Being Elizabeth (31 page)

F
rom the moment they arrived at Sotheby's New Bond Street galleries Robert knew the evening was going to be unique.

It was in the air. A buzz, a sense of excitement, the undercurrent of anticipation mingled with tension, a feeling that the auction which would soon commence would be the art event of the season. For one thing, it was an
evening
auction, and word had gone out that it would be plastered with the rich and famous, and also elegance personified.

And indeed it was. The crowd milling around were the
crême
de la crême
of London society, all the women dressed in cocktail attire, the men in their best Savile Row numbers.

Within a few seconds Robert spotted many people he knew … friends, business acquaintances and colleagues. Most of the top brass from Deravenel had already arrived, and he raised a hand in greeting to Charles Broakes and Sidney Payne and their wives. He saw John Norfell talking to Jenny Broadbent, one of the top women tycoons in the City, and an art-collector of some renown, and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Mark Lott and Alexander Dawson.

Elizabeth had seen them, too, and she whispered, ‘Enemies as well as friends have gathered to see what happens to my famous art collection. And those two in particular want me to fall flat on my face.'

Robert smiled at her lovingly, and there was a great deal of confidence in his voice when he said, ‘It's going to be your evening, Elizabeth, you'll see. I told you the other day, this is your year, and Lady Luck is walking with you all the way.'

She simply nodded, made no comment, but her dark eyes were full of sparkle and anticipation.

Turning to Grace Rose, who was holding onto his arm, Robert said, ‘And you're going to be the
star
of the show, Grace Rose. You look spectacular and your sapphire earrings are … mind-boggling.'

‘Thank you, Robert, you certainly know how to make an old lady feel special. But I do believe it is Elizabeth who'll be
the
star
of this
show
, for undoubtedly it
is
going to be … quite a show.'

He laughed, and so did Elizabeth, who suddenly experienced a rush of pride in her great-aunt. Tall, slender, and straight-backed, with her shimmering silver hair and perfect make-up, she was indeed a knockout, and also the most regal woman present.

All eyes were on the three of them as they made their way to the room where the auction was to be held. As they moved along slowly, making their way through the crowds of people, Grace Rose suddenly announced, ‘I think this lot are here to buy, Elizabeth. I can smell it in the air.
Money
. And there are art-dealers I recognize from Paris as well as here. They'll buy, mark my words.'

‘I hope so,' Elizabeth murmured, glancing around, waving to her cousins, Francis Knowles and Henry Carray, and spotting her great-uncle Howard, looking for all the world like the patriarch that he was.

‘I know the global recession played havoc with the art
market a few years ago, Grace Rose,' Robert said, ‘but you told me months ago that it has gradually swung back up. It has, hasn't it?'

‘Yes. Prices have been much higher lately, and especially so when the art is really good. That's the important thing, and I personally believe the paintings Jane Shaw collected, and those she found for Edward, are of the finest calibre. Don't forget another very important thing, Robert. Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings are always in demand. I have no worries, none at all. There may be a lot of socialites here for the fun of it, but I guarantee there are many serious buyers as well.'

When they entered the large gallery where the auction was going to be held, they were given catalogues and numbered paddles, and were directed to a section of the gallery where seats had been reserved for Elizabeth and her guests.

A moment later, Marcus Johnson was heading their way, looking purposeful, his handsome face full of smiles, his entire being filled with energy and enthusiasm. This kind of evening, one on which he had worked diligently behind the scenes, was just up his alley.

After greeting the three of them, he ushered them to their seats, made sure they were comfortably settled, then leaned closer to Elizabeth. He said, ‘I've got to go and take care of the press now. Everything's set for Annabel's later. I'll meet you there, after the auction.' He gave her a huge smile. ‘And we'll celebrate.'

Elizabeth, who was unexpectedly beginning to feel nervous, even apprehensive, could only nod.

As Marcus disappeared, she looked towards the door, watched more and more people streaming in, only half listened to Robert who was talking to Grace Rose sitting between them.

She tried to take tight control of herself, feeling suddenly queasy. Nerves, she told herself, it's only nerves. Suddenly she
spotted Blanche and her brother Thomas, Kat Ashe with her husband John, and right behind them her beloved Dunleys … Ambrose and Anne, Merry and her husband Henry, and in their wake Cecil, Francis and Nicholas with their wives. The others all stood back to let Cecil, Francis and Nicholas sit in the chairs next to Elizabeth.

