Heirs of Ravenscar (53 page)

H
arry Turner left his office at Deravenels in the Strand in great haste, immediately after lunch on September the seventh. His wife had just gone into labour and he was on his way to the Westminster Hospital. His driver made it in record time, and once he was finally in the maternity ward he felt a degree of relief.

Anne was still in labour, but at least he was seconds away from her if she needed him. He paced up and down restlessly outside her private room, moving along the corridor and back impatiently. And he paced for several hours, filled with anxiety, his nerves fraying and raw.

Charles had wanted to come with him, and he had turned the offer down, and suddenly he wished he had not. The one person he needed was Charles Brandt, who could always keep him calm no matter what the problem was.

He was on the verge of phoning his brother-in-law at Deravenels when Anne's doctor came out, a huge smile on his face.

Harry rushed over to him, glad to see that the doctor looked happy, that he was smiling. ‘How is she? How's Anne, Dr Hargrove?' he asked, already knowing that she was fine.

‘Your wife came through very well, Mr Turner. Really well, and you'll be happy to know you have a beautiful baby daughter. She's perfect.'

‘Thank God!' Harry exclaimed, meaning it, and smiled back at the doctor, not wanting him to think he was disappointed. But he was. Anne had not given him a son after all; he was still without an heir. A daughter, he thought, with a little stab of dismay. Another girl. However, aware of the doctor's eyes on him, he asked swiftly, ‘When can I see them?'

‘Very shortly, Mr Turner. The nurse will come and get you. It won't be too long a wait. And very many congratulations!'

‘Thank you. And thank you, Dr Hargrove, for looking after Anne so well.'

The doctor nodded, smiled again and was gone.

Harry sat down on a chair and closed his eyes. He had longed for a son, and for such a long time that his disappointment was most acute. But he must now make the best of it. There was another thing also: he must not, under any circumstances, allow Anne to think he was disappointed. That would hurt her dreadfully.

Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, and told himself he was lucky. He had a baby, one who was healthy; also, the child would bind them closer than they already were. Anne was young, and strong, and she would have more children, and next time they would have a boy. It had to be a boy next time around. Third time lucky, he reminded himself.

The moment he saw his baby daughter Harry Turner fell in love. She was beautiful in every way; she even had a little tiny tuft of red fluff on top of her head.

As he rushed into the room he saw Anne looking at him anxiously, over the baby's head, and he went to her immediately, kissed her, then looked down at the bundle of lacey shawls in her arms and saw that adorable little face for the first time.

‘She's going to have red hair like you, Harry,' Anne murmured, smiling at him, even though the anxious expression remained in her eyes.

‘That was the first thing I saw,' he said, beaming, and touched her tiny hand, stared at the minuscule nails. He sighed, said, ‘She's perfect, just as Dr Hargrove said she was. A little miracle.'

‘I know how much you wanted a boy, Harry. I'm so sorry she's a girl,' Anne murmured, and held the baby a little bit closer, protectively almost.

He shook his head, looking at Anne intently. ‘No, no, don't say that, sweetheart. We have our very own child. She's part of us. We made her, and I love her. Next time we'll have a boy, I know we will. And you mustn't think I won't love her. I just told you, I love her already.'

‘We were going to call our son Edward,' Anne began, hesitated, then went on, ‘I was wondering –'

He cut her off when he said quickly, excitedly, ‘We shall call her Elizabeth! After my mother: she'll grow up to be as smart and as beautiful as the famous Bess Deravenel Turner, you'll see.'

Anne laughed, relief surging through her. She could see he was happy with their child, and she finally relaxed, the tension slipped away, and she was able to breathe easily again.

‘And when can you bring this bundle of happiness and perfection home?' Harry asked, pulling a chair up to the bed.

‘In a few days, the doctor said. It was a relatively easy birth, Harry, and I'm very strong, and doing well.'

They talked a little longer and then he stood up, bent over her and kissed her, touched the baby's forehead with one finger. ‘I shall come and see you tonight, darling. Now I'm going back to Deravenels to hand out cigars and tell everybody I'm the proud father of a gorgeous girl.'

Only Charles Brandt knew how much disappointment lurked beneath the cheerful exterior Harry was presenting to the world. He walked around the executive offices, handing out cigars, and boasting about his auburn-haired daughter, accepting everyone's congratulations. He was a jolly fellow that afternoon.

It was a stellar performance, and Charles admired Harry for it. Why let the world know what you truly felt? That was Harry's eternal cry, almost his motto, and Charles readily agreed with him. Never let them know when you're hurting, Charles reminded himself as he walked through Deravenels with Harry, spurring him on, helping him to put up a good front.

As the father of two girls, Charles knew how wonderful daughters could be, and he kept reminding Harry of this, not only on September the seventh, but for a long time after that. And as the weeks and months passed Harry did grow to love the little girl with red hair and bright black eyes even more. He treasured her, and her mother, and he wanted nothing more than another child as beautiful as Elizabeth … a boy, of course.

