Heirs of Ravenscar. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      The relationship between them worked for a number of reasons. Edward and Will, though aristocrats, were not snobs; they were affable, accessible, natural, and democratic in their attitudes. Amos Finnister knew he must never overstep the line. He was well aware of his place in the order of things. And he was never over-familiar. He knew how wrong that would be.

      These three had been hand-in-glove for a long time. They thought alike, after years in each other’s company, and acted in a similar manner when confronted by problems. And they could usually second-guess each other.

      Amos rose, walked up and down the office for a few seconds, stretching his long legs. And thinking hard.

      Will Hasling was a lot more troubled that he was letting on, Amos was convinced of that. And he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Will would tell Edward everything tomorrow morning. And Edward would want him on it immediately.

      Amos stepped over to the window and looked out. It seemed like a nice night, with a clear, dark sky, no clouds at all, and a galaxy of stars.

      After locking his desk and taking his overcoat from the cupboard, Amos left his office and went down the stairs. He crossed the imposing, soaring marble lobby of Deravenels, as usual admiring its grandeur, and stepped out onto the Strand.

      The thoroughfare was busier than he had seen it in a long time. Taxis, motorcars and omnibuses crowded the road, and the pavement was congested with pedestrians, mostly moving swiftly, hurrying about their business. It struck him immediately that he must walk. He had no alternative since it would be hard to find a cab in this mess.

      Anyway, he did enjoy walking; it reminded him of his days on the beat, he supposed, and he usually did his best thinking when his feet were moving. Buttoning his topcoat, he set off at a brisk pace.

      Tonight he was heading to the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. His old friend Charlie Morran was staying there, and they were to dine in the elegant Ritz Restaurant, which was one of the best in London. He had sometimes eaten there with Edward Deravenel, and he knew it quite well.

      The hotel itself was palatial, with marble floors, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, handsome dark-wood furniture, potted palms and huge arrangements of flowers. It was a particular favourite of the rich and famous, a rendezvous for the most well-known people in London … the aristocracy, socialites, famous actors, actresses, and writers, members of Parliament, politicians and heads of state … the crême-de-la-crême of the world.

      Amos’s thoughts remained focused on Charlie as he strode out towards Trafalgar Square. He had not seen him for over two years; the young man had been at the front in France, fighting for King and Country.

      When war had broken out in August of 1914, Charlie had immediately booked passage on a ship from New York to Southampton, and had come home to England to be a soldier. ‘I’m determined to do my bit,’ was the way he had put it to Amos when he had first arrived in London, adding, ‘I want to stand up and be counted, fight for what’s right and just. So here I am, and I’m going to enlist in the British Army this week.’ And he had.

      Charlie had come back to London alone; his sister Maisie had already left America the year before. In 1913 she had gone to live in Ireland with the man she had just married.

      Amos had grown very proud of Charlie and Maisie, and of the success they had achieved over the years. Within a few months of arriving in New York, where Charlie had constantly insisted the streets were paved with gold, the two Cockney kids from Whitechapel had found work in the theatre. And eventually they had become stars on Broadway, as they had always wanted. And why not?

      They could sing, dance, and act, and both were clever mimics, quite aside from being exceptionally good looking. Talent and looks. The best combination. It was really no surprise to Amos when Charlie’s letters kept arriving very promptly with news of their continuing triumphs.

      They had sailed away from Liverpool in 1904; then their love of London lured them back. They made many visits home over the ensuing years, and Amos had been delighted to see them whenever they arrived on his doorstep.

      It was a happy day for Amos when the famous letter came, announcing Maisie’s marriage to her young Irishman, who, as it turned out, was the eldest son of Lord Dunleith, an Anglo-Irish landowner with a splendid Georgian mansion called Dunleith and vast acres surrounding his county seat.

      All of these thoughts were swirling around in his head as Amos tramped towards Trafalgar Square. There were a good many people circulating in the area, and especially around the statue of England’s greatest hero, Horatio Nelson. Revellers were singing and waving the Union Jack and dancing. Some were shouting, ‘We beat the Hun!’ Obviously they were celebrating because it was the end of the war, not because it was Christmas, which was still a week away.

      At the other side of Trafalgar Square somebody let off a Catherine wheel, and bursts of sparkling lights rushed up into the night air. More and more fireworks began to explode for a wonderful display of colour and brilliance, and there was applause and laughter and more songs.

      Unexpectedly, a clear soprano voice rang out above the din. The woman began to sing Land of Hope and Glory, and after the first verse other people joined in, and soon everyone was singing. Including Amos, who discovered he had a funny lump in his throat. He felt an enormous swell of pride, and realized he was as sentimental and patriotic as the rest of them were.

      Eventually, he moved on, walking through the square, heading West to Piccadilly and the Ritz Hotel.

      Thank God the fighting has ended, he thought. For the first time in history, a war had exploded and engulfed the entire world, destroying the old order of things. He understood that nothing would ever be the same again. But thankfully the world was at peace tonight, after four years of hell and millions of young men dead, mowed down before they had had a chance to live.

EIGHT

      When he reached Arlington Street, just off Piccadilly, Amos crossed over to the other side where the entrance to the Ritz Hotel was located.

      Nodding to the doorman, attired in a uniform of dark blue and black top hat, he pushed through the swing doors and entered the lobby.

      Glancing at the large clock on the wall, Amos was gratified to see that he was not late. It was exactly seven o’clock. After depositing his overcoat in the gentlemen’s cloakroom, he went into the promenade area where English afternoon tea was served without fail every day of the week.

      He stood glancing around, and a split-second later he spotted Charlie coming towards him. Slowly. He had an extremely bad limp and was using a walking stick, leaning on it heavily. A captain in the British Army now, having received many promotions, he looked very smart in his officer’s uniform and Sam Brown belt.

      Amos lifted his hand in a wave, and Charlie waved back. Hurrying forward to meet him, Amos’s step faltered slightly as he drew closer to his old friend. But he quickly recouped, took a deep breath, and continued down the plush carpet, hoping Charlie hadn’t noticed.

      Pushing a smile onto his face, Amos thrust out his hand when they came to a standstill opposite each other, and Charlie grasped it tightly, held on to it for a moment.

      Amos felt his heart clench and he had to swallow hard. The young actor would never act again, not with that ruined face. One side was badly scarred by burns, the skin bright red, puckered, and stretched tightly over the СКАЧАТЬ