Staring into her face, noting its extreme paleness, Cecil Williams said quietly, ‘Don't be nervous, Elizabeth, everything's going to be all right.'

‘Once the auction starts and gets rolling I'll be able to relax,' she murmured, squeezing his hand. She made a small grimace. ‘Getting rid of all this family …
stuff
. Well, it's quite a responsibility, isn't it?' She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I bet they're all looking down at me – angrily.'

Cecil chuckled. ‘It is a responsibility, yes. But your decision was right, don't fret about that,' he answered. ‘And as you keep saying, you're doing it for Deravenels – should we ever need the money.'

Grace Rose said to her, ‘You know that the auctioneer controls the change in the amount of the increments, don't you? In other words, the price rises in increments at his will. Or drops down if he wants it to.'

‘Yes, Alistair Gaines of Sotheby's explained that to me,' Elizabeth responded. Shifting slightly in her chair, she looked at Robert, who turned, smiled. ‘It's very warm in here,' she murmured, ‘and terribly noisy, overwhelming.'

He nodded. ‘But the room is full now, and they'll be closing the doors any minute. Then the noise will stop. And the fun will begin.'

Elizabeth wondered why she had accepted the numbered paddle; after all, she wasn't going to bid. She was selling. She smiled to herself. It was a nuisance having to hold it, and she put it down on the floor, then stared at the thick catalogue on her lap. Printed across the front cover it said:
The
Deravenel–Turner Collections. Fine Impressionist and Post-
Impressionist Paintings
.

As she continued to look at it she was unexpectedly filled with a great sense of pride in her family and she completely relaxed. All the tension fled. She glanced up as the lights went off and then immediately came back on again. And there was the auctioneer standing at the podium. After bidding them all good evening, he spoke eloquently about the collection, and then gave details of the first painting to go on the block.

Elizabeth had known from the beginning which it would be … her favourite Claude Monet. She sat straighter in her seat, watching and listening attentively as the auction finally began.

Looking out into the gallery filled to overflowing with socialites, avid art-enthusiasts, potential big buyers and art-dealers from all over the world, the auctioneer now pointed to the Monet on an easel to his right. ‘And there it is, a fine example of high Impressionism. Monet's
The Small Branch of the Seine at
Argenteuil
. I will take bids.'

To the auctioneer's delight a paddle immediately went up, and he exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘I'll take the opening bid to my left. One million pounds.'

Within a split second the auctioneer's eyes shifted, settled on the centre of the room. ‘One million two hundred and fifty thousand pounds from the centre front.'

Elizabeth was clutching her hands together, looking straight ahead, her throat dry, tight with emotion. The auctioneer was going up in increments of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and she now knew how right she had been to think that this particular Monet was one of the best paintings in Jane Shaw's extraordinary collection.

After the first bid, and then the second, the price was rising
rapidly. So rapidly, in fact, people appeared to be startled. Within the next twelve minutes the price escalated furiously and the auctioneer's hammer came down as the price hit nine million pounds.

Elizabeth was momentarily thunderstruck. Reaching across Grace Rose, she clutched Robert's outstretched hand, her face radiant. ‘I can't believe it!' she exclaimed in a low, tremulous voice. ‘You were right, Robin.'

His eyes were brilliant, sparkling with the same excitement she was experiencing, and he said, ‘I told you it was going to be a huge success. Congratulations, darling.'

The excitement the two of them were feeling was running high throughout the entire gallery. There was enormous enthusiasm rippling through the room, and the bidding for the other paintings was brisk and lively. Elizabeth had put twelve paintings up for sale, and they were indeed selling. She could hardly contain herself, and she was trembling inside.

At one moment Grace Rose took hold of her hand, and murmured, ‘Fantastic, Elizabeth! My dear, you're having a most stupendous auction!' Her voice became shaky and tears glistened in her faded blue eyes, as she added, ‘Jane Shaw had wonderful taste, and all I can say is that we're all the luckier because of it.'

By the end of two hours the entire collection had been sold: her favourite Pissarro, with its red rooftops, the snow scene by Guillaumin with winter trees filled with red leaves, the two other Monets, a Manet, a Van Gogh, two Sisleys, a Rouault, and two paintings by another of her favourites, Henri Matisse. All had gone in a couple of hours and she had made millions of pounds. A sense of enormous relief flowed through her. No matter what happened, she was now certain she could keep Deravenels safe.

As the auction came to an end Robert jumped up, helped Grace Rose to her feet and then took hold of Elizabeth, held her tightly in his arms. He kissed her cheek, and whispered
against her neck, ‘You've done it, Elizabeth. And you're going to be the talk of the town.'

