True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 28

  "But you're not leaving yet?"

  "No." She looked over at her employer, who was now in deep and earnest conversation with Storm. "Not yet. I'll stay as long as I'm needed."

  She prayed no one would hear the wistfulness in her voice.

  * * * *

  On Christmas Day, Olivia went down to the kitchens with knitted gifts for the other members of staff—gloves for Jameson, a bookmark for Sims and a long scarf for Mrs. B.

  "This has turned out to be a very good Christmas indeed," exclaimed the cook, her cheeks already crimson from an early glass of sherry— probably one that should have gone into the trifle.

  "I hope we have many more of them," said Sims with his usual somber tone, despite the sherry.

  But Olivia could commit to nothing of that sort. Who knew what would be happening next year, or where she might be, she thought with a pensive sigh.

  The day was very pleasant. It was good to see True surrounded by at least most of his children, and especially heartwarming to know that she had played a part in helping him to reunite with his only daughter. Raven was a handful and no mistake, but it was not too late for the two of them to make peace. They had both made an effort, showed themselves willing— True by writing a letter he would never otherwise have penned, and Raven by leaving her fiancé and traveling into bad weather just to be there for her father.

  Olivia, having been blamed by True as the "instigator of this Christmas business", was called upon to show them the games she had learned in childhood during the celebrations in her own house. The young Deverells repaid the favor by teaching her a fast game of cards. It was very loud, occasionally violent, and there were quite a few curse words thrown back and forth, but she had to admit she had never had such a lively Christmas day.

  While they were all involved in a noisy game of spillikins that afternoon, True took her to one side and asked her if she would have a word with Raven about her clothing.

  "She does, as you see, tend toward the bright and gaudy and...well, she is much more...rounded...and full... in certain parts... than she was. I mean to say, she's not a little girl anymore. It doesn't....it isn't...quite..."

  Tenderly amused by this fumbling for words, she smiled warmly up at him. "You mean she's a little too curvaceous for a low cut gown of that nature."

  "Yes." He looked relieved. "You can say it much better than me." Then he shook his head. "I fear her mother is a bad influence."

  Not wanting to step on anybody's toes, Olivia approached the subject with great care, suggesting to Raven that a lace tuck might help retain some ladylike modesty.

  "And why should I take advice from you?" came the retort. "You dress like a blind nun."

  "Well, I'm sure I—"

  "I suppose my father sent you to tell me this."

  "I don't think—"

  "I'll wear one of those silly lace tucks, Mrs. Olivia Monday, on one condition."

  Olivia eyed the girl cautiously.

  "You let me take your dress in hand!"

  "My dress?"

  "That's right." Raven's eyes sparked with excitement and she laughed huskily. "For dinner tonight, I'll dress you and you can dress me."

  So she reluctantly pulled out her best gown— the one she had never expected to wear here— and Raven got to work "improving" it with some silk flowers from her own frocks. She also insisted on dressing Olivia's hair. In return she allowed Olivia to sew a lace tuck into one of her own gowns and remove some of the bows. Raven was forced to admit that she looked, "Not too dreadful" when she assessed her appearance in the mirror.

  "It is actually quite nice to have you here, Mrs. Olivia Monday," the girl exclaimed. "You're very quiet and don't bother anybody, but you're also jolly useful when needed."

  "I do try to be."

  "I can see why father likes you so much."

  "Does he indeed?"

  "More than anyone. I can see it in the way he looks at you. Despite the sad dress. As mother says, there is no accounting for taste."

  Her face hot, Olivia busied herself putting everything back in her sewing box. And then accidentally sticking her finger with a needle.

  "If I didn't know him incapable," Raven added, "I'd think he was in love."

  They both laughed.

  Foolish girl was only seventeen! What did she know about men?

  Watching Raven parade about before the mirror, smoothing hands over her abundant bosom and flashing a brilliant, confident and mischievous smile, Olivia decided it was probably best not to answer that, even in her mind.

  * * * *

  At dinner that evening, True could not take his eyes from Olivia. For once she wore a color other than ditch water. Her gown was dark burgundy velvet, a little old-fashioned, but spruced up with some silk ribbon roses at the shoulder. Her brown hair was worn high in softened coils, decorated with more silk blossoms— white, so they looked like hopeful snowdrops peeping out of spring earth. He recognized his daughter's handiwork and saw that Olivia had succeeded in taming some of Raven's fashion sense too.

  "Thank you," he said, taking his secretary's hand and kissing her fingers.

  "Whatever for?"

  "For bringing Christmas to Roscarrock."

  She shook her head. "I didn't. It was here all the time. You just didn't see it."

  Her eyes shone as she chatted with Storm and his other children. And whenever she glanced his way he felt showered in warmth, as if caught out in a sweet spring rain shower. Looking around his table, True felt proud and blessed.

  Oh, no. Was he getting old?

  He ran a quick hand over his torso. No, all was firm as it should be.

