The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘They’re waiting for you,’ Alfredo Oliveri said from the doorway.
Startled, Edward swung around, and nodded, half smiled when he saw his colleague and friend. As he walked across the floor he noticed Oliveri’s pallor; his freckles always seemed much more pronounced when he was pale like this. He was obviously worried.
Ned put his hand on Oliveri’s shoulder and said in a calm and steady voice, ‘Don’t fret. I am fine, and it will be all right, I promise you. Now, who is in there?’
‘Everyone we expected, except for Henry Grant, of course. He hasn’t shown up.’
‘I knew he wouldn’t come. He can’t. And they can’t let him. He’s pitiful these days, at least so I hear. There are seventeen board members, then?’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m glad you went onto the board automatically, when you were promoted to Aubrey Masters’s job. Who’s there in his place?’
‘A new board member, by the name of Peter Lister. He was appointed by vote, of course, but originally recommended by Martin Rollins. He’s neutral, by the way, Rollins I mean. Nice chap, very honourable, has good judgement. He’s been on the board of Deravenels for donkey’s years, and sort of guides it really, in an unofficial way. He liked your father. He’ll be fair, just, perhaps even sympathetic. But he may play devil’s advocate.’
‘Good to know. Who are the other outside directors? Remind me again,’ Ned said.
‘Victor Sheen,’ Alfredo answered. ‘Also neutral, I think. Matthew Reynolds and Paul Loomis, they’re a bit wishy-washy, I’ve noticed. Don’t carry much weight.’
‘Let’s go then. Let’s get it over with.’ Edward moved towards the desk, picked up a pile of folders, went to the door.
Alfredo reached out, held him back, and said, ‘It will go exactly the way I explained. The procedure is quite simple. Martin Rollins will ask you to present your grievance, your case. And you will do that. The board members will ask you questions, perhaps, may ask if you can produce evidence to back your case. There’s just one thing I want you to remember. We’re there to help you, if you need us. Me, Rob Aspen, Christopher Green and Frank Lane. If you should need one of us just look at us, or say our names. We’ll jump right in with corroborating evidence, if that’s what you need. We’re your backup.’
Edward nodded. ‘I remember everything you’ve told me, and thank you. Thank you for being supportive today.’
Together they left Edward’s office and walked down the corridor together, heading for the boardroom. Neither of them spoke, both lost in their thoughts.
Alfredo was worrying himself sick, praying that Ned would handle himself well, would not see red and explode, as he occasionally could.
For his part, Edward Deravenel was keeping himself perfectly steady and calm. He was convinced that he must be ruthless in order to win.
When he walked into the boardroom a few moments after Oliveri, all conversation ceased. Edward glanced around, saw only one empty seat at the far end of the table. He walked down to it, stood behind the chair. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. For those who do not know me, I am Edward Deravenel.’
There were mumbled good mornings, and Martin Rollins said, ‘Please take the seat in front of you. It was kept for you.’
‘Thank you, but I prefer to stand,’ Edward answered, and then placed the folders he was holding on the mahogany conference table in front of him.
Rollins nodded, and announced, ‘Let us begin the proceedings. Mr Deravenel, it is our understanding that you have a grievance with Deravenels, and wish to present a case against an individual. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is, sir. I wish to present a case against Henry Grant, chairman of Deravenels.’ Edward was going to do more than that, but for the moment he kept quiet.
‘Mr Grant is unable to attend today, due to an illness,’ Rollins said. ‘However, you may proceed, since we do have a full board present with the exception of Mr Grant.’
‘Henry Grant is chairman of this company, but he is not the person running it,’ Edward began in an icy voice. ‘And, therefore, I believe he should be removed from the company. Because he is not running Deravenels on a day-today basis he must be retired, as of today. The man running Deravenels is John Summers, and he has no right to be managing director. He is not a Deravenel by birth, and, according to ancient company rules, only a Deravenel can be the head of Deravenels.’
For a moment there was a flutter of asides, exclamations, mumblings, and Martin Rollins exclaimed, ‘Please, gentlemen, silence please.’ Looking down the length of the table, he focused on Edward. ‘I am vaguely familiar with this rule, but it has never been brought up before, not by anyone. Mr Summers has been in charge for a number of years.’ Rollins was frowning, seemed puzzled.