Leaning away from him, laughing with him, she said in that pithy tone of hers he knew so well, ‘So what's new about that?'

Cecil, Francis and Nicholas were surrounding her, offering their congratulations, and Cecil showed her his notebook before he slipped it into his pocket. She knew he had been taking his notes as usual, and smiled. The Dunleys were there a split second later, and Blanche, Kate and John hovered on the fringes with Thomas; she managed to get to everyone, to chat for a moment, to thank them all for coming and for their support.

Suddenly Marcus Johnson was hurrying towards her, escorting a man and a woman to her side. Sliding through the crush of her special friends with the greatest of ease, he said, ‘Elizabeth, could you have a few words with Phoebe Jones from the
Daily
Mail
and Angus Todd from
The Times
, please?'

‘Of course, it's my pleasure,' she answered and moved with Marcus and the two journalists to a corner of the room.

‘How do you feel, Miss Turner?' Phoebe Jones asked. ‘Excited, I'm sure.'

Elizabeth nodded. ‘I think
that
might be the understatement of the year, Miss Jones. I'm ecstatic. There's no other word to use.'

‘Did you know that a Monet entitled
The Railroad Bridge at
Argenteuil
, considered to be another prime example of high Impressionism, was sold by Christie's here in London in 1988 for twelve point six million dollars?' Angus Todd asked. ‘It was a record.'

‘No, I didn't. As you know, my painting went tonight for nine million pounds, which is approximately thirteen point five million dollars, so I'm obviously thrilled I've topped the other one sold ten years ago.'

The two journalists went on asking her questions, but eventually Marcus stepped in, apologized to them, explained that he must now bring the interview to an end.

Marcus and Robert escorted her and Grace Rose out of the crowded gallery, through the auction house and into New Bond Street. Once Robert, Grace Rose and she were in the car, Marcus said he would see them later, and closed the door. Finally Elizabeth let out a long sigh as the car pulled away, and then began to smile. And she smiled all the way to Annabel's in Berkeley Square where she was giving a celebration dinner party for her closest friends.

C
ecil Williams laughed when he walked into Elizabeth's office and saw her studying columns of figures in a black notebook. ‘Well, well, well,' he said as he strode towards her desk. ‘I see you've finally taken my advice and resorted to making notes that won't get lost.'

Lifting her head, Elizabeth gave him a big smile, nodding. ‘Robin bought me this wonderful notebook – it's called a Moleskine. A lot of renowned writers and artists have used them over the years, including Ernest Hemingway, Henri Matisse, Vincent Van Gogh and Bruce Chatwin. I have everything about the four auctions written in here, so we can confer easily and whenever you wish. Let's go over the figures now, shall we?'

Seating himself opposite her, he pulled out his own notebook, opened it and stared at the first page. Then looking across at her, he explained, ‘This is a new notebook I started just for the Sotheby auctions. Anyway, as I said to you the other day, you've done extremely well. My grand total comes to one hundred and twenty-three million pounds. My God, as I say that out loud I must certainly say that you've done
fantastically
well.'

‘I know. And if we add the price of the Chelsea house, which
I sold to Alexander Maslenikoff for seventy million, I've made one hundred and ninety-three million pounds altogether.
Gross
, of course, that's without taxes and the usual deductions.'

‘I've done all those calculations for you, and we can discuss them when Martine has a print-out for you later today. In the meantime, I must say that the auction which surprised me the most last week was the second night … the jewellery. It all went for staggering prices, Elizabeth. More than I expected.'

‘That's what Nicholas said to me, but when Robin and I started to look inside those many boxes stored in the vault at Ravenscar, we both realized that we'd fallen into a goldmine. Or shouldn't I perhaps say diamond-mine?' She shook her head wonderingly. ‘Think about some of those fabulous items that went on the block … twenty-two diamond tiaras to begin with, and the diamond necklace that came from the Royal Jewels of France … that extraordinary necklace made specifically for Empress Eugénie. That particular necklace and the tiaras went for millions and millions of pounds. And there were so many valuable rings from some of the greatest jewellers of the world – at least five fetched over a million each.' Glancing at her notebook she reminded him, ‘Twenty-six million pounds for the Deravenel–Turner jewels and eighty-two million pounds for the art, that ain't bad, is it?'