  When his children had retired to bed, he went to her chamber door and knocked. After a slight delay she opened it, still in her pretty gown, but with her hair loose, a brush in one hand.

  "I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas," he whispered. "Properly."

  She smiled. "Merry Christmas, True."

  He reached into his waistcoat and took out a small parcel. "Here," he muttered awkwardly, holding it out toward her, wishing he had more finesse when it came to gestures like these.

  "But...you already gave me a gift. My boots."

  "This is something else."

  With trembling fingers she opened the paper and found her father's watch, polished clean and nestled there like a big, plump silver coin.

  "I got it fixed for you," he explained, scratching the back of his neck. "I saw how important it was for you to know the time. Though I've no idea why. "

  When she looked up at him her eyes were misty and huge, two pools overflowing.

  "I suppose now you'll keep looking at it, waiting for our time together to pass and—"

  She grabbed him by the cravat and pulled him into her room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Strange how she knew, even with so few experiences to compare in her own life, that the way he touched her could not be like any other man's caress. He explored her as a wolf would examine its mate, employing all his senses, relishing her slowly to make no mistakes. To imprint himself upon her.

  "Do you believe me guilty of murder?" she asked.

  "No," he said, this time without hesitation or teasing. "I have trusted my secrets to you, my life to you, and my children to you. I know you are innocent."

  He spoke steadily, firmly. Her heart filled with his words and his trust. It lifted her above everything.

  "You must be the only soul on earth who is sure of that," she whispered. Sometimes she wasn't even sure herself. Inspector O'Grady could be very persuasive.

  Pulling her into his arms again, he kissed her. "I ought to be the only one whose opinion matters to you."

  "You are arrogant, True Deverell, and bold. And impulsive." She touched his forehead, ran her fingertips over his eyebrows, over his lashes, down the sharp edge of his sculpted cheek, past a small scar, to his lips. A long time ago she had imagined his mouth and what it would feel like to kiss it. To kiss the scandalous man she'd re
ad about in the newspaper. Now she knew. "But I cannot resist you."

  "I know," he replied proudly. "You've broken your first rule, Olivia— tsk, tsk!"

  "There are no rules on this island."

  "Hmm. Let's see...we've broken the rule about only once. We've broken the rule about not mentioning it." His eyes glittered. "What shall we do about that other rule?"

  "Oh, no. Do not even consider it. I cannot be an unwed mother. I would be ruined forever." She reached up to squeeze his chin. "And one would think you have more than enough children to manage."

  Suddenly he became solemn. "I ought to marry you, Olivia."

  That was an odd way of putting it, she mused. "Why? Do tell. What possible reason could you have for thinking that?"

  "Because you are a respectable lady. And you need me."

  It took her breath away for a moment. "No."

  He had trapped her fingers between his lips, but he released them to speak again, "Why not?"

  "Because marriage has not been good for either of us."

  "I can protect you from the rumors."

  She scoffed at that. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

  "Marry me," he said again.

  "No."

  "I'll give you time to think of it, at least let me—"

  "No." For his sake she couldn't risk it. Three good men dead already. Where would it end? "I do not want to marry you. Good lord, you would send me mad."

  He flinched as if her refusal had finally stabbed through his hard skin.

  Olivia stroked the dark hair back from his forehead. "You keep that portrait above the stairs as a reminder never to wed again. You don't want another wife, and I did not come here to find another husband."

  Light from the one candle yet burning made little stars under his lashes. They danced, simmered and played, before they died away as he slowly closed his eyes.

  Was he sleeping? She couldn't tell. He didn't snore.

  Nestling closer to his chest, she listened to his thrusting heartbeat and eventually that rhythm put her to sleep.

  When Olivia woke the next day he was gone from her bed. At breakfast she learned that he had left for London on business and to see Ransom. He left no note for her. Was he angry at her refusal?

  One of them had to be sensible. Surely he understood.

  "He said you're to wait here and be ready to work again when he returns," said Raven. "You're not to go anywhere, and we're to make certain you don't."

  The man probably thought nothing of dashing off without an explanation. He didn't care about manners and could come and go on a whim.

  How long would he procrastinate this time, she wondered glumly. The man simply would not stand still. But why should he, when he expected everyone else to stand still for him?

  * * * *

  Several cold days blew by and the younger boys returned to school.

  "Will you be here when we come home again?" Rush wanted to know.

  "If there is still work to be done, yes. As long as your father needs me to help write his story."

  "He'll probably never let you go then. How can he until his story is finished, and he's still living it? Doesn't make sense."

  Having said this the boy immediately spun around on his heels and chased after Jameson across the causeway, yelling for Bryn to make haste.

  Damon stayed a little longer and then he too left. Only Storm and Raven then remained and she listened at dinner as the half-siblings teased and tormented each other. There was a sweetness about the relationship. With almost a full decade between them in age, Storm took his role as big brother very seriously, and Raven often acted nonchalant or brazenly disobedient, but if Storm mentioned that a certain ribbon didn't suit her bonnet, the next time that particular headwear made an appearance it was altered with something he liked better. No one, not even Storm, would dare point that out to her.

