ONE

       Yorkshire—1904

      Edward Deravenel galloped ahead at great speed, leaving his brothers behind, rapidly gaining the advantage. He urged his white stallion forward, oblivious to the icy weather, the lash of the wind on his face.

      At one moment, half turning in the saddle, glancing behind him, Edward laughed out loud, his hilarity filling the air as he waved to his brothers: George, trying to catch up, his face grim in its determination…Richard, struggling even farther behind, yet laughing and waving back. But then he was the youngest, and much less competitive, the baby of the family and Edward’s particular favourite.

      For a split second Edward considered slowing down and allowing Richard to win this race, which had come about so spontaneously a short while before, then instantly changed his mind.

      George would inevitably contrive to finish first, by pushing Richard out of the way in his overriding desire to be the winner. Somehow he always managed to do this, whenever he had the opportunity, no matter what the circumstances. And this Edward could not permit. Not ever. He strived to make certain Richard was never humiliated, never diminished by George, who was older than Richard by three years.

      Edward continued at a gentler pace along the narrow path, glancing down to his left as he did. The plunging cliffs fell steeply to the rocks and the beach; six hundred feet below him the North Sea roared under the gusting wind, like polished steel in the winter sunlight.

      The surging waves frothed and churned against the jagged rock formations, while above him kittiwakes, graceful and buoyant in flight, squawked stridently as they wheeled and turned against the pale sky. Hundreds of these beautiful white gulls with black-tipped wings made their homes on projecting ledges of rock on the cliff faces; as a child he had watched them nesting through his binoculars.

      He shivered involuntarily as the sudden remembrance of a tragedy of long ago hit him. A man in his father’s employment, who had been bird-watching, had plunged to his death from this very spot. Now, instinctively, Edward veered away from the precarious cliffs, headed in the direction of the dirt road which led across the moors and was much safer terrain.

      This morning the moorland was dun-coloured and patched with slabs of frozen snow, and there was no question in Edward’s mind that he much preferred riding up here in the warmer months.

      He mentally chastised himself for taking his brothers out on this January day. He had realized, rather late, that it was far too bitter, especially for Richard, who tended to catch cold so easily. He dare not contemplate his mother’s ire if the boy fell sick because of this ill-conceived outing on the cliffs.

      Swinging his head, he saw that the boys had again slowed and were lagging behind, were obviously even more fatigued by the long ride. He must spur them on, encourage them to move forward, get them home without delay and into the warmth of the house.

      Beckoning to them, he shouted, ‘Come on, chaps! Let’s get a move on!’ And he set off at a brisk canter, hoping they would follow suit.

      Once or twice he glanced behind him, pleased that they had heeded his words and were hard on his heels. Within minutes, much to his profound relief, their ancestral home was in his direct line of vision and he couldn’t wait to arrive there.

      Ravenscar, the beautiful old manor house where the Deravenels had lived for centuries, stood on high ground, was set back from the sea, and dominated the surrounding landscape. Dark-green trees, ancient, tall and stately, formed a semicircle around it on three sides, and these in turn were backed by high stone walls; the fourth wall was a natural one—the North Sea. This stretched into infinity below the tiered gardens and sloping lawns that ended at the edge of the precipitous cliffs.