North Sea.
How unexpected, how sudden and abrupt it had been. Their motorcar had shot off the dangerous, winding cliff road, had plunged six hundred feet, rolling down the face of the cliffs, crashing onto the rocks below.
Neville and Johnny had been thrown out of the car onto the shingle, and had died instantly.
It had been a terrible and unnecessary accident, one which Edward knew had been caused by Neville’s festering anger, frustration and bad temper. His cousin had been furious with him, and had been driving far too fast, spurred on by raging emotions he could not always control.
If only Neville had been handling the Daimler in a normal way, he and Johnny would be alive today, and perhaps they would have been able to reconcile their differences, end their quarrel, come to some sort of mutual rapprochement.
In a sudden flash of vivid memory, Edward saw Johnny standing before him … the serious Johnny, so sincere, so wise, full of the Watkins’s brilliance; then the happy-go-lucky Johnny, light-hearted and carefree, his handsome face full of laughter and the pure joy of simply being alive. Edward snapped his eyes shut, remembering so much from the past. Memories that haunted him rushed at him once more, overwhelming in their reality.
After a few minutes Edward opened his eyes, and placed his hand on his chest. He could not feel the medallion through the layers of heavy winter clothes, but it was there, lying against his skin … Johnny’s medallion.
Fourteen years ago, in 1904, Edward had presented a medallion of his own design to those men who had helped him in his fight to win back and take over the family business empire. The medallion was a badge of honour, in a sense, to mark their success. It was made of gold and bore the Deravenel family crest: an enamelled white rose on one side, the sun in splendour on the other, with the Deravenel motto Fidelity unto eternity embossed around the edge under the enamelled white rose.
Johnny apparently continued to wear his medallion despite the differences that had grown between them. This convinced Edward that Johnny Watkins had remained his faithful friend right to the very end, obviously a man torn between diverse family loyalties – torn between his influential older brother Neville, and Edward, his favourite first cousin.
It was his brother Richard who had discovered the medallion around Johnny’s neck after the car crash, when he had opened his cousin’s collar as he lay on the beach, the life seeping out of him.
Needing to determine Johnny’s true condition, Richard had loosened his tie, pulled open his shirt, and had instantly noticed the glint of gold on his neck.
On the night of the accident Richard had brought Johnny’s medallion to Edward, who had later removed his own identical medallion and fastened Johnny’s around his neck. And he had worn it ever since and would until the day he died.
The following morning Edward had given his own medallion to Richard, as a token of his love and regard for his youngest brother. Richard had been thrilled to accept it, understanding how meaningful it was.
Easter Saturday of 1914. That was the day they had died. So much had happened since then … the War had erupted a few months later, in August … friends and colleagues had been killed on the blood-sodden fields of France and Flanders … he and Elizabeth had had more children … the business had grown in importance … there had been deaths, births, marriages … Richard had been quietly married to Anne … the eternal cycle ever repeating itself.
Four years ago two men he had revered and loved had died on this beach where he now stood. Yet, to him it seemed as if it had happened only a mere few hours ago. He could not forget that fateful day, or expunge it from his mind.
The sound of a horse’s hooves thundering along the beach interrupted Edward’s melancholy reverie, and he turned his head, saw his youngest brother riding hell for leather down the beach.
Raising a gloved hand, Edward waved, stepped over to Hercules, his white stallion, and with lithe agility swung himself up into the saddle. Galloping forward, he rode to meet his brother.
As the two men drew closer and reined in their mounts, Edward knew at once that something was terribly wrong even before Richard uttered a word.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he demanded, staring hard, his bright blue eyes sweeping over the younger man’s face.
Richard, his voice tight with concern, said, ‘It’s Young Edward. Something’s wrong with him, Ned, and –’
‘Wrong? Do you mean he’s ill?’ Edward cut in peremptorily, instantly worried about his little son.
Richard nodded. ‘Elizabeth thinks it’s the influenza and she sent me to fetch you. Mother has already telephoned Dr. Leighton. She spoke to his housekeeper. Seemingly, he and his wife are house guests of the Dunbars. He’s staying at The Lodge for the weekend, and he’s on his way already. He won’t be long.’ As he finished speaking Richard saw that his brother had gone extremely white.
‘My God, the Spanish flu,’ Edward muttered. ‘It’s lethal, you know that. Some of my chaps at Deravenels have been felled by it. It’s certainly fortunate that Leighton is nearby.’ Alarm filled his eyes, and he shook his head. ‘Come on!’ He rode off down the beach, galloping at breakneck speed, heading for Ravenscar.
Richard followed hard on his heels, catching up, riding alongside his brother, never very far from his adored Ned when he needed him.
Ravenscar stood high on the cliffs above the sea, which was glittering like polished steel in the brilliant light of mid-morning.
The house was built of mellowed, golden-hued stone, and was ancient, dated back to the sixteenth century and Tudor times. A pure Elizabethan house of fluid symmetry and perfect proportions, it had been home to the Deravenel family for centuries.
Built in 1578 by Edward’s ancestors to replace the ruined stronghold still perched on the promontory below, it was a house which Edward had loved since childhood. He genuinely appreciated its overall beauty, cherished it for the meaning it had held for those Deravenels who had gone before, and those who would follow, once he had departed this world.
Now as he rode around the circular courtyard at the front and went on towards the stable block, he paid no attention at all to the grandeur and elegance of this stately dwelling, did not even notice the many windows sparkling in the wintry sunshine or the façade of honey-coloured stone aglow in that dazzling light so peculiar to these northern climes. He held only one thought in his head: his son. His heir. Edward, his namesake, whom he loved with all his heart.
Edward needed to see him. The very thought that his son had contracted Spanish flu filled him with dread. It was a virulent killer, had gone from epidemic to pandemic since it had broken out in the summer. People in Europe, England, and America, in many other countries around the world, had been laid low, and thousands had died.
Finally trotting into the cobbled yard behind the house, Edward jumped off his stallion, glancing around as he did, looking for the stable lads. Not one of them was in sight. ‘Ernie! Jim!’ he called, ‘I’m back.’
Richard had followed him into the yard, and as he dismounted he said, ‘I’ll deal with the horses, Ned. Please go into the house, I know how anxious you are.’
Edward nodded and hurried off without another word.
Richard watched his brother stride towards the back door, anxiety ringing his face. People thought that Edward Deravenel held the world in his arms, and, in a sense, perhaps he did. Certainly he had everything any man of thirty-three could ever desire. Yet at this moment, Richard knew, his brother was truly vulnerable, filled with concern for his son. His great success, immense wealth and undeniable power could not buy the boy’s recovery. Only God, and a good doctor, could do that. Silently Richard prayed that his little nephew would be all right. He loved him like his own, just as he loved all of his brother’s