Dark Intent

Chapter 3

He settled in one of the chairs, his eyes on her as she took the one opposite, taking out her phone to dictate her notes, she kept her eyes away for the moment, something about this man was compelling. Her heart skipped a beat as she thought for a moment then quickly reprimanded herself mentally returning to the task at hand.

“So, Mr. Ravenhurst,” She paused to think on her words, he could turn any moment and throw her out she had to make every moment count “Very little is known about you, seemingly you never leave this place?”

“Of course, I leave, I have business across the country, but I have come to learn, that people will only see what they wish,” He replied.

“Hmmm…” His response caught her by surprise, it would be hard to miss those gates opening with the racket they made. Again, she felt her skip a beat, there was something both intriguing and frustrating at the same time, “You have lived here for a long time?”

“I was born in 1983, it was my father’s home before that, as I’m certain you already know my great-grandfather purchased the property in 1902, it was in quite a state and he restored it himself,” That would make him 40 she thought, he certainly didn’t look it.

“You don’t look forty,” She blurted out before quickly looking down to hide the flush that shot up her neck and cheeks. Why the f**k did I say that she admonished herself, what the hell is going on?

"Thank you, Miss Reynolds," His utterance of her name sent a tremor through her, causing her to inwardly chide herself - stay focused, Sara.

“So… um what exactly is it you do Mr. Ravenhurst,” Answer the obvious then dig beneath she told herself now.

"I am quite fortunate to have the family business passed down to me. Presently, I am involved in venture capitalism — a role I relish, helping others to flourish much as my forebears did. In addition to that, I came into ownership of several fishing trawlers via the hereditary acquisition of Wilton Fishing Co., a venture that was bundled with the land deed, and we have chosen to continue with that enterprise. The rest, I would say, comes down to judicious financial management."

She was almost stunned at such a portfolio; most had considered the Wilton Fishing Co. nothing more than a coincidence of the town's name as they were self-sustained and managed. She wondered how many people knew he was the actual owner. It also proved just how deeply rooted in the very foundation Alexander Ravenhurst was in Wilton-on-Sea’s prosperity. They had for the last several years been voted as the most desired place to live.

Indeed, numerous families in Wilton had held roots in the town for generations. The town was steeped deeply in its history with an almost stubborn resistance to major commercial development. It primarily catered to the fishing industry, with its docks bearing continual bustle; larger commercial vessels would bypass it in favour of larger ports. This, however, did not diminish the consistent hum of activity here.

Though Wilton-on-Sea wasn't a prime tourist destination, it smartly capitalized on its strengths, relying on the modest footfall of tourists it attracted. The town's splendidly clean and restful beaches served as a draw, encouraging a touched tourism business that kept the local economy ticking.

The high street, in particular, was a beehive of activity during the tourist season. While it mutually benefited from and contributed to tourism, it was also a testament to the town's vibrant day-to-day life, capturing Wilton-on-Sea's essence and spirit.

“I didn’t realise that you owned Wilton Fishing, there is no mention of you in their official documents,” She replied.

“I leave them to their operations, but I assure you I keep my eyes upon their dealings, I am a legitimate businessman and will not tolerate abuse of my family name directly or indirectly,” His tone now was slightly darker than she was accustomed, it almost appeared to be a veiled threat.

“My apologies Sir,” She replied quickly “I did not mean to imply there was anything wrong, merely that as you say they are very much self-sufficient,”

“I did my homework on the employees, and I do my diligence at every turn, Wilton Fishing Co. has always been the standard bearer for the British fishing industry,” He replied, the dark tone quickly replaced with his usual warmer tones, though she couldn’t quite shift the nerves of that darker tone.

"And what about your personal life, Mr Ravenhurst? Is there no Mrs. Ravenhurst?" Sara swiftly changed the direction of the conversation, choosing a less contentious topic to explore.

A soft chuckle escaped Alexander as he leaned back, his hands clasped together. His gaze fixated on the crackling fire in the elegant fireplace, defying any regulations that prohibited open fires in this modern age. Sara suspected that his influential status shielded him from such trivial concerns.

"There is no Mrs. Ravenhurst," he replied softly, lacking any trace of remorse or regret. "We have not been fortunate with women. My mother sadly passed away during childbirth, leaving me to be raised solely by my father.

His matter-of-fact statement intrigued Sara even further, raising questions about the role of his father or even a possible grandfather in his life. The absence of emotional attachment in Alexander's voice raised suspicions about the truth behind his elusive lineage.

