The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford
There was a knock on the door, and Will came in, a bleak expression in his eyes. ‘We’re in for a long siege, I think, Ned, don’t you?’
Edward nodded. ‘Churchill told me that the other night. I can only say that it’s a good thing he recognized the threat of increasing Germany sea power in 1911. By withdrawing our Fleet from abroad and concentrating it in the North Sea, he’s certainly increased our strength.’
‘Not to mention safety,’ Will pointed out.
‘I’ve been told I cannot even attempt to join up,’ Edward said in a low voice. ‘Because I run this sprawling global company I’m required to remain in this seat for the duration. However long that will be.’
‘I read somewhere that the German Chancellor, von Bethmann-Hollweg, predicted in Berlin the other day that the war would be very short, maybe three to four months. But I say more like three years.’ Finally sitting down, Will continued, ‘Anyway, this is where you are meant to sit. You have no right to even contemplate marching off to war carrying a gun with a bayonet fixed to it. Whereas, I—’
‘Stop right there!’ Edward exclaimed, holding up a hand. ‘You’re not joining up either.’
‘I’d thought about it, Ned.’
‘No, no, you can’t. Anyway, the government is only calling up single men. You’re married.’
‘So is George, but he is going to enlist, so he told me only half an hour ago.’
‘I don’t think he’ll pass the medical. George has always had bad eyes, he doesn’t see very well. So, he won’t make it. Please rest assured of that, Will.’
‘This memo you sent me, about the factories in Leeds. Am I to understand that the government’s going to requisition them? That we’re to make army and navy uniforms?’
‘Yes, exactly that. But the government’s not requisitioning the clothing factories. They just want us to switch our production to uniforms.’
‘No problem. I wasn’t quite understanding. Anyway, I really came in to see if you’re free for lunch today.’
‘I am. I didn’t make any lunch dates, since I thought I would be in Yorkshire for the grouse. War has put paid to that, I’m afraid, and a lot of other things.’
‘I know. I’ve just cancelled our trip to Paris. I was taking Kathleen there in September. Well, we can say farewell to the belle époque, Ned. France is gearing up for war, just asweare. I’ma bit worried about the vineyards, you know, but there’s nothing we can do.’
‘I realize that we have just to sit tight…’ Edward shook his head. ‘It’s all so disheartening. But we must hope for the best, as far as our French vineyards are concerned.’
‘Shall we go to White’s?’ Will asked.
‘No place better,’ Edward answered. ‘I can’t make it before one, though.’
‘I’ll pick you up at twelve forty-five.’
Will slipped out of the office and Edward went over the letters his secretary had left on his desk, and then he sat back, a worried expression crossing his face. If the whole world was engulfed by this war, what would happen to them all?
He stood up, went to look at the map his father had hung there years before. It seemed to him now that there wasn’t a country in the world where they didn’t have offices.
He suddenly laughed to himself. Deravenels had existed for well over eight hundred years, so why should it falter now? But then there had never been a war like this one was going to be.
‘Let’s have a drink before lunch,’ Will said, as they walked into White’s around ten past one. ‘I think I need one to cheer me up.’
Edward smiled. ‘You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth, old chap.’
The two of them sat down at a table, and Will ordered for them, then said to Ned in a quiet tone, ‘I heard last night, at a dinner party we attended, that the navy is the only service that’s strong. The army is apparently not at all well organized, and we have only minimal air power, even though Churchill has attempted to boost it lately.’ Will took a cigarette out of a gold Cartier case and lit it, drew on it. ‘We’re in a bloody mess, actually, Ned, if the truth be known.’
‘We need a new Secretary of State for War,’ Edward told him.
‘Do you think Asquith will appoint one?’ Will looked at him alertly. Edward knew more than he did; he had politicians as friends.
‘He’ll have to, he can’t be Prime Minister and run the War Office as well,’ Ned replied. ‘I hope he appoints Lord Kitchener. He’s a great General, and also a national hero.’
Will nodded. ‘He would have a very uplifting effect on the public, yes.’
The two of them fell silent, sipped their sherry, and smoked, listening to the different conversations flowing around them. The Smoking Room was packed today, and the only talk was talk of war.
‘We don’t have a compulsory draft system,’ a voice said at a table behind them.
‘I didn’t know that, Hartley,’ his companion replied.
‘Well, it’s true, and we’ll have to raise an army to fight this bloody war. We’ll have to start a campaign to recruit single men, that’s a fact.’
‘Asquith knows what he’s doing, he’s been an excellent Prime Minister,’ another voice intoned from the right.
‘And Churchill has the right attitude. Beat ’em before they beat us,’ a fourth man pronounced.
Will shook his head, and murmured, ‘What about Meg? Will she stay in France, do you think?’
Edward sighed. ‘I don’t know. When I spoke to her yesterday at Ravenscar she said Charles was already talking of going back to Paris immediately, and on to Burgundy. I’m sure he has to, he can’t just leave his vineyards at a time like this. And listen, Will, don’t worry about ours. They’re in good hands, we have wonderful managers.’ Ned nodded. ‘You’ll see, everything will be all right. As far as Meg is concerned, knowing her, I do believe my sister will go back to France with her husband and she’ll stay there until the war is over.’
