Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

Rose gave Elizabeth a long thoughtful look, finally remarked, ‘Everyone fell under his spell. Fatal charm, that’s what he had. In abundance. And he was a loving, generous man, and dependable.’ A small sigh escaped her, then she straightened, and continued in a brisker tone, ‘We’re the last, you know, you and I. The last of the Deravenels.’

      Elizabeth nodded, afraid to say one word, afraid to remind her great-aunt that she was also a Turner, not wishing to offend her.

      It was as if Grace Rose had read her mind, when she went on swiftly, ‘Oh, I know, you’re a Turner. But your father Harry did not resemble them. And neither do you. His genes and yours come from Bess Deravenel, my half-sister and your paternal grandmother. She and I were both redheads like you, you know.’ Grace Rose patted her hair. ‘It’s silver now but it was once a shimmering red-gold.’

      Turning slightly on the sofa, Grace Rose shuffled some folders and documents, which were sitting atop an occasional table standing next to her. She found what she was looking for … a silver-framed photograph. Handing it to Elizabeth, she explained, ‘This is Edward with your grandmother and me … that’s me on the left. It was taken in 1925, about a year before our father died.’

      Elizabeth had not seen this photograph before, and she sat holding it in both hands, gazing at it for a moment. Her grandmother Bess and Grace Rose looked very much alike, and both young women bore a strong resemblance to Edward. They were very beautiful. She said, with a wide smile, ‘There’s certainly no doubt who fathered the two of you! Or from whence I come, either!’

      Grace Rose smiled, looking pleased, and asked, ‘Could you put the photograph back, over there on the console table, please, Elizabeth. There’s a space where it usually stands.’

      Elizabeth nodded and rose, walked across the room to the console table between the two tall windows, and put the frame in its given place, then returned to the seating area in front of the blazing fire, settled in the armchair.

      The two women were sitting in the elegant drawing room of Grace Rose’s flat in Chester Street, in the heart of Belgravia. It was a spacious room, and Elizabeth had always thought it charmingly decorated, with its restful cream, pink and green colour scheme, lovely antiques and extraordinary art. Grace Rose had quite a special and unique collection, and Elizabeth had always admired the paintings on these walls and in the other rooms.

      On various tables around the room, arranged in groups, were photographs of the entire Deravenel family, the Turners, and also of Grace Rose’s late husband, the famous actor Charles Morran. Vases of flowers abounded, and the warm air was redolent with their fragrances mingled in with the faint scent of the potpourri Grace Rose favoured, made by nuns in Florence, which she bought at the Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella.

      Once Elizabeth had finished her tea she placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table, and broke the silence when she ventured, ‘Kat told me you needed to see me, Grace Rose.’ She gave her aunt a questioning look.

      ‘Yes, I do.’ Grace Rose focused her faded blue eyes on Elizabeth. ‘You’ve led an extreme life, and I suppose it will continue to be extreme, given the circumstances.’ A puzzled expression struck Elizabeth’s face and she responded, ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean by extreme.’

      ‘Exactly that. Everything about your life so far has been extreme. Different from most people’s. Unusual. Not standard. Mine was like that, too.’ Leaning forward again, touching Elizabeth’s hand lovingly, she continued, ‘Your mother died when you were a very small child. You barely knew her. Your father behaved in the most abominable manner, heartlessly shunting you around among us, and cutting you off. Shunning you. I loved Harry from the day he was born. He was the son of my favourite sister, and yes, I spoiled him, it’s true. But I grew to truly dislike him over the years, especially when he became a man. And not the least because of the way he treated you. His behaviour was appalling, quite unconscionable, and I told him so. Of course he didn’t want to hear that.’

      Elizabeth nodded, and then asked quickly, ‘He didn’t own Stonehurst Farm, did he?’

      ‘That’s correct. I did offer it to him as a gift, but he didn’t want it because he preferred Waverley Court. There was also another reason. Your father was reluctant to take on the burden of the upkeep … of the house and the grounds. So I kept it, and Charles and I continued to go there at weekends. After my husband died I felt very lonely there without him. However, I love Stonehurst. I grew up there, and so I’ve never sold it. Somehow I just couldn’t let it go to strangers.’

      ‘How did it come about that Mary lived at Stonehurst for the last few years? Did she also think it was hers and that Father had owned it?’

      ‘Yes, she did, I’m afraid. I immediately explained the situation, enlightened her. But she really did want to spend weekends there and so we came to an arrangement. I agreed to pay for the upkeep of the house and the entire property, and she said she would be responsible for paying the wages of the staff. Unlike you, and your father before you, Mary did not seem to care for Waverley Court, for some reason.’

      Oh, I know all the reasons, Elizabeth thought, but said, ‘I went to Stonehurst Farm on Friday, because I truly thought it had passed on to me, that now I owned it. I had no idea it was still yours. But the way Briney spoke, I began to realize that you were still very involved with the house, and I was puzzled. I somehow felt it must be yours.’ Looking apologetic, Elizabeth finished, ‘I feel awful about intruding the way I did.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, you weren’t intruding, and neither was Kat when she went over there last week. Anyway, you’re family and you can go there whenever you wish.’

      ‘I just don’t understand … about Father, I mean, and why he let us believe he owned Stonehurst Farm.’

      ‘I did offer to give it to him, Elizabeth, and he was extremely flattered and pleased about my gesture. But then he discovered how expensive it was to run, and finally he … declined my offer. I think what happened is that Harry had told everyone I was giving him Stonehurst, boasted perhaps, but then never bothered to explain he hadn’t accepted my gift, or why. Perhaps he was embarrassed.’

      Elizabeth pursed her lips. ‘I believe you’re right, but how odd of Father to do such a thing.’

      Grace Rose said briskly, ‘I needed to see you, to talk to you about something which troubles me, but before we get to that, can I ask you a few things?’

      ‘You can ask anything you want.’

      ‘Is Deravenels going under?’ Grace Rose’s eyes were riveted on Elizabeth.

      ‘No, it isn’t. Absolutely not. Cecil Williams and I have been on top of things for two weeks, and we’re sorting out the problems. We are positive we can solve them all.’

      Grace Rose nodded. ‘Are you saying Deravenels is going to be safe?’

      ‘I am indeed. I promise you it will be safe, and that it will be even bigger and better.’

      ‘Mary made a mess, didn’t she?’

      ‘She did.’

      ‘She gave a lot of money to Philip Alvarez.’

      ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said laconically, her annoyance about this suddenly apparent.

      ‘Deravenel money?’

      ‘Yes. She invested millions in his Marbella Project. But I can assure you we’re dealing with the matter. We’ll either get our full investment back, or we may take over the project. It doesn’t seem to be going well for Señor Alvarez. We’re currently investigating the situation.’

      ‘I have faith in you and Cecil.’ Grace Rose gave Elizabeth a shrewd look. ‘Did she give him any of her own money?’

      ‘Yes, she did. I doubt I can get that back, though.’

      ‘It doesn’t surprise me that Mary Turner had to pay to get a man to marry her. She was hardly the world’s