Heirs of Ravenscar. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Will’s best friend, and she fully understood why these two had bonded years before.
She had helped Ned to get through his grief and despair after his mistress Lily had been killed in that horrendous accident. Well, she added to herself, that was no accident, it was cold-blooded murder. Margot Grant, Edward’s bitter enemy, in his fight for control of Deravenels all those years ago. She had had Lily Overton murdered. And she had gone scot-free, had never been made to pay for it. No, she had been made to pay, actually. In the worst way. The Frenchwoman had lost everyone and everything. God’s will, no doubt.
A shiver ran through Vicky and goose flesh sprang up on her arms and the back of her neck. She had been in the landau with Lily that fateful day in Hyde Park, had been thrown out with her and could have easily been killed herself.
Lily … her best friend, so beautiful, and far too young to die. And the unborn baby killed, too, Ned’s child which she was carrying. Vicky knew she would never forget the sight of Lily laying there on the grass, the pale blue silk of her dress covered in bright red blood. That image was indelibly printed on her mind; it never faded.
Pausing on the staircase, Vicky took a deep breath and endeavoured to throw off these dire memories of that most miserable day, and then she went on down slowly, calming her thoughts before their guests began to arrive.
Almost at once she bumped into Fuller in the downstairs hall. ‘Good evening, Madam,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I’m just about to put the grog in the library.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered, noting that he was holding a silver bucket full of ice. ‘Everything else is in hand, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘All the fires going?’
‘Oh yes, Madam, all shipshape. We’re ready to set sail.’
‘Thank you, Fuller,’ she murmured and walked along the corridor towards the kitchen, shaking her head. Before joining them last year Fuller had been head butler in the house of a former admiral in the Royal Navy, now deceased, and he tended to speak in somewhat nautical terms. She and Grace Rose found it amusing, but at times it irritated Stephen: only the other day he had complained that he felt as if he were living on a damned battleship!
Her answer had been to quickly point out that Fuller just happened to be an excellent butler, the best they had had in years.
Opening the kitchen door, Vicky put her head around it and asked, ‘Do you need me for anything, Mrs Johnson?’
The cook turned swiftly, holding a ladle in her hand and it hovered in mid-air for a moment. Putting it down, she said, ‘Evening, mum. No, there’re no problems. All’s well ’ere, we’re shipshape, and on time. Dinner will be ready at eight bells, as you requested.’ Cook compressed her mouth hard, swallowing her sudden laughter. She steadied herself and blurted out, ‘Seems I’m pickin’ up Fuller’s jargon, mum, sorry, ever so sorry, mum.’
Trying to keep a straight face herself, Vicky answered, ‘Just make sure the mulligatawny soup is very hot. You know Mr Forth likes the soup to be scalding.’
‘Yes, mum, and everything else! I knows he prefers his ’ot food ’ot, and so he should, mum.’
Laughing, Vicky made her way to the drawing room and went in. It was her favourite room in the house, and she glanced around, admiring it for a moment. The walls were covered in pale-yellow silk, and yellow-and-cream striped taffeta draperies hung at the windows, billowed out like ball-gowns, the way she liked them to be.
Against the pale-yellow backdrop there was a mélange of bright colours, mainly clear blues and reds in the upholstery fabrics on the various antique French chairs and large comfortable sofas. The fire was blazing, the porcelain lamps shaded in cream silk offered a welcoming glow, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Perfect, she thought. The room looks just perfect.
The ringing of the doorbell made Vicky start, and as she hurried across the antique Aubusson carpet she heard Fuller’s footsteps echoing in the marble hall. She hoped he wouldn’t say welcome aboard, as he had been known to do sometimes. On the other hand, if he did, she knew that Edward would simply chuckle.
Grace Rose had been given the task of entertaining Mrs Shaw while her parents and Uncle Ned had some sort of business meeting in the library.
She was glad they had asked her to keep Jane Shaw company because she really liked her. There was something about her that was intriguing and special; also, Grace Rose knew that Jane Shaw liked her in return, and there was a certain ease between them.
That this woman was truly lovely to look at was obvious; that she was charming, kind and extremely intelligent a bonus, Grace Rose thought, impressed by her knowledge of art and sculpture, her willingness to answer questions whenever Grace Rose asked. Jane knew a great deal about certain artists and their work, most especially the French Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, and she was happy to share.
The two of them were seated in the yellow drawing room, chatting generalities. At one moment, Grace Rose couldn’t help thinking that Jane Shaw looked perfect in this perfect room tonight. She was wearing a most elegant and fashionable sapphire-blue velvet dress, and sapphire earrings which exactly echoed the particular blue in some of the fabrics her mother had chosen for the room. She ought to be painted in here, Grace Rose thought, and it should be called Portrait in Blue.
After another brief discussion about a recent art exhibition at a well-known gallery in Chelsea, with Jane doing most of the talking, they fell silent. But it was a compatible silence, not awkward at all; the two of them were comfortable with each other and had been since they had first met some years before.
Looking across at Grace Rose, Jane took the lead again, and murmured, ‘I hear you love your studies, and your uncle told me you are extremely dedicated and disciplined. He thinks that’s admirable, and so do I.’ Settling back in the French bergère, Jane took a sip of champagne and then smiled warmly at the younger woman.
Grace Rose nodded, her face full of eagerness. ‘I’ve always loved school, Mrs Shaw, and I’m really happy today because it will soon be possible for me to live at Oxford with a friend of Mother’s, and attend courses at the University.’
‘That’s wonderful! Congratulations! History is your subject, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. At this moment I’m particularly interested in France, and in French kings.’
‘What an extraordinary coincidence. I’ve always been partial to French history, and although the English are not supposed to like Napoleon Bonaparte, I must confess I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for him. In many ways he was a genius.’
‘And probably the greatest general the world has ever known,’ Grace Rose remarked.
‘Except when he invaded Russia,’ Jane pointed out, eyeing her young companion acutely.
‘That’s true … but it was mostly the weather that scuttled him,’ Grace Rose replied. ‘I was thinking in terms of strategy when I said he was the greatest.’
‘I understand, and many agree with you. But tell me, which particular king intrigues you the most?’
‘To be honest, I’m more taken with the mistresses of kings. You see, that’s what I’m studying at the moment. Mistresses. I find them fascinating –’ Grace Rose broke off, remembering that Jane Shaw was Uncle Ned’s mistress. She chastised herself silently for having embarked on such a controversial subject. ‘Oh, dear, I’m so … s-s-sorry,’ she stammered, looking chagrined, and then flushed in embarrassment.
Jane couldn’t help laughing when she saw the woebegone expression on her face, and reaching out she patted her arm, said very softly, ‘Don’t apologize, my dear, I know you know that I am Uncle Ned’s mistress.’
‘Yes,’ Grace Rose replied, nodding. ‘The whole world knows –’ She broke off again, looking even