't topple her?'

‘I didn't say that. She's vulnerable all right. I was just pointing out that the spas will
not
be her downfall. But perhaps something else will. You never know. Come to think of it, Robert Dunley might well bring her down. There are plenty of people gunning for him in the company. And the gossip about them is still rampant.'

Drawing closer to Alexander, Mark asked, ‘Who's gunning for him? Do tell.' He grinned maliciously.

‘Norfell,' Alexander said sotto voce. ‘And he has his own axe
to grind, believe you me. He's got his feet in both camps, of course.'

Baffled, Mark frowned, and muttered, ‘Who's really gunning for him?'

‘If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.' Alexander sat back as the waiter arrived with a plate of oysters, and said no more.

Once Mark had been served his plate of smoked salmon, he probed, ‘What camps? Tell me, for God's sake! What's the big secret?'

‘To be honest, Mark, I'm not sure of my information. I'd be guessing, and that's not fair, now, is it?'

Mark Lott, much shrewder than his colleagues, knew that Alexander Dawson was lying, and so he persisted. ‘Come on, give me a clue at least. Then we can all join forces and push Elizabeth Turner over the cliff.'

Alexander threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then once he had settled himself, he said in a voice that was almost inaudible, ‘I had a great-uncle, now dead, whose own uncle had been at Deravenels in the early part of the century. He was head of the mining division at one moment in time. He died suddenly in strange circumstances, in fact his sudden death always remained something of a mystery. My great-uncle seemingly suspected that his uncle was murdered, and by someone from the Edward Deravenel clique within the company. He always tried to find out about that death, said he wanted to take his revenge.'

‘And did your great-uncle work at Deravenels, Alexander?'

‘Indeed he did, in the mining division, and he was actually named for his uncle who had died so oddly.'

‘What was his name?'

‘He was called Aubrey, after his uncle Aubrey Masters, but he was a Dawson actually. His name was Aubrey Dawson.'

‘I see. And did your great-uncle Aubrey get his revenge?'

‘Oh, no, it was too late by then. Years passed and everyone forgot. He remained unmarried and when he died he left me his shares in Deravenels. It was through his connection to the company that I got my job here. I love this conglomerate and I
will
protect it.'

‘I got my job through my father, who worked for Harry Turner, and my grandfather was on the board when Henry Turner was running the company. But I think you knew that.'

‘Yes, I did. Old company hands, that's us. And let's keep this sacred conglomerate safe, especially from meddling female hands,' Alexander responded.

‘You bet we will,' Mark assured him, and marvelled at the way Alexander had changed the subject so adroitly.

Cecil Williams glanced up when there was a knock on the door of his office, and Francis Walsington walked in swiftly, closing it behind him.

‘Francis, hello! I didn't expect to see you in the office today. I thought you were taking a long weekend.'

‘I was, but I changed my mind and my plans. Because of this.' Leaning forward, Francis placed a folded piece of newspaper on Cecil's desk, then sat down in the chair opposite him. ‘Read and digest
that
.'

Cecil stared at him, frowning in concern, noting the gravity of Francis's voice, and picked up the newspaper. It was a page from the business section of the
International New York Herald
Tribune
, published in Paris. He scanned it quickly, exclaimed, ‘You think that François and Marie de Burgh are referring to Deravenels, is that it?'

‘Well, they certainly don't have their sights on Marks and Spencers, that's for sure. Read the second sentence again, and read between the lines, Cecil.'

Nodding, Cecil perused the newspaper story. It was an interview given by François de Burgh and his wife Marie Stewart de Burgh, and when he came to the particular paragraph Francis was referring to he read it out loud. ‘My wife and I are planning to expand Dauphin, which is what my father had intended to do himself before his tragic and fatal accident. We wish to take the Dauphin conglomerate worldwide, and our first priority is to stake a claim in the UK. To that purpose we are planning to take over an existing business which has a global span and one which we can fold seamlessly into Dauphin.' Cecil sat back in his chair. ‘I guess you're right, he is referring to Deravenels. But we all know they can't take us over. They don't stand a chance.'

‘However, they can create a lot of noise in their attempts, point fingers at us, damage our reputation, or at least endeavour to do that.' Francis grimaced. ‘It's what we've always known, actually, you and I … that Marie genuinely believes she has a right to Deravenels. She's deluded, of course. She has no right at all. Nonetheless, she plans to attack us, in my opinion.'

‘But only
verbally
!' Cecil looked across at his colleague, and added, ‘She can do only that, nothing else. Elizabeth owns a hell of a lot more shares than she does, therefore she has the power.'

