True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 16

  "That's if I don't sweep you off your feet in the meantime, Mrs. Monday." Storm gave her another wide smile that seemed to be lit from within. Like the power of a sun god. "My father is very keen for me to make a good impression, and we Deverells love a challenge. Something...different."

  "Actually I'm very capable on my own two feet. Very steady. Not likely to get swept off them."

  He pointed to her ankle. "Until today, eh?" When he saw her expression, he assured her gravely, "Fret not Mrs. Monday, you are far from the first woman to fall foul of my father."

  "It was an accident."

  "That's what they all say."

  * * * *

  The visit from his son provided her slippery employer with yet another reason to delay their work.

  "May as well go out for a ride," he exclaimed merrily. "It would be a shame to waste an unexpectedly fine day— perhaps one of the last this year— by sitting indoors."

  Why couldn't it be his ankle that got twisted, she thought peevishly. It might have kept him at his desk that day.

  Deverell turned to the cook. "Now, you make certain, Mrs. Blewett, that my secretary stays off that dainty ankle. Don't let her go wandering about the place. It seems she's a trifle accident prone, but I can't have her lame and we must send her back to Chiswick in one piece at the end of six months. Extra precautions are required while we have custody of her delicate person."

  Olivia glowered at him.

  He sighed. "Is a man never free of responsibilities?"

  His son gave her another funny, jerky little bow, which made her think he must have learned the gesture from pictures in an instructional flip-book, but never tried it himself. Then he kissed her hand and exclaimed that he hoped to see her again very soon. With that, father and son left the kitchen, shouting loudly back and forth in a manner she could only assume was the usual method of communication in their family. Among the men at least.

  She wondered if her employer meant to go riding in the same state as he went swimming that day, and it was some relief when he came back two minutes later to collect his riding breeches from the drying rack beside the fire. As he leaned over to grab the clothes, his dressing gown gaped open at the chest and she glimpsed that dark, damp hair against which he had held her half an hour ago. Perhaps she'd left a little of her perfume on him.

  "Remember," he winked at her, "don't go off having any adventures without me. I shall need you when I return. The moment I return. Keep yourself in readiness to fulfill my needs, madam."

  "Where else would I go?"

  For just a moment he seemed serious. "One day you might run away."

  "Not until the task for which you engaged me is complete," she said.

  His eyes narrowed. "You haven't changed your mind then."

  "Mr. Deverell, I never change my mind."

  "I'm not too much for you?"

  Oh lord, how did one answer that? She thought for a moment and he waited, watching her mouth. Finally she replied, "As long as I am not too much for you, sir."

  His lip quirked. "I'm sure I can tolerate your saintliness for a few more months."

  "Then we should both come out of this unscathed."

  His eyes glittered down at her. "Unfortunately."

  Again, when he left her, she thought she heard the walls sigh gently. Or did the sound come from inside her?

  "Well, they'll be out for the rest of the day," said Mrs. Blewett, shaking her head and smiling indulgently, as if they were nothing more than two schoolboys playing truant, "and come back ravenous for my cheese scones, I daresay."

  "I think I'll go up to my room and fetch a book." Olivia looked around for a makeshift crutch and saw a besom broom leaning by the wall. Reaching for it, she added, "Don't worry about me, Mrs. Blewett, I'll—"

  "You will not, young lady! Like the master said, you stay off that ankle." The cook swiftly moved the broom away, very prim. "He charged me with the responsibility of looking after you and so I shall."

  Even Jameson, who entered the kitchen shortly after, had evidently been warned to keep her busy while Deverell was out, for he pulled up a chair, took off his cap, and over several cups of tea, regaled her with a series of tales about shipwrecks and smugglers of "backalong" days. He promised later— once her ankle was better— to show her the beacon at the top of the tower, which was lit each night for the good of passing vessels whose Captains might otherwise venture too close to the shore.

  "But you keep that foot up today, young woman," Jameson exclaimed, his big face creased in gentle concern. "The master needs you in full health and one piece. You're not to go off wandering without him, he says. We're to look after you like fine china. Woe betide any of us if some part of you gets broke while he's out."

  It was almost comical. Her father had never made such a ruckus over one of his daughter's injuries. Her mother had been the same, caring in a quiet way, but reserved and always dignified. In Olivia's family it wasn't fitting to overindulge in one's illnesses or to be extravagant with sympathy for trifling little wounds— or even death. They would not coddle a twisted ankle any more than they would walk about the house in a state of undress. And they certainly wouldn't talk about private matters between a husband and wife.

  True Deverell didn't understand dignity, boundaries or taboo subjects. He rode right over them. Another reason why she shouldn't find him at all likeable.

  But it was too late.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The boy ran in the meadow where the grass was almost as tall as he. There he could hide when the farmer was in a temper, or when the gamekeeper was after the "stray menace" for lifting from the traps before he could get to them. But he ran there too simply because he loved the soft stroke of the grass, the scent released by the wild herbs crushed under his feet, the gleam of the sun catching on feathery, floating seeds. And he liked to lay among the tall strands, on his back, and watch the clouds sail by, unhurried, slowly turning into new shapes as they passed.