‘Mr Summers was supposedly assisting Henry Grant, but Henry Grant was and is an absentee landlord, as my father Richard Deravenel called him. And why was he an absentee landlord?’ Edward paused dramatically, let his eyes roam around the table, focused on the men seated at each side. No one spoke. Some met his gaze, others did not.
Edward continued in that steely voice, ‘I shall tell you why he was never here, and relegated his job to John Summers. He was in a variety of different mental asylums over these many years. Mr Grant is suffering from dementia. He is not merely a pious and religious fellow, devoted to God, as some of you characterize him. The man is mentally disturbed and therefore incapable of running this company. Or any other company for that matter.’
No one spoke. Everyone looked at Edward. Some were stunned, others pleased, yet others filled with sudden fear, apprehensive about what would be said next.
‘That is quite an accusation, Mr Deravenel!’ Martin Rollins announced in a cold, clear voice, obviously stunned. ‘A dastardly accusation, if it is not true, and I doubt that it is.’
‘It is absolutely true!’ Edward contradicted him, his voice louder, fierce, emphatic. ‘I have the evidence here for perusal later.’ He glanced down at the pile of folders on the conference table in front of him, and continued, ‘I have all the medical records from the various asylums where he was being treated. I have doctors’ opinions from those mad houses, and I also have various medical opinions from a number of highly-respected psychiatrists, including Mr Rupert Haversley-Long, of Harley Street, a most respected doctor who has worked with Dr Sigmund Freud. In his opinion Mr Grant is no longer sane. He has not been sane for years.’
‘And has this psychiatrist, Haversley-Long, examined Mr Grant?’ Rollins asked, a brow lifting sceptically.
‘No. But he has studied innumerable medical records, and has spoken to those doctors who looked after Mr Grant in the various asylums.’
Martin Rollins, a reasonable man, now fully understood that Edward spoke the truth. He looked saddened as he asked, ‘And you say you have these medical records and reports here with you today, Mr Deravenel?’
‘Yes, I do, sir.’ Edward gave the older man a bleak little smile, added, ‘Copies, of course. But they can be examined by the board members later, at their convenience. However, they have been reviewed by some board members already.’
‘Is that so!’ John Summers spluttered, glaring at Edward, but holding his temper in check. He was fulminating with rage inside.
‘Yes, it is,’ Edward answered, his tone quiet, even mild. He looked at Christopher Green, and raised a brow. ‘I think Mr Green might have a word to say to the board.’
Christopher Green nodded, and rose, feeling better when he stood up. Almost as tall as Edward, he knew his height was effective at times, especially at board meetings. ‘What Mr Deravenel says is perfectly true, Mr Rollins and fellow board members. The records I have studied do indeed show that Mr Grant was treated in a number of mental institutions over the years. In my opinion, he is not able to run this company. I concur with Mr Deravenel.’
‘John Summers is doing a wonderful job,’ James Cliff cut in, in a loud voice. ‘If Henry Grant is considered redundant because of ill health, then John
‘Hear, hear,’ some board members cried, backing James Cliff’s opinion.
‘Oh no, not hear, hear at all!’ Edward Deravenel exclaimed, his voice rising. ‘I do not believe Mr Summers has been a good caretaker of Deravenels, not at all. But this point aside for the moment, he is not a Deravenel, he is not even remotely related to the Deravenels. He is, in fact, a second cousin once removed of Henry Grant. He has no right to the job.’
‘And who do you think should run Deravenels?’ Jack Beaufield asked with a sneer.
You will regret asking that question, you bastard, Edward thought, staring back at Beaufield coldly. He was remembering that Beaufield was more than likely involved in the deaths of his father, young Edmund and Neville’s kin. A murderer.