‘That's true, and we're a private company with a number of strange rules made over the centuries that truly protect us from marauders. And few know of the existence of those rules. On the other hand, some people who don't particularly care about Deravenels do own shares, as you are aware, Cecil. And they might be tempted to sell their shares to Marie. For the right price. A very high price.'

‘I agree with you. But to my knowledge no one ever sells their Deravenel shares. In other words, there's not much trading in them, if any at all. How did you come across this story? Do you subscribe to the
Herald Tribune
, Francis?'

‘No, but I shall do so from now on with those two loose
cannons spouting off in Paris. A friend called me from Paris this morning and read the story to me, then faxed it. But it was a poor fax, I could hardly read it, so I sent someone out to buy the paper. Shall we go along and show it to Elizabeth?'

‘I think she ought to read the paper for herself, yes. There's no point in keeping it from her out of protectiveness,' Cecil answered. ‘She'd have our guts for garters if we did. However, she's not here. She did something she rarely ever does, she actually went out to lunch today with the PR man she's hired, Marcus Johnson. We'll have to wait until she gets back.'

‘Did Robert go with them?'

‘No. He's in his office. Let me give him a buzz.'

Several seconds later Robert Dunley came into Cecil's office, a concerned expression clouding his eyes. ‘What's wrong? What is it?' he asked as he strode over to Cecil's desk, put a hand on Francis's shoulder to acknowledge him, took a seat in the other chair.

Cecil handed him the page from the paper. ‘Read that.'

Robert did so, looked first at Cecil and then at Francis. ‘We've always known she'd make her move one day. This is sooner than I thought, but with her father-in-law dead, she and the husband are in full control of the company. Mmmmm.' He brought a hand to his chin, rubbed it, and then handed the paper back to Cecil. ‘There's nothing we can do about this. Except shut her up. But quite frankly I just don't think that's possible.'

Turning to Francis, he said, ‘What's your opinion?'

‘The same as yours. We've been talking about her making problems for us for ages, but we never did anything.'

‘There was nothing we could do,' Cecil pointed out.

‘Elizabeth has to be shown this when she gets back,' Robert said. ‘She has to know.'

‘We agree.' Francis sat back in the chair, staring into space, a reflective look in his eyes. He finally said, ‘I think we can put François de Burgh on notice that we know his intention and
that he has no chance of succeeding because of our complex company rules. Let's nip this in the bud, even threaten to send in lawyers if we have to.'

‘That's a good idea, Francis, and perhaps you ought to deliver the message in person. Why don't you go to Paris to see de Burgh?' Robert suggested.

‘Why not?' Francis answered. ‘We must talk to Elizabeth first, though.'

‘I
took your advice and hired Marcus Johnson,' Elizabeth announced, smiling at Grace Rose as she settled on the sofa.

Her great aunt sat up straighter and returned her smile. ‘Clever girl!' she exclaimed. ‘You won't regret it, I can assure you of that, my dear. He's going to handle publicity for the spas, I presume?' Turning to the small table next to her chair, Grace Rose picked up her glass of white wine and took a sip.

‘The spas and also the auctions, if I need additional publicity,' Elizabeth explained. ‘Sotheby's will do a fine job, I'm sure, but I want to cover every angle, leave nothing to chance. Anyway, I've met him several times, and today we sealed the deal. He took me to lunch at the Dorchester to celebrate.'

‘Good Lord, that's almost a first, isn't it? You having a business lunch?'

Elizabeth couldn't help laughing. ‘Just about, yes,' she admitted.

The two women were sitting in the drawing room of Grace Rose's flat in Belgravia, and as usual they were completely at ease with each other. Looking across at Elizabeth, Grace Rose saw how well she looked, and smartly dressed in a pale grey
suit with a white blouse, pearl earrings, and her string of lustrous white South Sea pearls.

‘I'm glad to see you wearing the pearls,' Grace Rose remarked. ‘I know your half-sister sent them over with other jewellery when she was dying, but, in fact, they originally belonged to Jane Shaw. I remember when my father gave them to her.'

‘Oh, how wonderful,' Elizabeth exclaimed, her hand going to her throat, touching the pearls. ‘I never knew that. But then why would I? There was no explanation or papers with any of the jewellery Mary sent.'

‘In her will, Jane Shaw left them to your grandmother, Bess Deravenel Turner, and of course Bess left them to your father. But I never saw any of his wives wearing them.'

‘Neither did I. And I just fell in love with them when I came across them in the suitcase. I'd no idea of their history … they're so much more meaningful now.' Elizabeth touched the pearls again, continued, ‘Come to think of it, though, I do have a vague memory of my stepmother, Catherine Parker, once wearing a string of large pearls like these at a dinner my father gave at the Ritz Hotel. It was one Christmas. Perhaps Catherine got to wear them for a while.'