  After it had rained, large, glossy drops hung among the blades of grass, perched on daisy petals and nestled in the buttercups, waiting for the tip of his tongue to find them, as if he was a bee seeking out nectar. It was better tasting water than the slightly rusty kind he drank from the trough in the yard or the rain barrel beside the barn. He considered those fresh, new-fallen rain drops his personal treasure.

  In later years, as a grown man, whenever he saw diamonds or pearls hanging from the ears of a lady, he felt the same enchantment. It brought back to him those happy moments from his childhood. There had not been many of those. Perhaps that was why they mattered so. The little things were what counted most. The things no one else noticed, but he found.

  * * * *

  True slowly grew accustomed to the secretary's small, pale face hovering at his elbow, waiting impatiently to work on another Chapter of his memoirs. He expected it to be a vast annoyance, worse than a tailor's pin stuck in his backside, but he was wrong. Yes, she had her irritating points: the way she managed to nibble her food without spilling a blasted crumb; the tiny sips she took, nursing a single glass of wine for hours; the unrelenting dreariness of all her gowns; the tense way she tightened her mouth from time to time, deliberately denying him the pleasure of seeing her smile. The speed with which she moved her hands away from his, even when his intentions were perfectly harmless.

  She made him a new ledger— one without any blots, doodles, torn pages and violent scratching-outs. One that tried to make him stick to a proper schedule, as if he was a bloody mail coach. If he wasn't careful, the woman would organize him right into a coffin. But he could barely remember any longer what it had been like without Olivia Monday hanging about like a good conscience, shadowing him around the house, reminding him to do things he had deliberately tried to forget.

  Storm visited for dinner, often calling in at other times of the day too, as if he hoped he might take the two of them by surprise again. But True was careful after the incident with the twisted ankle. From then
on he warned her if he meant to go swimming the next day. When Storm pointed out that his father was making unusual efforts to be polite around the woman, he dismissed that remark with a careless shrug. She was one little woman and only under his care for six months. How hard could it be to behave himself that long? Besides, he wasn't always good. A man had to have some relief and stretch in the paddock once in a while, so occasionally he couldn't resist making a comment to see her rather stunning eyes widen in scandalized shock.

  That novelty did not fade over time. Neither did the pleasure of teasing her. If anything, it increased.

  When his son took Mrs. B into Truro on market day, True suggested Olivia go too in case there was anything she needed to purchase. He meant to slip a few coins into her reticule when she wasn't looking.

  "I do not need anything, sir," she said, looking puzzled when he mentioned a trip to the mainland. "Unless there is some purpose I can fulfill for you in town?"

  "No, no. I thought you might want to buy a few lengths of some...pretty material."

  "Why would I do that?"

  He scratched his temple. "You could make a new frock. Something...not the color of a puddle."

  Instantly her hackles went up. Shoulders back, head high, she exclaimed, "What, pray tell, is wrong with this gown? You have something against my clothes?"

  Yes, he wanted to say, you're wearing some. He longed to see her bare arms again, as he did by accident on the first evening. But to suggest that would most certainly earn him one of her scowls. Besides, he was thinking of her for his son, not for himself. So he must be content replying, "Don't you have anything less...melancholy?"

  "Mr. Deverell, I am still in half mourning."

  Oddly enough it hadn't occurred to him. He tended to be thinking too much lately about what was under her gown, rather than why she was wearing it."Surely you've done your duty for the dead. Time to get on with the living. You'll marry again one day, won't you? You're still young."

  Her eyes suddenly looked anxious, but she did not reply.

  He cleared his throat. "I know my son Storm is fond of the color blue. You could get yourself some good silk at the market."

  "Silk? There is nothing more impractical. What use would I have for silk?"

  Frustrated, he gave up. "Do as you will, woman. You can wear a bloody hessian sack for all I care."

  His secretary did go to the market that day, and he did slip money into her embroidered purse, but if she bought new material he heard nothing about it. She returned with a brighter color in her face that day and a bit of a smile on her wary lips, so it must have done her good to get out, in any case.

  When she tried to return the money he feigned ignorance of how it came to be in her purse.

  "Mr. Deverell, I wasn't born yesterday," she said.

  "Mrs. Monday, I am well aware of that fact and neither of us are getting any younger. Now can we get on with the work for which you were hired, or must we discuss the contents of your ugly purse for another tiresome hour?"

  Most evenings they spent working on his story until late. True went back over his childhood as a feral stray, picking over it for anecdotes, his memory prompted by her questions and encouraged by the intrigued spark that warmed her eyes from time to time.

  His mind was freshest at night. In the mornings he was too active to sit for long, his blood pumping with the need to be out and about. This clearly frustrated his secretary, who preferred to work at an earlier hour of the day, but he liked to have her company as the dark night closed in and the heavy drapes were drawn to keep the chill out. Sitting with her by his library fire was something he began to look forward to all day. A far cry from his previous nighttime adventures and preferences.