‘I don't seem able to carry a child to full term,' Anne said in a sad voice that was low and confiding.

A look of concern spread across Mary Turner Brandt's lovely face and her reddish-blonde brows puckered in a deep frown. ‘I'm so sorry, Anne, so terribly sorry.' She sighed, pursed her lips. ‘You should have confided in me before. It's a hard burden to carry alone.'

It was July of 1973, and in September Elizabeth would be two years old, and as yet Anne had been unable to give Harry his longed-for son and heir, much to her chagrin.

Mary and Anne were sitting in the breakfast room of the Brandt's Chelsea house, sharing a light lunch of asparagus vinaigrette, to be followed by Scottish smoked salmon with thin slices of bread and butter.

Mary, now thinking of Harry's constant bad temper, his reluctance to socialize and his total dedication and absorption in Deravenels, instantly understood her brother's behaviour of late. Normally outgoing, charming and easy to be with, he had become difficult, somewhat of a curmudgeon. She had, until this moment, believed that Harry's irritability had to do with the way things were going in Britain. He had earlier in the year anticipated the worst recession since the Second World War, and knew the country would be in crisis. He was not overwhelmed by the government under Ted Heath either, and he had sold an enormous amount of property. She acknowledged now that there were other factors at play in Harry's world.

Breaking her silence, leaning towards her sister-in-law, Mary asserted, ‘You must have seen your gynaecologist, surely? What does he say?'

‘He doesn't really have any answers for me, Mary, because I'm very healthy. However, I do keep having miscarriages.'

‘How many?'

‘Three over the past two years, and, of course, it's three too many as far as Harry is concerned. He's been extremely disappointed in me.'

Mary was silent, knowing her brother's terrible obsession about Anne having his heir. Finally, she said, ‘Look, I don't want you to feel I'm giving you a lecture, because I'm not. However, I do think you are far too frantic most of the time, Anne. Working at the antiques shop in Kensington, designing and decorating for clients, flying back and forth between London and Paris …' Mary paused, shook her head, finished, ‘Don't you think it might be wise to slow down? Concentrate on having a baby?'

‘I do take care of myself, Mary, I truly do. I'm, well, sort of carried around, in a sense, and in great comfort. I have cars and drivers, lots of helpers in the business, and very good domestic staff.'

‘Do you really need the Paris end of your business, Anne? And that huge flat in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Isn't that, in itself, a dreadful burden?'

‘No, not at all. I've three assistants in my interior design company, and four people working in the shop on the Left Bank these days. And as far as the flat is concerned, I have a full staff. A houseman, a housekeeper and two cleaners. I don't have any worries about help.'

‘But it
all
takes such a lot of management on your part, however much help you have, darling. A business to run – no,
two
businesses now that I think about it, and a very grand flat to run as well as the Berkeley Square house.' Mary shook her head. ‘And Harry doesn't seem to go to Paris very often these days, now does he?'

‘No, you're right about that, Mary. But I can't give Paris up. I love it too much, the city itself. You know I grew up there, and I'm more French than I'm English in many ways.
And I certainly don't want to close either the shop or my decorating business in Paris. I enjoy working there and in London. And what would I do? I'd be so bored.'

‘I understand,' Mary replied, and picked up a piece of lemon, squeezed it on the smoked salmon. ‘But even if you did give up the businesses in Paris, let's say, you would still have the shop and the design company in London. Isn't that enough for you?'

Anne shook her head, answered with some vehemence, ‘I don't want to give Paris up, and most certainly not the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It's my favourite place to live.'

‘I realize that,' Mary murmured, taking a slice of the brown bread and butter, saying not another word. They both ate in silence.

After they had finished lunch, Mary stood up, cleared the plates and asked, ‘Would you like coffee, Anne dear?'

‘No, thanks, Mary. But I'll have another glass of the white wine, if I may.'

‘Of course, and I'll join you.' Mary picked up the bottle of Pouilly Fuissé and filled their empty glasses.

After a few moments, Mary said softly, ‘I hope you don't mind my asking this, and don't think I'm prying. But how is your relationship with Harry?'

‘So-so. To be blunt, we do still sleep with each other. In fact, he's quite the ardent lover.' She smiled slyly, and added in a cynical tone, ‘He must have a male heir, so he must perform, you know.'

Mary winced, said nothing, simply sipped her wine. And thought of Harry's new personal assistant, Jane Selmere. She was really a highly professional private secretary, but these days they all called themselves personal assistants. According to Charles, she was cleverly trying to ensnare Harry, although her husband had no proof that there was anything going on between them. Yet. Charles had simply muttered about the
kind of looks they exchanged, and added that those furtive glances were rather suggestive to him. He smelled trouble brewing.