“That would be Miss Jennifer Baxter?” Sara had done her homework after all.

“Yes, I believe she was the daughter of a fisherman. My father was more involved with Wilton Fishing Co. than I am required to be.” He said this to remind her that he left the company to be run as those in charge saw fit.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sara replied. “Is there anything you can tell me of your father?”

“Hmm….” Mr Ravenhurst paused, was he recollecting? Or perhaps trying to concoct a narrative that would be believable? “My father, a wise man in many aspects, may have lacked what some might term as parental instinct. It could be argued that I essentially raised myself, which might explain my diverse skill set.”

Deliberately jotting down her notes, Sara allowed her gaze to shift from her screen to Mr. Ravenhurst. His eyes bore into her with intense curiosity, as though attempting to delve into the depths of her soul. Convinced she was on secure footing, she opted to continue with her line of questioning.

“How did your family come to own the Mansion at all?” She asked.

“My great-grandfather was a very smart man and was able to secure the land deed for perhaps a fraction of what it was worth, there was some need of money in the town so they sold off the mansion, which of course as I mentioned came with fishing company deeds as well, I believe he paid somewhere in the region of two thousand pounds” He spoke with a soft tone as if this was nothing, but in that time would have been a rather large sum.

“Is your family from England?”

“We are; indeed, we date back as far as records go but perhaps as far as the fourteenth century, it is difficult to know for sure,” He replied.

“Wow,” She breathed the word slipping from her “You must be secret royals,”

As she caught his gaze, she thought she saw him roll his eyes at her statement. However, his expression quickly changed into the same smile that held her in a trance for a few more seconds. Her heart was racing, and she chided herself for having such thoughts. She had to stay focused, but part of her was starting to wonder who he really was. Something told her that this was all for her benefit now.

“No, just fortunate to be in the right place at the right time,” He replied dismissing her royal comment.

Her heart skipped, she was now beginning to struggle to focus on the task at hand as her head swam with thoughts far too inappropriate for her in her role as a journalist. f*****g hell why am I so off balance! Her thoughts raced.

“You recently donated a rather gracious some to St. James Orphanage, would you mind telling me why? This is after all the most recent saving grace for our fair town, you also donated to the lifeguard station, the lighthouse, and both the schools in the area, all of which were substantial.” He forced her mind back to the task at hand, and away from the thoughts of how it would feel with his arms wrapped around her.

“No one wishes to see children on the streets Miss Reynolds, and let's face it those who can help, seldom do. We can leave it to the politicians all we like, but nothing will ever really change from the self-serving interests. I on the other hand am in a position where I need never look at my bank balance so I can provide relief to their plight,” His words were cautious and yet came without question or hesitation. However, there was a darker edge to his clear distaste for politicians.

“Do you have interaction with government?” She pressed the angle.

"By preference, I generally steer clear of such situations. Rest assured, they are well aware of my," He paused, leaving her uncertain whether it was for dramatic effect or as he sought the right words, "disapproval of their lacking moral integrity, shall we say?"

“I have never in my life met anyone who likes politicians,” She replied throwing a smile at him.

"Yes, I've dedicated substantial funds to the town where I reside. I can bring about change, no matter how modest, and as a civic duty, I fulfil that responsibility. The lighthouse and coast guard contribute to public safety, schools and the orphanage are vital for the the younger generation. My motivation is purely to assist. You may recall my investment in your own office. With the digital age taking over, small newspapers like the Wilton Post have diminished in significance. However, recognizing the preference of the older generation for traditional newspapers, I supported the upgrade of your equipment and printing house," he stated accurately, though it had been about a decade since the investment. The printing house had adapted to the changing times, including printing books and various other materials.

“Yes of course I didn’t mean to imply….” Her words trailed off again he was flustering her, never had she ever had the trouble of keeping her head on the job, something about him from the moment they'd spoken had thrown her off, as if she was compelled to let this man in.

“Relax Miss Reynolds, you asked a question I was merely providing you with a response,” His words carried an assurance that once again set her at ease.

“Forgive me, may I take a moment, may I use the bathroom,” She asked, her heart was racing so quick she could hear the thud in her ears.

“Up the stairs, second door on the left,” He replied.

She quickly expressed her gratitude and rose, leaving the room. As she ascended the stairs, a whirlwind of thoughts consumed her. What was happening? How had he affected her so deeply? Why couldn't she get him out of her mind? Once again, she chastised herself. Upon reaching the top of the staircase, she hesitated. Left or right? After a moment's thought, she followed his instructions and entered the second door.