  He watched her closely for signs of interest in his eldest son. But although she was always pleasant to Storm and conversed easily, her countenance never gave anything away, never showed any special attraction. She might have been just as interested in him.

  On the morning she injured her ankle, and while she was confined to the kitchen talking to Jameson, True had taken the sly opportunity to peep into her bed chamber. He hadn't meant to do it, but after dressing to ride, his feet took him down the corridor toward her door. He told himself he wanted to check for dust on the console table again— to ensure Sims had done something about it.

  Then he could not resist opening her door to look inside. Why shouldn't he? She was his damned employee and he was paying her very well. Besides, with a twisted ankle she wasn't able to follow him about, so she need never know he was curious.

  As the door opened, a faint wave of her perfume wafted under his nose, reminding him of the pleasant burden he'd carried into the house that morning. Her bed was neatly made, the curtains open to let sunlight spill across the worn carpet, highlighting all the shabby threads and bare patches. She had placed two pictures on the mantle— one a small, oval silhouette, the other a framed, amateurish painting of a sinister-looking cottage with an obsessively neat garden hedge and blobs of garish color growing up the walls.

  Some books sat upon her bedside table beside the lamp. Her battered trunk rested at the foot of the narrow bed, her initials O.W.O. P. M. scratched into the side. The first two letters were larger, the others all different sizes.

  Apart from these few items there was little reflection of the new occupant's personality, but True didn't need many clues.

  There were two candles in holders on the mantle, but although both wicks were blackened, only one was burned down a few inches. The other must have been extinguished soon after he left her there on the night of her arrival. No other candles from the box had been put into use yet, so she was certainly using them sparingly. The hearth was swept clean, not a sign of stray ash; the bed cover straightened to leave not a single crease. The books by her bed were neatly stacked and a man's pocket watch— the case engraved with G.W.— sat atop the towering pile. A non-working watch, he discovered when he opened it.

  The room looked rather sparse, he thought. Should have made more effort for her. She deserved better.

  Then his son called impatiently from the hall below and he could explore no further. He simply laid the purple flower of catmint on her pillow— the stalk she'd picked and left on the rock earlier— and closed the door.

  * * * *

  Deverell shocked her one evening at dinner by saying quite suddenly, "I will ask Sims to move you to a better room in the family wing. It was Lady Charlotte's and has more modern decoration."

  After a startled pause, she replied, "I am happy where I am, sir. I would rather not be moved now I am settled."

  "In the old nanny's room? That was only a temporary arrangement. No, no, it is drafty and the furnishings are sparse. I should have moved you before now, especially with winter on the way."

  "Sir," she assured him firmly, "I could not be comfortable in your wife's room."

  "Why not? She seldom used it herself, so you needn't feel awkward. You will find it far more comfortable."

  Olivia remained adamant and would not move. The nanny's old room was far more typical of accommodation to which she was accustomed.

  He scowled at her in frustration. "I can have the door sealed off to my dressing room, if that would make the idea more palatable to you."

  It had not even occurred to her that there would be anything to connect the two rooms, but of course, if they were made for a man and his wife, then there would be a passage of some sort to allow private access between them. She stared. "I shall assume, sir, that this was another of your teasing jests and we will say no more about me moving rooms. I can only imagine what the other staff would make of it."

  "There's only Jameson and Sims here at night and they know where their loyalties lie. No reason for them to tell anyone about your sleeping arrangements."

  "Even so, it wouldn't be...proper."

  "Fine. As you wish. Sacrifice your comfort for a little senseless propriety." He snorted. "I suppose the temptation of my proximity would be too muc
h for you, eh?"

  "No, sir, but I would have imagined my proximity might make things difficult for you," and then she felt her face grow hot as she realized how that sounded, "should you wish to entertain...in the evenings...in private. That is all."

  "Entertain?"

  "In your chamber."

  "I am puzzled, Olivia. Who would I entertain, in private, in my chamber of an evening? What can you be suggesting? Surely nothing vulgar. I'm surprised at you for letting such wickedness fester in your very proper mind."

  "It was just a thought, sir. You did mention to me that you are a red-blooded male in need of lovers occasionally. And you are not dead yet, as you pointed out then too."

  His gaze, reaching for her between the tall candelabra, was hard and unblinking. "Indeed, I am not dead. Despite a few swift-aimed bullets and other projectiles. Although no one has yet tried to assassinate me with their sharp tongue. Is that why you're here?"

  She sighed heftily. "It is best that I stay where I am to avoid any uncomfortable encounters with your female guests in the passage. That is all I was trying to say, sir. I like to be where I am. Out of the way."

  He leaned his elbows on the table and picked at his teeth with a slender piece of bone. "But you don't wander about at night, surely?"

  "No." Although she sometimes slept lightly, especially when her thoughts were full of him, as they were all too often of late.

  "Well, perhaps you are right. I wouldn't want to keep you awake with my entertainments and female guests. Of which you must have heard there are legions of trollops."

  "I make no judgments, sir. What you do is no concern of mine."

  "But all that...banging about, swinging from the chandeliers and screaming in ecstasy...wouldn't do for the ears of a parson's widow from Chiswick."