The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford

‘Do you plan for us to go to Italy via Paris, as you suggested on the train yesterday?’
    â€˜Yes, I do. We can take the boat train to Paris, via Le Havre, spend the night in Paris, and then go on to Carrara from there. Do you have any preferences regarding a hotel in Paris, Ned? I thought we should stay at the Ritz in the Place Vendôme if that’s all right with you.’
    Edward nodded his agreement, and walked over to the table; Neville came to join him, and a moment later Swinton was back with another cup and saucer.
    Once they were alone again, Edward took a piece of toast, and spread butter and marmalade on it. As he did, he said, ‘At what time should we arrive at Deravenels, do you think?’

    â€˜Around eleven o’clock. Any later they’ll all be trotting off to their private clubs or fancy restaurants for lunch.’
    â€˜Do you have any kind of strategy in mind?’ Edward asked, looking across the table at Neville, cocking his head to one side questioningly.
    â€˜I’m not all that sure that strategy is really necessary at this stage of the game,’ Neville responded, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I do believe it would be right and proper for you to take the lead, since your father was on company business when he died. I can then step in with my own comments or questions about my father and Thomas. Basically we need to know how the fire started, how much damage was done, so that we understand what state our fathers’ and brothers’ bodies were in when they were discovered. Also, we need to know how Deravenels plans to send their bodies back to England for burial.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Edward said laconically, and sat back in the chair. Sudden sorrow swept across his face, and he was finding it difficult to continue speaking.
    Neville remained quiet, sat sipping his coffee, his own face shadowed by pain, his eyes reflective, troubled.
    Little else was said between the two men. They took their coffee in total silence, burdened by the knowledge that their trip to Italy was bound to be difficult, fraught with anguish.

    Neville Watkins’s elegant carriage took the two men around Berkeley Square, into Piccadilly, and through Trafalgar Square, continuing in the direction of theStrand where the head offices of the Deravenel Company were located.
    The splendid horse-drawn carriage finally came to a standstill outside the imposing office building of the great global trading company in the Strand.
    Eyes turned as the two men alighted. Both were elegantly dressed in dark suits and black overcoats, the fabric, cut, style and impeccable tailoring proclaiming the garments to be of the finest quality and therefore undoubtedly from Savile Row.
    Passers-by, hurrying about their business on this cold January morning, paused to gape at the tall distinguished men as they strode confidently towards the front doors of the Deravenel Company. Gentlemen with a bit of a dash and dazzle, toffs from the upper class, that is how they were perceived, and mostly without any resentment whatsoever. England in 1904 was a world of class distinction, and everyone knew it and accepted it.
    The two men went through the ancient portals and stood for a moment in the marble-clad lobby, the ceiling of which soared upward like a great cathedral. The veined marble was in tones of black and a deep terracotta colour, and it covered the walls, the many high-flung circular pillars and the vast floor. Imposing and grand, it reeked of money and success.
    A uniformed doorman, who was positioned inside at a small desk in the winter weather, hurried over to them. Immediately he recognized Edward Deravenel. Who could ever forget this tall, good-looking young man with burnished red-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. The son of the late Richard Deravenel, and wasn’t he one of the finest gentlemenin the world, the doorman thought, and then said politely, ‘Good morning, Mr Edward, Mr Watkins. Please go