‘I am the true heir to Deravenels,’ Ned finally said. ‘And more so than Henry Grant ever was. Over sixty years ago now, Henry Grant’s grandfather stole the company. His grandfather did not run the company very well, it did poorly under him, although his father did a magnificent job. But, and it is a big but, the Grants should never have been at the helm of this company in the first place. Through the laws of primogeniture, as we know those laws today, I am the rightful heir, as a true and direct descendant of Guy de Ravenel, through my father Richard Deravenel, who was also the true heir before me.’
There was a silence in the boardroom.
No one spoke. Several men shifted in their seats. Jack Beaufield glanced around, expecting someone to denounce Edward Deravenel’s claim but no one did.
Beaufield said, sarcastically, ‘You’re just a young pup. Only nineteen. Why do you think you could run this company? Now tell me that, lad?’
Edward did not rise to the bait. He merely smiled at Beaufield, and answered quietly, ‘My age has absolutely nothing to do with anything at all, certainly not my ability. Let us not forget that William Pitt the Younger became Prime Minister of this great country of ours when he was only twenty-four.’
Alfredo Oliveri, Rob Aspen and Frank Lane all clapped, laughing.
‘Just so,’ Martin Rollins murmured. ‘But what about experience, Mr Deravenel? Surely that counts for something, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed it does, Mr Rollins. For the last six months I have been working at Deravenels, and learning about every division. I have had some wonderful teachers in Mr Oliveri, Mr Aspen, Mr Green and Mr Lane. I know a lot about our mining division, the vineyards in France, the quarries in Carrara, and our northern companies in Yorkshire. I have learned about our cloth-manufacturing mills in Bradford, our ready-made clothing companies in Leeds, our coalmines in Sheffield.’ Edward paused, smiled at Rollins, and then cast his glance over to the men he had just mentioned. ‘I think you may wish to talk to my colleagues later, get their opinions about me.’
Rollins nodded, looking impressed and rather beguiled by the handsome and articulate young man who stood so proudly at the far end of the boardroom. Finally, he said, ‘So your case is against Henry Grant, chairman of Deravenels? Whom you say is no longer capable of running the company. And you are suggesting yourself as his replacement. In fact, you are asking for the removal from the company of Mr Grant and Mr Summers.’
‘I am indeed,’ Edward answered simply.
‘Over my dead body!’ John Summers shouted, jumping up, waving his fist at Edward. ‘You young pup! How dare you come in here today and propose such a ridiculous thing. You are the one who is out of his mind, not Henry Grant. You should be ashamed.’
‘And you, Mr Summers, are an enemy of Deravenels! You are a cheat, a liar and an adulterer. You are the man who should be ashamed. You are the lover of Margot Grant, the wife of Henry Grant. It is you who has cuckolded him.’
Not one man in the room moved. Nor did anyone speak. They did not dare. Martin Rollins, aghast, looked as if he had gone into sudden shock.
John Summers still stood, his face purple with embarrassment and rage. He, too, had lost his voice, so stupefied was he. It took him a moment to recoup, to gather his swimming senses.
Finally he said, ‘Only a lad of your age would make such an empty accusation.’ But as he spoke John Summers knew in the depths of his soul that he had met his true adversary. Edward Deravenel was cold, ruthless, and formidable, not to mention ambitious. He suddenly began to tremble inside, knowing that perhaps all was lost. Yet he remained standing, deciding to brazen it out. Fool though he was about Margot Grant, he nonetheless had a certain courage.
‘I do not make empty accusations, Mr Summers,’ Edward responded in a low and dangerous voice. ‘I have evidence that you have been having an affair with Mrs Grant for some time now. And I have that evidence in these folders here.’ He motioned to them. His eyes did not leave John Summers’s face. ‘A Mr Clarence Turnbull, butler to Mrs Grant, has given a statement, revealing your sexual liaison with her. It is a sworn statement.’
John Summers sat down heavily. He made no comment whatsoever. He was a ruined man.
Edward looked directly at Martin Rollins, and continued, ‘I bring specific charges against Jack Beaufield, James Cliff and Philip Deever. These three men have been systematically robbing Deravenels. They have stolen vast amounts of money by skimming off the top at our diamond mines in India. And stealing diamonds. Aubrey Masters, now deceased, was also involved.’