Cecil nodded in agreement. ‘Everything went at top prices. Just amazing, to me. Nine million pounds for all of the antique silver, gold plate, Georgian pieces by the great master silversmiths and goldsmiths, and the china, plus six million for the antique rugs, wall tapestries, English Georgian and fine French Furniture, and hundreds of other
objets d'art
. I must say, Elizabeth, I agree wholeheartedly with Grace Rose. There hasn't been an auction like this for many years, perhaps
ever
. Calling it the Deravenel–Turner Collections was inspired on your part, because those names helped to sell everything, in my opinion.'

‘And also very clever publicity on the part of Sotheby's,' she remarked.

‘Let's not forget that brilliant publicist you hired, Marcus Johnson,' Cecil exclaimed. ‘In my opinion, he's a past master when it comes to spin. He brought in the right crowd, created something of a furore, drummed up real interest and excitement.'

‘And I guess our family has always been linked to
scandal
, as well as money and power.' Elizabeth's mouth twitched and she couldn't help grinning as she added mischievously. ‘And
I've
been touched with scandal, too, you know. Don't forget I did my part. And scandal is always
in
.'

Cecil gave her a small smile, said quietly, ‘You know I never pry into your private affairs, but what
is
happening in regard to Robert's divorce?'

‘I don't know, and I certainly don't care. However, he is going to Gloucestershire next week to see Amy. He delayed his trip because apparently she hasn't been well.'

‘I see.'

‘Don't expect me to rush into marriage, Cecil. You know full well I have no interest in it … and that's nothing to do with my wonderful Robin … I just don't want to marry anyone.'

Deep down, Cecil Williams knew she would never change her mind. Others thought she would, but instinctively he knew differently. She was unusually obstinate, always had been and for as long as he had known her. But there was that nagging question of an heir … Who
would
succeed her if something happened to her? He had no idea; he was acutely aware that now was not the right moment to bring this matter up. Instead, changing the subject, he flicked over a few pages in his notebook, announced, ‘You owe the bank a lot, Elizabeth. The money you borrowed to open the first of the Elizabeth Turner Spas, then the second loan you took in order to purchase the Anka Palitz spas in America. I think you should pay the bank off as soon as possible, and save the money you're paying in interest. Those loans are very expensive.'

‘I was just making those calculations when you came in.'
Dropping her eyes, she looked at the second page in her Moleskine, and told him, ‘I borrowed seventy million pounds from the bank, Cecil. Ten million to start the spas here, then the fifty million pounds it took to buy Anka's spas. The last ten million I put into my own company … I needed it as operating money for the spas here and in Paris. But yes, now I can get rid of the loan, retire it at once. I'll still have plenty of money left to put away just in case Deravenels ever needs it.'

‘I have some thoughts about that. I think you should invest it carefully. No-risk investments would be the best, the safest. You simply can't have all that money not invested. It has to be earning more money for you.'

‘I know, and I was –' She stopped and looked at the door at the sound of a knock. ‘Come in,' she called as it opened.

Francis Walsington strode in and closed the door behind him, stood leaning against it for a split second.

‘What's wrong?' she asked, instantly noting the gloomy look on his face. She knew him well, could read him like a book. Even though Francis was able to keep a poker face with everyone else, he seemed unable to do so with her.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you both ought to know that another tanker has blown up. The second in three months,' he said, walking across the room.

‘Oh, my God!' Elizabeth cried.

‘Not ours,' Francis hastened to add, wanting to reassure her. ‘But it's still cause for concern, in my opinion. I don't like it … I hope we're not seeing a pattern develop here. The tanker was one of Crestoil's out of New Jersey, and it blew up off the coast of Bali.'

‘Have a lot of people been injured?' Cecil asked swiftly.

‘Crew, of course, but there's been a really nasty oil spill, and Bali is a tourist haven, as you both well know. A lot of young people head there in the summer and from all over the world. Ecological problems are possible.'

‘Do you think it's a terrorist operation?' Elizabeth stared hard at Francis. ‘I wouldn't be surprised if it was. I'm always worried about terrorist attacks and sabotage these days, especially after the Spanish explosion last year. In fact, lately I've begun to wonder if we should sell Deravco Oil.'

‘It's a good money-earner,' Cecil reminded her, knowing as he said it that she didn't need to be reminded of anything. ‘A cash-cow most of the time.'

‘I know. But I feel this constant threat hovering over us … at least in my head.' Sitting back in her chair, she continued, ‘Was it Spencer Thomas who passed on the information?'