‘I hope so, and I hope she wore them whenever she could. Pearls
must
be worn, always remember that, Elizabeth. Don't hide them away in the safe. They need light and air, and they must be allowed to breathe. Pearls that are stored away for years can suffer damage. They can crack, even crumble. And incidentally, my father told me that those pearls he bought for Jane, which you are now wearing, are flawless. And very, very valuable.'

‘I'm glad I wore them today, and that you told me all this, Grace Rose. Not only am I glad to know the history behind them, I also appreciate the information you've given me about how to look after them.'

After taking a sip of champagne, Elizabeth added, ‘And Edward Deravenel certainly had good taste, didn't he?' As she spoke her hand went to the pearls again and she fingered them lovingly.

Grace Rose nodded. ‘My father had a great eye, and for just about everything, including women. As did your own father, when it came to women. When you phoned you said you wanted to talk to me about Harry.' Grace Rose, her head on one side, eyed Elizabeth with curiosity. ‘What about him, Elizabeth?'

‘His treatment of me when I was a child. You're the only person alive who can actually give me an insight into his behaviour. Yes, Kat Ashe, and Blanche and her brother, Thomas Parrell, all knew him, but not in the way you did, nor did they see him very often. I have a
need
to know … I'm troubled by it, and let's face it, I
was
a tormented child.'

‘Indeed you were, and I frequently said that to Harry. He verbally, psychologically and emotionally abused you, Elizabeth, and I once told him he ought to be horsewhipped for treating you the way he did. It was unconscionable on his part.'

Elizabeth felt herself letting go of the tension inside her, and she leaned back in the chair, relaxing. ‘I'm glad to hear you say that, because it's what I have come to believe… yet sometimes I doubted myself, wondered if I was exaggerating it in my own mind. You see, I do love him and I certainly admire his achievements. But why do I
love
him, Grace Rose, when he behaved so badly? Or does the abused
always
love the abuser?'

‘
You
love your father because you
forgave
him, Elizabeth. When you were nine, going on ten, his whole attitude towards you changed, and therefore so did yours. Now you're suddenly re-examining those early years, and I think there must be a good reason.'

‘Robin wants to marry me when he's divorced. But I don't want to get married to anyone. That's nothing to do with Robin personally. And I think I've made him understand that. But he says my reluctance to marry has to do with my father, that Harry set a terrible example and turned me off marriage.'

‘I think that perhaps Robin has a point.' Grace Rose gave her a sharp look. ‘I tend to agree.'

Elizabeth merely nodded.

‘Let's get to the crux of this, Elizabeth, which is why did Harry treat you so badly? In my opinion it was because of his own turbulent emotions about your mother, Anne.'

‘He did love her very much, didn't he?' Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, an anxious look on her face.

‘Harry was besotted with her, and waited a long time to marry her. Because Catherine, his first wife, was a Roman Catholic she didn't believe in divorce. Finally they were able to marry, and after waiting so long for a son he was shattered when Anne's child was a girl.
You
. He was bitterly disappointed, wretched, even grieving in a way, though he put a good face on it. Then Anne had one miscarriage after another. She couldn't even bring a child to full term, never mind deliver a male heir. I think he began to hate her as much as he loved her. And he resented her career, resented that she went back and forth between London and Paris, running her interior design business. I suppose he grew suspicious of her, convinced himself she had a lover – which I don't believe for one moment that she did. It was all in his imagination. He was overwrought at a certain point. I remember quite well that he was putting on weight, eating and drinking too much, and being exceedingly impossible with everyone. Charles often commented about him.'

‘So, disappointment at not getting a son and heir turned to bitterness, then became anger, and finally
hatred
of my mother. Is that what you're saying, Grace Rose? And also
hatred
of me?'

‘I am saying that, Elizabeth, yes. Most especially when you were a toddler. Because you had her dark eyes, certain mannerisms which he associated with her even at your tender age. Then suddenly she was dead, gone from him, and he was grief-stricken. Whatever you think you know, believe me, he was. Whenever he set eyes on you something terrible must have erupted in him.' Grace Rose shook her head. ‘There was no excuse for him. He
was a grown man and he was your father. But then who can explain human behaviour?'

‘I think you just have, Grace Rose, and thank you for trying to explain Harry to me. I did forgive him years ago, that's true. And actually I began to hero-worship him, in a sense, even though it was your father Edward Deravenel whom I held in my head … as a role model … That's the best way of putting it. Robin believes my father traumatized me because of the way he treated his women. No, I should say his
wives
. He says Harry's horrible cruelty to them has ruined me for marriage.'

‘And do you think that?' Grace Rose asked, peering at her.