‘Mr Deravenel! These are very serious charges indeed,’ Rollins cried, wondering what was coming next. He was utterly appalled.
‘I do have the evidence here. Mr Oliveri and Mr Aspen, who work in the mining division, first came across this crime some months ago. Mr Oliveri hired Mr David Westmouth, an expert in diamond mining, in India, and Mr Westmouth has given us all the evidence we need. Charges can be brought against these three men. Immediately. Mr Westmouth is now in London.’
James Cliff cried, ‘Just try it, laddie!’
‘Oh, I will indeed, Mr Cliff. And at the same time, perhaps you had better make arrangements for your illegitimate child to be taken care of properly. And your mistress. I’m sure Mrs Cliff won’t be doing that.’
‘You bastard,’ Cliff shouted, jumping up, looking not only irate but dangerous. ‘I’ll bloody well get you for this, you bastard!’
‘I doubt it,’ Edward answered softly. ‘You won’t be able to do very much from behind bars. As for you, Mr Beaufield, this is not the first time your hand has been in the till, and you will soon have other charges brought against you by your previous employers. And you, Mr Deever, will no doubt be in the divorce courts as well as the criminal courts, once your wife discovers you have a lover. A male lover at that.’
Deever did not answer. He jumped up, almost ran across the floor, left the boardroom. A frightened Beaufield followed him, and then Cliff hurried to join them. Only John Summers remained, flabbergasted, rooted to the spot. And then he, too, made for the door, following his colleagues, knowing that he had been totally defeated by Edward Deravenel, his nemesis.
Martin Rollins cleared his throat, and began carefully, ‘Mr Deravenel, you have made horrendous statements, implied terrible things about these men who have long served Deravenels—’
‘Served themselves,’ Edward interrupted.
Rollins ignored this comment, and continued. ‘I just hope you really do have the evidence to uphold your accusations, otherwise you are going to be in serious trouble, sir.’
‘I can assure you that I have the evidence of everything I have just accused these men of…absolute proof. And various other board members know that I am speaking the truth, Mr Rollins. You see, they have helped me to gather the evidence. It is they who have served Deravenels well, not the Grant faction. Please be assured of that.’
Rollins nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Deravenel. You are excused. I would like you to pass me the documents you have for our perusal. We shall see you again shortly. Thank you.’
‘And thank you, Mr Rollins, for allowing me to bring the case, and hopefully to serve this company well.’
Edward rose, walked the length of the room and gave the pile of folders to Martin Rollins. Then he slipped out of the boardroom, closing the door after him softly. Justice for my family, justice for Lily and the baby, he thought as he walked back to his office.
Exactly one week later, on Tuesday, June 28, 1904, Edward Deravenel was appointed managing director of Deravenels. The position of chairman was left open. It would never be filled during his lifetime. He was the sole ruler of Deravenels, his domain.
At a luncheon later in the company dining room, which had not been used for years, Edward sat down to a lavish repast with his mother and siblings, Meg, George and Richard, his Little Fish. Also present were all of the Deravenel executives who had supported him in his fight to gain control of the company, as well as his comrade-in-arms, Neville, and Nan Watkins, Neville’s wife, his boon companions Johnny Watkins and Will Hasling, and Amos Finnister, who had contributed so much. The rest of the board were also present. They had voted him in unanimously, and were his admirers now, totally charmed by this charismatic man.
Earlier that morning he had given Neville, Johnny, Will, Amos Finnister and Alfredo Oliveri a memento of this day. It was a round gold medallion on a slender gold chain. On one side was the Deravenel family emblem of the white rose and a fetterlock, the rose enamelled in white; on the other side was the sun in splendour, commemorating this happy day. Around the edge of the medallion on the side of the rose, was engraved the Deravenel family motto: Fidelity unto eternity.
‘I’ll wear it ’til I die, and even after that,’ Johnny said, smiling wryly at Edward as he added, ‘And to think you didn’t even attempt to seduce the board, from what Oliveri told me.’
‘I didn’t really get a chance, to be truthful,’ Edward confessed, grinning. ‘The only thing I could do, actually, was go in for the kill with the Grant faction.’