As the war dragged on through August, September, and October, right up until the end of 1914, Edward realized he was dedicating most of his time to Deravenels. His work load was enormous at the best of times, and this was the worst. It seemed to him that he had to have a single-minded sense of purpose in order to get through every day. But there was a big war effort on, and everybody was in the same situation as he was, working day and night, trying to do their bit.
The guns of August 1914 roared on through 1915 and 1916, without cease. Hundreds of thousands of young men died on the bloody fields of Europe, felled in the trenches as they bravely fought the enemy. The overall losses were so monumentally high the world was horrified.
Many of the men who worked at Deravenels had joined the forces, and in May of 1916 Edward was alarmed one morning in May when he began to realize how many single men now had to enlist because of the bill that had been passed earlier that year: compulsory military service was now enforced. He knew that it would soon be married men who would be called up to fight for their country at the Front. He was not worried for himself, but for Will, Oliveri and Christopher Green. All were married, young and fit. They would most certainly pass the physical.
He was somewhat surprised that evening when he arrived home, to discover that Elizabeth, who rarely read anything, had spotted an item in the Evening News.
As he went into the small parlour of the house in Berkeley Square, she glanced up and waved the newspaper at him. ‘Ned, have you seen this in today’s paper?’ Not waiting for his reply, she added, ‘Married men will be called up soon. The Prime Minister is introducing another Military Service Bill, and if it passes the House then married men will have to go and fight the Boche.’
‘But I won’t, sweetheart,’ he soothed as he went in and sat down in a chair next to her. ‘I told you, I’m exempt because I run a huge company.’
A smile of relief crossed her face. ‘I’m so glad. I couldn’t bear it if you had to go to war.’ She frowned, added worriedly, ‘My brothers will though.’
‘Yes, I
‘I’ll come up with you. I think I have to rest.’
Elizabeth was pregnant again, and they mounted the stairs together so that he could support her. She went into her bedroom; Edward climbed to the next floor, the nursery floor, the domain of all the young Deravenels.
The moment he went in, three girls and one little boy, all with reddish-blond hair and eyes of varying shades of blue, flung themselves at him.
Laughing, crouching down, he opened his arms, and they scrambled close to him, and cries of ‘Papa! Papa!’ filled the nursery.
His son, Young Edward had been born in 1913, and he was now two and a half, a sweet, docile child with a happy temperament and the looks of a Botticelli angel. He was terribly spoilt, because he was the youngest in the household, and also very beautiful.
Edward unscrambled his little scramblers, as he called them, and reaching down he lifted Young Edward into his arms, and held him close. ‘You know what we shall do on Saturday, Edward?’ Ned asked his small son, kissing him on his warm pink cheek.
‘No, Papa.’
‘Have you forgotten already, sweetheart?’
The boy shook his head, looked puzzled, and then his face lit up, and he cried, ‘Buy the puppy! You promised, Papa!’
‘It’s true, I did indeed, and I will, but that’s not what I meant. I told you that when we went down to Kent this weekend I would take you to paddle in the sea, and that we might even go sailing on a special boat, a new boat.’
‘Oh Papa! The boat! Oh, oh, I can’t wait.’ The child began to squeal with delight.
Edward, smiling into his son’s eyes, felt a tug on his jacket and he glanced down.
Bess said, ‘Can I come on the boat, too, Papa?’ She sounded so woeful, Edward put the boy down on the floor, and took hold of her hand, led her over to a chair. Seating himself, he brought the seven-year-old forward into his arms, and said gently, ‘Of course, you can. It’s a new boat for all of us. And do you know what it’s called?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s called The Brave Bess, after you, because you are brave and beautiful, my dearest little one.’
‘You do still love me the best, don’t you Papa?’ she whispered against his cheek. ‘The heir comes first, I know, but I’m your favourite aren’t I, Papa?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered back, ‘but don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.’
As usual, when we came home tonight, Elizabeth went straight up to bed, and here am I, sitting with my brandy in the library, in front of a roaring fire, thanks to my devoted Mallet who looks after me so well. Which is more than I can say about my wife. She’s cantankerous and difficult these days, perhaps because she is tired of giving birth. We have had a new addition to our already large family, another girl, christened Anne. Now I have six children: Bess, Mary, Cecily, Edward, Richard, born in 1916, and the latest.
I must make allowance for Elizabeth, I keep telling myself that. Although she has nothing much to say to me, and isn’t really interested in anything I do, she is my ready, willing and able partner in our bed. Always passionate, still extremely jealous, continuing to be suspicious, and very proprietary about me. She doesn’t like to have me out of her sight for too long. But I manage, and I go to my Jane all the time, and she keeps me sane, gives me great happiness. Things aren’t so bad for me, not bad at all, and I really don’t have anything to complain about. The children are bright and beautiful, my darling Bess is extraordinary and gives me much comfort, and Jane is my solace.