‘I'm not certain, to be honest. I do know that I became very independent, have tried to be a brave and strong woman, because for much of my life I've had to fend for myself.
I'm in control
. And I don't want anyone else controlling me. Nor do I wish to be someone's appendage. I like being Elizabeth. I like being me.'

‘I understand that, and I tend to agree with you. We must be true to ourselves, be who we are.' Grace Rose paused thoughtfully, then asked, ‘Is Robert pestering you to marry him? Is that what this is all about?'

‘Not really. He did propose. However, he does understand. Grace Rose, I hurt him, hurt his feelings last weekend. And I guess I've been dwelling on that rather a lot.'

‘My advice to you is to take it one step at a time. Robert's still married, so he can't marry
you
at this moment. When he's free, think about it all again. Discuss it again. Is he prepared to live with you without the benefit of marriage? And are you?'

‘Yes, we both are.'

‘Then let matters rest as they are. For the moment.'

‘All right, Francis, I'll tell her,' Robert Dunley said, ‘and stay in touch.' He listened attentively as Francis Walsington added a
few words about the stance he would take in Paris, and said goodbye, clicked off his mobile phone.

He climbed the few steps of the building in Chester Street where Grace Rose's flat was, and pressed the intercom button. He gave his name to the disembodied voice that answered and was immediately buzzed in. A few seconds later he was being shown into the drawing room where Elizabeth was sitting with Grace Rose.

‘Darling, there you are!' Elizabeth cried when he walked in, and jumped up, ran to kiss him.

‘Francis got the appointment with the Dauphin people,' he said against her neck. ‘He's off to Paris tomorrow, and they'll meet first thing Monday.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.' Taking his hand she led him to Grace Rose, who beamed with pleasure at the sight of him.

Bending over her, Robert kissed her on the cheek, then stood away, gazing at her. ‘You're a wonder! A genuine wonder, Grace Rose,' he said, meaning every word. ‘I'd never guess your age. You look absolutely glorious. And I do like your dress. It suits you, and the delphinium blue echoes the colour of your eyes.'

‘My, my, Robert Dunley, you're just too charming for words.' She squeezed his arm, and added, ‘Help yourself to a drink, it'll be quicker if you do it. There's champagne and all the usual on the table over there.'

‘Champagne it is, thank you.' He strode across the floor, asking, over his shoulder, ‘Do you need topping up, Elizabeth?'

‘No, but thanks anyway.'

Grace Rose said, ‘Before I forget, Elizabeth, there are two gifts in my den. For your birthday and Robert's. Would you mind getting them, my dear?'

‘Of course not. Back in a jiffy.' Elizabeth stood up and went out, saying to Robert as she passed him, ‘I won't be a moment, Robin.'

He nodded, went and sat with Grace Rose. ‘Sad business,
Princess Diana's death, wasn't it?' he remarked, putting his glass down on the coffee table. ‘A national tragedy.'

‘Indeed it is,' Grace Rose responded. ‘People are still in shock. They just can't quite comprehend it, and the extent of the grieving is most extraordinary. The English must've changed, showing their feelings in this way. The flowers outside the gates of Kensington Palace are rapidly growing into a …
mountain
.'

‘I know. I saw the news on television this morning, and it's just amazing.'

‘What is?' Elizabeth asked as she came back into the drawing room, carrying two small, gift-wrapped packages, which she placed on the coffee table.

‘The mountain of floral tributes to Princess Diana being left outside Kensington Palace,' Grace Rose explained. ‘Now, to the gifts. The smaller package is for you, Robert, and it comes with much love. The other one is yours, Elizabeth dear.'

‘Thank you so much,' Robert said. ‘Can we open them now, or do we have to wait?' He grinned at her.

Grace Rose chuckled, throwing him a fond look. ‘I think I've heard you ask that question before. Many times, in fact, when you were a small boy. And of course you can open it, and you too, Elizabeth.'

‘I shall. Anyway, I think it's rather nice to open our gifts from you when we're with you,' Elizabeth murmured, ‘Especially since we've cancelled the little dinner party we'd planned for Sunday. Neither of us was in the mood, under the circumstances.'

‘I understand. The whole country's in mourning.'

Robert said, ‘You open your present first, Elizabeth.'

‘All right, I will.' Reading the card, smiling and tearing off the silver paper, she found herself holding a black leather box. It was obviously a jewellery box, old and a little worn, the leather scuffed in places. Elizabeth lifted the lid and gasped as she stared down at the diamond brooch. ‘It's simply beautiful!' she cried. ‘I love these flowing, old-fashioned bows. Thank you
so much.' Jumping up, she went to Grace Rose and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I love it, I really do.'