The Ravenscar Dynasty. Barbara Taylor Bradford

      ‘I expect so, and George, too, and you yourself, Dickie boy. When you’re old enough. That’s what Papa wants, that we all should be Oxford-educated. Does that suit? Would you like to go? To be an undergraduate?’

      ‘Oh, yes, I really would. Why does everyone call it the city of dreaming spires?’

      ‘Because there are so many churches and buildings with spires and they look beautiful in the light.’

      ‘It’s very old, isn’t it? Meg told me it was.’

      ‘It is indeed. Twelfth century.’

      ‘Can I come and visit you one day, Ned? Please. I would like to see everything at Oxford. Will you take me to see everything?’

      ‘Of course, old chap, and especially the Bodleian, that’s my favourite.’

      ‘What is it, Ned, the Bodleian?’

      ‘A library, a very lovely and very ancient library.’

      ‘Oh, I’d love to see it! Meg told me that in the Civil War Oxford was the Royalist capital, and that it was besieged by Cromwell’s parliamentarians, but it wasn’t hurt by them.’

      ‘That’s correct.’ There was a knock on the door and Edward called, ‘Come in.’

      The door opened and Jessup, the butler, entered, inclining his head. ‘Master Edward, please excuse me.’

      ‘Yes, Jessup?’

      ‘Your mother wishes to speak with you. She’s awaiting you in the library.’

      ‘Thank you, Jessup. You may tell her I shall be down in a few minutes.’

      ‘Mrs Deravenel did ask me to say that it was a matter of some urgency, Master Edward.’

      ‘Very well. Then I shall come right away.’

      The room wasn’t quite right. There was something curiously wrong about it.

      Edward stood in the doorway of the library, hesitating, not wishing to enter.

      It was far too dark, darker than usual, and this was not normal. It wasn’t like his mother not to have the electric lights blazing; she loved sunshine and brightness, which was why she had had the electricity installed in the first place.

      Only two small lamps were turned on in the vast room, even though it was late afternoon and gloomy as dusk descended outside. The shadow-filled room seemed decidedly odd to him, off-kilter. Unexpectedly, he was filled with sudden unease, felt a sense of desolation, and even of foreboding enveloping him.

      Opening the door wider, he finally went inside, peering ahead in the dim light. He could make out his mother standing next to a high-backed wingchair at the far end; behind her, wrapped in shadow, a figure lurked, stood staring out of the window, his back to the room. Edward couldn’t discern who it was.

      Slowly he approached his mother, his mind racing, every one of his senses alerted to trouble. Fear, he decided, fear is present here, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck at this unexpected and irrational thought.

      Taking a deep breath, he murmured, ‘You wanted to see me, Mother.’

      She said nothing.

      Stepping over to the fireplace, Edward switched on a lamp standing on a small occasional table, turned to his mother. He noticed how dark her eyes were and huge in her face, and how they were filled with apprehension.

      Alarmed, he stared at her more intently, waiting. Now he realized her face was without expression, wiped blank, or so it seemed to him, and it looked as if it had been carved from stone. She was very pale, all the colour had drained away.

      ‘What has happened? What is it?’ he pressed, his voice sharp, rising and filling with urgency.

      A shudder rippled through her and Cecily reached out, gripped the back of the chair as if to steady herself, her knuckles gleaming whitely in the faint glow from the lamp.

      Edward felt that fear spreading out from her, touching him, and he asked again, ‘What’s wrong?’

      In a rush of words she said in a low, tense voice, ‘It’s your father…there’s been an accident. A fire. Your father…and Edmund.’ She stopped, choked up, finished bleakly, ‘They’re both dead, Edward.’ Her voice broke, but she somehow managed to keep a strong hold on her emotions. In a wavering voice, she managed to say, ‘My brother and your cousin Thomas…they, too, were killed in the fire.’

      Stupefied, disbelieving, Edward gaped at her. He found it hard to take it in, couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. He was frozen to the spot where he stood, unable to move or speak.

      The figure near the window turned around and walked forward. Immediately Edward realized it was his cousin Neville Watkins, eldest son of Rick and brother of young Thomas.

      ‘I brought the bad news, Ned,’ Neville announced, his voice thick with emotion. The cousins clasped hands for a moment, and Neville exclaimed, ‘It was I who brought death and sorrow here!’

      Edward shook his head vehemently. ‘No! It’s just not possible,’ he cried. ‘Not my father. Not Edmund. Not Uncle Rick and Tom. It simply can’t be, not our family gone like that in the blink of an eye.’

      Cecily’s heart clenched at the sight of Edward’s pale and stricken face, the tears welling in his eyes; his devastation was palpable to her. Although she shared his overwhelming pain and sorrow, his utter disbelief that this tragedy had occurred, at this moment she thought only of her son. ‘How can I comfort you?’ she asked, shaking her head helplessly. Tears began to seep out of her eyes, slid down her cheeks unchecked.

      Edward did not respond. He was rendered speechless by the news. She knew he was in shock just as she was herself.

      It was then that Cecily Deravenel uttered the words Edward would never forget for the rest of his life. ‘Oh, Ned, Ned, has no one ever told you that life is catastrophic?’

      For a long moment he was transfixed, staring at her, and then he swung around and rushed out of the library without saying a word. All he knew was that he had to get away, escape this death-laden room. He had the desperate need to be alone in his terrible grief.

      Edward half stumbled across the Long Hall, making for the double doors that led to the garden. Once he was outside he fled down the paved path, through the tiered gardens, past the lawns until he at last arrived at the ruined battlements of the old stronghold on the promontory at the edge of the cliffs.

      The sea fret had lifted. It had begun to snow and the tiny crystalline flakes stuck to his face, his burnished hair. He barely noticed. He was oblivious to the weather in his anguish.

      Ned stood in the small, round enclosure which had once been a watchtower looking out over the North Sea. He pressed his face against the cold stones, his mind in a turmoil. How could they be dead? His father, his brother, his uncle and his cousin. It didn’t seem possible. And it certainly didn’t make sense…how had they all died together? Where had they been? When had it happened? Tragedy had struck not once but four times.

      Papa is dead. And Edmund. Only seventeen…my lovely brother, so special, so full of promise for the future. And Tom, cousin Tom, with whom he had grown up. And Uncle Rick, the only other senior member of their closely-knit families, whom everyone depended on. They had all been constant, loyal to each other.

      Papa and Edmund. Oh, God, no. His throat closed and tears flooded his eyes as grief finally engulfed him.

      A bit later he heard a step on the cold stones, felt a warm cloak go over him, a comforting arm slip around his shoulders.

      ‘Weep, grieve, let it come out, Ned,’ Neville Watkins murmured against his ear. ‘As I did last night.’