It is Friday the thirteenth of November in the year of our Lord 1918. Friday the thirteenth is supposed to be unlucky, but I don’t believe the world thinks that tonight. No, not at all. Two days ago, on November the eleventh, in a railway car in the Forest of Compiègne in France, German delegates signed an armistice ending the war. Ever since then the world has gone mad rejoicing. I saw jubilant workers in the Strand jumping on passing omnibuses, waving flags and banners. Men, women and children danced and sang in the streets of Paris, I heard, and a huge victory parade marched down Fifth Avenue in New York, according to the newspapers. Even in Berlin the relieved citizens seemingly welcomed the end of this grotesque world war.
They’re calling it the war to end all wars, and I sincerely hope that it is. A conflagration like this cannot happen again, it just cannot. It seemed to me that the world went mad for a while, all the fighting and the killing. And then there was the Russian Revolution. The Czar and Czarina assassinated in 1917, murdered in cold blood, a whole family. I tremble when I think of that horrendous act of brutality, an act of terrorism against a family…I think of my own children and I tremble more.
I’ve kept Deravenels safe. In fact, it’s flourishing as it never has before. War always boosts business, it’s sad to say, but that’s just the way it is, and it has certainly boosted my company. And thankfully most of my men are safe. George didn’t pass the physical, just as I knew he wouldn’t with those bad eyes of his. And Richard, my beloved and loyal Little Fish, also has remained at my side. His wonky shoulder made him exempt.
As for Will Hasling, he did go to war. My dearest friend. They sent him to the Somme, and he fought through that entire battle. And he lived. So did my devoted Oliveri, who did his duty in Flanders. But not Rob Aspen and Christopher Green. I lost those two grand men, who gave me their all, their loyalty and devotion. They died fighting at Verdun, and now they are buried in some far corner of a foreign field. I shall always remember them with pride because of their endeavours.
My sweet sister Meg survived the war in France, stood side by side with her husband and fought off the Boche.
And Mama is flourishing. She’s as fit as she’s always been, and just as beautiful, and her dearest friend and companion is our lovely Grace Rose, grown up now, and a friend to us all. She knows I am her father. I decided to tell her in 1916, but before I got around to it Bess explained to me one day that she and Grace Rose knew that Grace was my daughter, and that Grace Rose wanted to know about her mother. And so, persuaded by the very persuasive Bess—so like me—I did tell them both about Tabitha. Grace Rose confided that she knew I was her father the day I first saw her at Vicky Forth’s house, the day of Lily’s funeral.
She explained that her mother had once told her when she was very small that her father was tall and strong like a tree in the forest, with hair the colour of autumn leaves, eyes the shade of bluebells that grew in the woods. And when she saw me she just knew, she said, and that was why she had smiled at me. Ever since then I’ve understood that one never knows what children know and keep secret in their hearts.
I can’t believe this war is finally over. Four years that seem like forty. So many dead. Eight million men who fought to save the world have died. The flower of English youth were felled on the blood-soaked fields of Flanders in Northern France, and England will never be the same without them. The world will never be the same. It was turned upside down, and that is the way it will remain.
I drink a toast tonight, here in my library in my house in Berkeley Square. It is heartfelt. I drink to those I loved and lost, to those I love who remain, and to those who are yet to be born.
I am Edward Deravenel. I am thirty-three years old, and I still have a life to live.
Author’s Note
This is a modern novel, told in the modern vernacular, and set in the early part of the twentieth century. However, I have to a certain extent based my protagonist Edward Deravenel on the English medieval king, Edward IV. Born Edward Plantagenet, the Earl of March, he was the eldest son of the mighty Duke of York and his Duchess. Edward’s father was a prince of the blood and a royal duke, head of the royal House of York, rightful heir to the throne of England.
When Edward’s father was killed in the Battle of Sandal Castle in Yorkshire in 1460, during the Wars of the Roses, Edward assumed his father
The throne of England had been usurped by the House of Lancaster from the House of York some sixty years earlier, and it was in 1461 that Edward Plantagenet took that throne back when he defeated Henry VI and became king that same year.
Apart from ‘borrowing’ the exceptional good looks of Edward Plantagenet, and his height of six feet four, unusual for those times, I have used some aspects of his character and personality in the depiction of Edward Deravenel. Significant events in the life of the medieval king are used in a modern form as the basis, in part, of Edward Deravenel’s story.
New York, 2006
For more information on the Ravenscar series, and the inspiration behind it, go to www. barbarataylor bradford.com.
Bibliography
Edwardian London by Felix Barker (Laurence King Publishing)
Eminent Edwardians by Piers Brendon (André Deutsch) Victorian & Edwardian Décor by Jeremy Cooper (Abbeville Press)
The Lives of the Kings & Queens of England edited by Antonia Fraser (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)
Born To Rule by Julia P. Gelardi (St Martin’s Press Inc.) The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley (Little Brown) Churchill by Roy Jenkins (Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc.) Richard the Third by Paul Murray Kendall (W. W. Norton & Co. Inc.)
Warwick The Kingmaker by Paul Murray Kendall (Allen and Unwin Ltd.)
The Wars of the Roses by J. R. Lander (Sutton Publishing Ltd)
The Wars of the Roses by Robin Neilland (Brockhampton Press)