Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford
Читать онлайн книгу.
when I found your door open and the bedroom empty at six-thirty this morning.’
‘I couldn’t sleep, so I finally got up. This past week has been quite wearing, horrendous really, and I’m afraid my feelings did get the better of me … it was the endless waiting and waiting, I suppose.’
He glanced at her, his steady grey eyes searching her face. He had worried about her for years, and he would always worry about her, he was well aware of that. His devotion to her was absolute, and his one thought at the moment was to protect her at all cost. But he made no comment, merely went on calmly eating his breakfast. He was a steady, careful man, and his plans were made and in place.
After finishing her cup of coffee, Elizabeth ran a hand over her mouth, and confided, ‘I never worried about her being ill, you know. I didn’t. What was the point? And, after all, we knew she was dying, that the cancer was eating away at her, that she was deluded about being pregnant. But last week … well, I couldn’t help remembering things from the past. The good things. And the bad. From our girlhood mostly … the time when our father disowned us both. Well, we were close then, if only for a short while. And the rest of the time I spent with her –’ Elizabeth broke off, shook her head. ‘The rest of the time was extremely difficult. She was impossible. I was the enemy in her eyes. She was so very possessive of our father. My mother had usurped hers, and I had usurped her, my father, of course, being the great prize, that great bull of a man, to be cosied up to and adored. Unconditionally. She was competitive and, as everyone knows, she always believed I was plotting against her.’ Elizabeth let out a long sigh. ‘No matter what, I was in the wrong with Mary from the day I was born.’
‘All that’s over, don’t dwell on it. You’re starting a new life … this is a new beginning for you,’ he said reassuringly.
‘And I aim to live my new life well,’ she answered, mustering a positive tone, and stood up, crossed to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee. A few seconds later, between sips of coffee, she asked, ‘Who knows about Mary’s death? Everyone, I suppose?’
‘Not quite, not yet.’ Cecil looked across at the grandfather clock standing in a corner of the dining room. ‘It’s not yet eight. It is Sunday, so I’ve kept my phone calls to a minimum. For the moment. Nicholas Throckman was the first one to phone me, to tell me Mary was dead, and then immediately afterwards I heard from Charles Broakes, who announced the same thing.’
Staring at him, frowning, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘Your mobile! That’s how everyone got in touch. No wonder I didn’t hear any phones ringing.’
‘I asked Nicholas and Charles to call me on the mobile. Why should the whole household be awakened at six in the morning?’ He shook his head. ‘Like you, I hardly slept last night, I knew she couldn’t last much longer. I was on the alert.’
‘I assume Nicholas is on his way here? With the black box.’
‘He is. Actually, he’s had possession of the box since Friday. Mary’s people sent it to him that afternoon, so that he could bring it to you immediately. They thought she was about to die that day, but it was a false alarm and she didn’t. This morning, within half an hour of hearing the news, he set off. He’s driving up here right now, and he asked me to tell you that he looks forward to joining us for Sunday lunch.’
She smiled for the first time in days. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Sidney Payne also phoned. He was all for rushing up here, but I told him not to, explained we would be in London later in the week, and I would be in touch then. He told me three people had called him already, so the news of Mary’s death is spreading fast.’ Cecil grimaced. ‘Everyone loves to gossip, to speculate, so important news spreads like wildfire.’
Leaning forward, Elizabeth asked with sudden eagerness, ‘Who are we inviting to our first meeting?’
‘Your great-uncle Howard must be there, your cousins Francis Knowles and Henry Carray, Sidney Payne should come, plus some of the board members who have long been waiting for this day.’
She nodded. ‘I know who they are, and I can’t wait to see them. But what about those in the company who are against me?’
‘What can they do?’ Cecil asked, shaking his head. ‘Nothing! They cannot challenge you, Elizabeth. You are the rightful heir to Deravenels through your father’s will.’
‘They can torpedo me, work against me, trip me up, do me in, call it what you will.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re Mary’s cronies, and they’ll never like me. They never have.’
‘Who cares? Liking you is of no import! They have to respect you. That’s vital, the only thing that matters. And I’m going to make damn sure they do.’
Mary Turner, her sister, was dead. No, not Mary Turner, but Mary Turner Alvarez, wife of Philip Alvarez, the greatest tycoon in Madrid, a man who had used her money, weakened her resources, then abandoned her to die alone. But that’s what men did, didn’t they? Used women, then discarded them. Her father had taken all the prizes for doing just that. Don’t think ill of him now, Elizabeth warned herself. It was his Last Will and Testament that had held in the end. She was his third and last heir. And now Deravenels was hers.
Towards the end, Mary had had no alternative but to follow Harry Turner’s wishes. Nonetheless, earlier there had been desperate attempts on her sister’s part to cheat her out of her rightful inheritance.
Mary had first named her unborn son as heir apparent, that non-existent child she fantasized about, the one she thought she carried in her swollen belly. It was not new life reclining there but an inoperable cancer.
After this had come her most brilliant brainstorm, as Mary had called it. Her Spanish husband Philip Alvarez must inherit. After all, wasn’t he the most famous businessman in Spain, a seasoned entrepreneur, and who better than him to run the ancient company?
When this idea was promptly scuttled by those who could scuttle it, Mary had seized on their cousin Marie Stewart, she of Scottish-French descent and upbringing, a woman who was ninety per cent French, barely English at all. At the time, Cecil had wondered aloud what this Gallic vamp could possibly know about running an eight-hundred-year-old trading company based in London, one that was a male bastion of self-centred chauvinism. Nothing, they had both agreed, marvelling at Mary Turner’s gall.
Marie Stewart had long claimed she was the rightful heir, pointing out that her right to inherit came through her English grandmother, Margaret Turner, eldest sister of Harry Turner. But it was Harry who represented the direct male line from his father; therefore, his offspring, whether male or female, took precedence over his sister Margaret’s line. It all had to do with the rule of primogeniture and the eldest son and his descendants being the true inheritors.
Once again, this idea of Mary Turner’s had been swiftly killed. The board of Deravenels wanted nothing to do with Marie Stewart, whom they viewed as the enemy for a variety of reasons. And that would always be their stance.
And so at the very end her sister Mary had finally acknowledged her, although not actually by name. Something seemed to prevent Mary from doing that. But ten days ago she had sent a suitcase with one of her assistants. It contained Turner family jewels and a lot of keys, for bank vaults, safes, and various Turner homes.
Her wise Cecil had pointed out on that recent afternoon, ‘This is her way of acknowledging you, Elizabeth. She is going to fulfil your father’s Last Will and Testament in the end. You’ll see. Her actions are more important than any words she might utter.’
But why couldn’t her sister have said her name? Why couldn’t she have said my sister, my heir Elizabeth Turner? Why had she merely muttered something about Harry Turner’s rightful heir?
Because she hated you, Elizabeth now thought, and she couldn’t bear the idea that you were about to take her place.
Let