‘No, actually it wasn't,' Francis replied. ‘I happened to turn on the television set in my office a few minutes ago and caught a news flash on CNN. I gave Spencer a buzz right away, but he's seemingly away on vacation. He'll be back next Monday.'

‘Maybe we should talk to
him
about selling?' Elizabeth said making it sound like a question. ‘What do you think?'

‘In order to sell we have to have a buyer,' Cecil pointed out. ‘But we can certainly have a meeting with Spencer, and I trust his judgement implicitly. Let's hear what he has to say about the oil business in general. He usually has tons of information at his fingertips, and especially about OPEC.'

‘Good idea,' Francis agreed. ‘In the meantime, I'll gather as much information as I can about this latest rotten explosion. And I'll have Vance Codrill focus on taking extra security measures in our tankers, although to be honest I'm not so sure there is much else we
can
do.'

‘I know you're always on top of things.' Elizabeth smiled at him, and then at Cecil. ‘Tell you what, I'm going to break my rule about not having lunch … let's go to the Caprice. My treat. To celebrate the grand success of the auctions.'

‘Good God!' Francis exclaimed, grinning at her, and strode over to the window, looked out. ‘No bloody wonder it's raining!'

‘Is it really?' she asked, making a face.

‘No,' he answered, laughter in his eyes. ‘Where is Robert? Will he join us?'

‘I'm sure he will. He'll be back soon. He went to do a small chore for my aunt, Grace Rose.' She glanced at her watch. ‘It's now eleven. Shall we head for the Caprice around twelve-thirty?'

Cecil, who had been even more astounded by her invitation than Francis, stood up. ‘I'll have Martine book a table for four,' he murmured as he left her office with Francis.

Alone again, Elizabeth sat making notations in the Moleskine. Then she added up a list of numbers, and came to the conclusion that she could easily give a million pounds to charity this year. Perhaps even more.

Opening her desk drawer, she took out a sheet of paper Merry had prepared for her and read it slowly. It was a list of charities her assistant had thought she would be interested in, and as usual Robin's sister had read her mind very well.

Staring at the list, she put a tick against the National Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children. If there was one thing she couldn't stomach it was cruelty to children. And cruelty to animals. She saw that Merry had included the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and she put a tick against this one as well.

Whenever she thought of a defenceless child or animal being deliberately hurt Elizabeth cringed, and she did so now, pushing away her dire thoughts. These two good causes would benefit from the sale of the possessions she had inherited, an incredible number of possessions and most of them no longer viable in this day and age.

She was happy she had auctioned them off; certainly the money she had made was much more useful in a variety of ways. And some of it she would give away. Oddly enough, no one had ever
thought to tell her it was right to give back, to give to others less privileged than she. She had come to that conclusion by herself when she was much younger. She had wanted to be of help to a deserving charity for a long time and now she could be, and she would.

Her mind swung to the Deravenels and the Turners who had gone before her, and in a sudden impulse she jumped up, left her office and hurried down the corridor to the board room. Opening the heavy mahogany doors, she went inside, turned on the lights.

What a wonderfully handsome room it was, with its rich, mellow antiques, glittering crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling above the board-room table, and the magnificent oil paintings on the walls.

They're
all
my ancestors, she thought, as she walked slowly down one side of the room, not really understanding who
they
all were until she read their names engraved on the small metal plates attached to the ornate gilt frames.

Moving to the other side of the room, she came to three faces she knew well: her grandfather Henry Turner, the first Turner to run Deravenels, her father Harry Turner, the second Turner to take the reins of the company, and her half-sister. After studying them for a moment, she moved on, came to a stop when she stood in front of the most extraordinary portrait of her great-grandfather, Edward Deravenel.

‘God, he was gorgeous. Very dishy!' she said out loud, and then quickly glanced around, relieved to see that she
had
closed the door behind her. And it was true; he was the most handsome of men, and the life-size portrait of him was masterful. I look like him, she thought, I really do.

Stepping back, she gazed at those three imposing paintings of her father, her grandfather and her great-grandfather, and she couldn't help wondering what they would think of her latest venture … selling off their possessions, so blithely, as if she
didn't care about their things. She did; but she had no use for them. Making sure Deravenels would always have a war chest had motivated her. Surely they would understand
that
. And she had succeeded in a most powerful way; they would admire her achievement, wouldn't they? She smiled to herself. They had been dyed-in-the-wool businessmen, and what she was doing was to simply follow in
their
footsteps. And that was the truth of it.
She
was managing director now and fully intended to be the best there had ever been.