  "I'm glad that common Sally White isn't still hanging about," Raven remarked one day. "Or is she?"

  "None of your business, child."

  "You ought to find a nice girl and settle down."

  "Why would I want a nice girl?" he replied with a grin. "The naughty ones are more fun."

  "I bet Mrs. Monday wouldn't agree."

  Olivia realized they were both looking at her, waiting for a response. She put down her sewing. "I think whether it’s naughty or nice, love is the most important thing."

  * * * *

  "Well, Livy, you seem intent on causing another scandal. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

  There had been no warning. Sims had not even come to find her yet, so when she walked into the parlor in search of a book she'd left there, Olivia thought the room would be empty. Christopher was the very last person she would ever expect to see standing by the fire. It took her a moment to believe her eyes.

  "Do you have any idea how your cavorting about here with this man will affect my courtship of Miss Lucinda Braithwaite? Her family is most upset about the association. It is a degrading connection for any respectable person."

  How out of place he looked there! It was all wrong and she wanted rid of him quickly. He was far from Chiswick. Why? So many things sped through her mind.

  He must have received her last letter, in which she expressed her desire to stay longer in Cornwall.

  "I cannot imagine what you mean, Christopher," she replied, terse. "What are you doing here?

  His eyes widened slightly— almost imperceptibly. "Did you think I would not hear what has been going on? When I received your missive informing me of an intent to remain here beyond six months, I could scarce believe my eyes. You must come home with me at once, and end this shameful business, before it is too freely spread about and you are ruined forever."

  "I'm afraid that is impossible. I agreed to stay and I—"

  "You have been riding around with him in public, cavorting in taverns. I knew it was a mistake when I learned of this post, but that drunkard Chalke arranged it in such a manner that I had no chance to stop you. I was not informed of the circumstances— that you would be here with him, alone for most of the time."

  "But you always told me I would be safe from a man like True Deverell. What could he see in me?"

  "There is no time to waste discussing this now, Livy. You had better pack your trunk immediately and we can get back to the mainland before the tide comes in."

  There was no doubt in his tone, or his countenance. He expected her to do exactly as he said, which was amusing because she never had and she was not about to start doing so.

  "I'm not leaving him, Christopher."

  After all, she'd waited a long time to come in search of Deverell, the wicked man of her even more wicked dreams.

  "You are a horrid, unseemly child with a dark and devious imagination, Olivia Westcott. I cannot think what will become of you."

  "I shall marry Mr. True Deverell, shan't I? People say he's not fit for polite society either. But he's rich as Croesus and I hear he knows his way under a woman's petticoats."

  It had been a childish wish, spoken aloud eighteen years ago and never forgotten. And now she knew it was the real reason that brought her there to Roscarrock castle. Somewhere in her mind she had thought to make him fall in love with her. Ten-year-old Olivia and thrice widowed Mrs. Monday were not very different to each other, after all. Since she'd lived there with him it seemed as if very little time had passed. If anything, it was being reversed.

  Suddenly her eyes were opened and she realized why she had gone there. Unwilling to admit what she wanted, she had tried telling herself that she came for the money and the measure of independence it would give her. But most of all, in truth, she had gone there to appease her lurid curiosity, and for him. For the man himself.

  She had not, however, expected him to propose marriage. It didn't seem possible, too much of a fairytale, and she didn't believe in those. Not for her. So she had turned him down, lost her gumption.

  "Pack your things at once," Christopher barked
at her irritably. "We must leave immediately. The quicker we get back to Chiswick the better. Do you think I have nothing more important to do than chase about the country after you? We will catch the mail coach to London this afternoon."

  London. That was where True had gone, to his club and to his son. He might not be back for weeks, his work on the memoirs stalled again for now.

  He'll probably never let you go then. How can he, until his story is finished? And he's still living it?

  Was this why he delayed so much? Because he feared coming to the end of his story, thought that if he finished it then his life too would end? In many ways he did think and act like a boy, and it seemed feasible that Rush, his fourteen year-old son, would understand him better than anyone.

  But she had something to tell Deverell. Something that couldn't wait another eighteen years.

  "Very well," she said to Christopher. But as she rang for Sims, she looked down at her stepbrother's side and finally her eyes saw and registered what he had in his right hand.

  * * * *

  "The name is O'Grady, sir, Inspector O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police."

  True was in his office at Deverell's when the tall, spare fellow in the grubby greatcoat came to find him.

  "I understand you recently hired a lady by the name of Olivia Monday to work for you, sir."

  "I did." Bloody woman wouldn't marry him. He still couldn't get over it. She was the only woman he'd ever asked— Charlotte had demanded he marry her, so there was no proposal in that case. Olivia was the only woman for whom he had these strange, unnamed feelings.

  Had he gone about it all wrong with her? Was there something else he should have said? She had given one of her funny little snorts when he said he ought to marry her. Perhaps that wasn't the correct way to say it.