Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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that onto me, and tomorrow I shall go to Deravenels and take my rightful place as the head of the company. I am my father’s heir. It is my right.
‘Elizabeth, can you come and have a look at the clothes, please?’ Blanche Parrell asked in her lilting Welsh voice, pushing open the door of the study, poking her head around it.
‘Yes, right away,’ Elizabeth answered. She was sitting in a chair near the fire, thinking about her father, but she roused herself at once and jumped to her feet.
‘Purple really does suit you,’ Blanche said as an aside, and hurried across the foyer.
‘I think so, too.’ Elizabeth followed the lovely Welshwoman, thinking how well Blanche looked today with her pink cheeks, sleek black hair pulled back in a twist, and sparkling black eyes. There was always a warm smile on her face, and she aimed to please at all times. Elizabeth had loved Blanche since she was a child, appreciated her warm and tender nature, not to mention her talent with clothes, and thought of her as one of the family.
‘I know this looks a mess,’ Blanche announced, sounding apologetic as they entered the bedroom. ‘But actually I do know where everything goes.’
‘I’d be surprised if you didn’t!’ Elizabeth glanced across at the set of closets lined up along one wall. To her surprise there were still a lot of clothes hanging there, and she exclaimed, ‘Oh good, I guess we’re keeping those!’
‘Yes, we are. I hate to get rid of really good things, not to mention the haute couture pieces, and those are lovely outfits.’
Indicating several piles of clothes on the floor, Blanche continued: ‘All of that stuff can go to Oxfam and other charities with thrift shops, whilst the things on the bed need altering … skirt lengths are wrong, some jackets might be a bit too big or too small, and those items on the chair are for the dry cleaners.’
Elizabeth nodded her understanding. ‘You’ve done a marvellous job, Blanche. Thank you so much. I wouldn’t have managed to do this myself.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. You’re not ruthless enough about clothing, but then very few women are. They like to hang onto things in case they lose weight, or put it on, or because they might have a special occasion coming up … etcetera, etcetera.’
Elizabeth murmured, ‘I suppose you now want me to try on some of these things?’
‘It would help, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. And I need to pick out a suit for my first day back at Deravenels. I think I should wear something smart but low key. One of those trouser suits, perhaps?’
‘Yes, with a crisp white shirt.’ Blanche walked over to the closets. ‘Let’s go through these, and maybe we can select things for the entire week, to save your time.’
Thomas Parrell sat in Elizabeth’s study watching television, except that he wasn’t really watching or listening. He merely had the set turned on. Picking up the remote, he zapped it off.
The room was instantly quiet, the only noise the crackling of the fire in the grate and the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantlepiece. Settling back in the comfortable armchair and stretching out his legs, he glanced around.
He had always liked this handsome yet cosy room with moss-green silk fabric on the walls, a carpet of the same colour, and dark-rose brocade draperies which matched the big comfortable sofa and armchairs. The mahogany bookshelves along the back wall were filled to overflowing with every kind of book. He smiled to himself. When Elizabeth had been a young girl he had called her ‘the bookworm’, and she had laughed with glee, tickled by the name. Never had a more appropriate name been given to anyone. It fitted her perfectly; she never had her nose out of a book, not even today. Elizabeth had always been very learned, a favourite of all the private tutors she had ever had, and he would never forget how awed Harry Turner had been by her precociousness, her intelligence, and knowledge of so many subjects.
The thing Thomas admired most was her toughness of mind. He had come to realize that she thought with her head and not her heart. This, in fact, had been imperative; how well he knew that it was her toughness of mind and swift thinking that had kept her out of trouble – especially with her sister Mary.
Mary was dead and buried and Elizabeth was about to come into her own and he for one was not only relieved but thrilled. He had worked for Elizabeth for years, keeping her books and accounts, and serving as a kind of business manager for her. Harry Turner had appointed him, and he had always been grateful and happy in his job. His sister Blanche and he were usually depicted as members of the Welsh mafia, employees who were as Welsh as the Turners and favoured by them. Once he had told Elizabeth how they were characterized, and she had loved the idea, had burst into gales of laughter. ‘How perfect! And you’re all mine!’
He stood up at the sound of footsteps in the front hall, and when Elizabeth came in he went to greet her with affection.
‘I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting, Thomas. Your sister has been helping to put together my clothes for the entire week. Saves time. Would you like a drink?’
‘That would be nice. Sherry, please.’
A moment later she handed him the glass, poured sparkling water for herself, and then the two of them sat down near the fire.
‘I needed to see you this evening, Thomas, because next week is going to be extremely busy –’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ he agreed, cutting in.
‘As I told you on the phone,’ Elizabeth went on, ‘Kat is going to look after my properties, for the time being anyway, acting as steward. I’ve also asked her to check out all my bank vaults, and I want to explain that situation. Those vaults at Coutts, the Westminster and Lloyds are stuffed with valuables, from silver and gold objects to extraordinary jewels, according to Cecil. Would you be willing to help her take an inventory of everything?’
‘I would indeed. My pleasure, very much my pleasure, and she will need help by the sound of it.’ He nodded, sipped his sherry, and pointed out, ‘We must have a proper and true assessment made of the value of every item, and I can arrange for that as well.’
‘Do it, please. I want you to move as quickly as possible on the vaults.’ Elizabeth looked across at the door as Blanche suddenly appeared. ‘Come in, join us, Blanche. It’s about time you took a moment to relax. You haven’t stopped all day.’
Blanche came over to the fire, explaining, ‘I’ve finished selecting your clothing for the week. And tomorrow I’ll start choosing for the week after.’
‘You’re a glutton for punishment,’ Elizabeth exclaimed.
‘I always have been, you know that.’
SIX
She stood outside on the Strand, staring up at the building. Her building. Centuries old, it was imposing, a landmark, and it was about to become her permament abode as her place of work. DERAVENELS.
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth Deravenel Turner pushed open the door and stepped inside. The commissionaire on duty straightened when he saw her. ‘Good morning, Miss Turner.’
She nodded, flashed him her brightest smile. ‘Good morning Sam.’ Moving across the gargantuan marble lobby, she took the stairs slowly, filled with a mixture of emotions: excitement, awe, anticipation, a sense of jubilation because it was now hers, but also a hint of trepidation, mixed with anxiety. That’s normal, she thought, absolutely normal. I’m starting on a great adventure.
Entering her office, she hung up her coat and walked into the centre of the room, looking around, and she couldn’t help thinking about those three men who had occupied this office before her … Her great-grandfather Edward Deravenel,