"Best be careful we don't cause a spark of fire," he added.
"Fortunately we are surrounded by water. I'm confident any wayward sparks can be doused efficiently."
No wonder Sims had been unable to describe her. She was a curiosity. Accustomed to less complicated women whose motivations were usually as blatantly displayed as their bosom, True was utterly baffled by this briskly no-nonsense widow who had bizarrely, and knowingly, put herself in his way. Despite her unexpected youth, she was every bit as stern as he would expect of a parson's wife. But the haughty expression and starched manners didn't fit her any better than that ugly gown, the sleeves of which were too big for her wrists.
This woman, he decided, was a fibber— trying to persuade him that she was something she wasn't. Perhaps even trying to persuade herself too.
Her hair was brown, divided by a center part and swept back into a tightly braided lump at the nape of her neck. No ringlets, nothing to soften her face, except those tiny pearl earbobs. The bonnet set beside her on the table was a simple, old-fashioned straw poke with a wide brim and a pewter ribbon. The style of hat that hid a lady's face completely from the side and reminded True of a horse wearing blinkers. Her version even included a black widow's veil, just to be doubly sure she was well hidden.
"So you think you can put the master in his place, eh? Make him behave himself? A sad little thing like you?"
"I didn't come here to be Mr. Deverell's nanny."
"It's a natural instinct in females. Makes 'em think they can change a man, once they get their infernal fingernails dug into 'im."
"I keep my fingernails well trimmed and always to myself."
"That'll be a change for the master then," he muttered drily.
Her lips were very tightly pressed together, her jaw set firm with the determined mien of one who expected argument. And would cling to her side of it until blood was drawn.
"You seem tense, woman. Unduly cross."
"I have endured a long and tiring journey, which involved changing coaches many times. You'll have to forgive me if I'm not bright as a daisy."
"Should have come at least part of the distance by railway. 'Tis faster and cheaper."
"Cheaper?" Her shoulders became even more rigid, as if bone might soon poke through the material. Even her lips paled. "Money is not a concern." Her spine was ramrod straight, her expression defensive. "And as for the railway, I would never venture onto that wicked, modern contraption."
"It is quite safe. There are just as many accidents with coaches as there are with steam trains, but because the railway is still a novelty, we hear those tragedies reported the loudest. It's progress, Mrs. Monday. No need to fear it."
"I am not afraid of steam engines," she exclaimed scornfully. "Nevertheless, if I must travel, I shall continue to go by traditional methods, tried and trusted. Not something that relies upon fire and rude eruptions of explosive steam to get me from one part of the country to another in a cacophony of vulgar noise."
Laughter sputtered out of him. Of course, she wasn't afraid; she wanted him to believe she merely objected to the noise, the soot and the speed. "Well then, you must do as you wish."
"Thank you, Mr. Jameson. I shall. How relieved I am to have your approval."
True rubbed a finger along his bottom lip, watching her thoughtfully. "If money is no concern, why would a young lady like yourself travel so far from your home to work for an old rogue like Deverell?"
"I hardly think that's any business of yours, Mr. Jameson. So, if you don't mind, I'll keep my reasons to myself."
Well, whatever she said, he knew she needed the coin. Chalke had told him about her financial situation. But was this post really her only option? He'd expected an elderly lady with a hint of desperation about her edges. There was nothing desperate about Mrs. Monday apart from her clothing. She acted as if she did him a favor by taking the post, not vice versa.
As the owner and creator of London's finest gentleman's club, and a man who had made his fortune from understanding the stimulus of risk, True Deverell had seen a great many gamblers throw in their all to 'play deep', unable to walk away from a chance. But while he was adept at reading a customer's thoughts and motives, his mind easily calculating the odds against them, in the case of Mrs. Monday he suddenly hadn't a clue.
Before either of them could speak again someone entered the kitchen behind him and her gaze shifted upward, over his head.
"Mr. Deverell, sir, I just brought in the lobster pots and tied up the boat. Looks like a chill fog is coming in over the sea tonight. I lit the beacon early, sir."
"Ah, thank you, Jim," he said, stretching back in the creaky wooden chair, still watching the woman across the table. "Yes, the weather has definitely turned today and I think we've seen the last of the summer."
Mrs. Monday blinked, just once, and then she pinned him again with her steady regard. Her lips parted a little, allowing the escape of one crisp, frosty huff.
He bounced upright, scraping chair legs loudly across the stone floor. "Jim, this is my new secretary, Mrs. Monday. She's come to help me write my memoirs."
"Aye, sir. I just carried the lady's trunk upstairs to the old nanny's room."
"Excellent. We must take very good care of her. She seems to think she's not welcome, and we can't have that, can we? This, Mrs. Monday, is Jim Jameson, the handiest man on the island. Far more use than me, as you will no doubt agree."
Jim tugged off his cap. "Pleased you've come, Mrs. It's time we had a lady about the place again. There's been no woman here since..." he screwed up his face, struggling to recall, "well...since the young miss went orf to her mother."
"Quite." True turned to look at his new secretary. "Since my ingrate daughter upped and left me there's been no reason to keep a female on the permanent staff. You will find us a rough-edged, uncivilized bunch, Mrs. Monday."
She stood, pushing her chair back and muttering under her breath, "Really?"
True scratched his chin where she was making his stubble itch. He was quite sure she caused the irritation. Perhaps it was her perfume. Although very faint, it had stealthily crept into his notice while they talked. He began to get the sense they'd met before, but he couldn't think where. It was rare for him to forget a face. "I'll show you to your room now."
"If you give me directions and a lamp, I'll find my own way. Sir."
"You will not. I'll lead the way."
"But I'd much rather—"
"I insist."
From the tightening of her lips, she was not accustomed to relying on anybody to show her anything.
"I hope you're not going to be difficult, Mrs. Monday," he added smoothly.
She glared.
"I expect my employees to do as they're told." He gestured at the door with one sweep of his riding crop. "It's a small island. No room for contention and disobedience."
"I've never been contentious in my life," she muttered— an unmitigated lie as he knew already. And as she further proved in the next moment.
On her way to the kitchen door she stopped in front of his handyman and said curtly, "I understand this is tradition, Mr. Jameson," before leaning forward and planting a kiss on the fellow's weathered cheek. "For luck."
The poor man, staring bewildered, tipped backward like a wooden skittle at the village fete, but somehow kept his balance.
Having performed this little display, she arched a defiant eyebrow in True's direction and then marched out of the kitchen, leaving a slender drift of that insidious perfume in her wake.
Jameson's eyes had glazed over. "Well, I never...."
"Do close your mouth, Jim, before something flies into it." True hurried after the truculent woman to stop her wreaking further havoc.
Aha, there she was, moving across the hall, as if she didn't think she needed a lamp or his direction.
He overtook her with his long stride. "I must give you a tour of the house, Madam. Sims usually obliges the guests with his—"
"Sure
ly that can wait until tomorrow?"
Holding the lamp high, he studied her frayed expression. "I'll take pity and give you the shortened version then. Sims is the history enthusiast and he usually gives the tours, but I'll try my best in his absence."
She closed her lips in that grim line again. The woman must be wondering what she'd got herself into, he mused. Made two of them.
"Roscarrock Castle was built in fifteen...something or other... by the third Earl of...something or other. The fellow didn't live in it for long as he lost his head to the temper of Good Queen Bess and then the property passed to the crown. It was left empty for many years. No one fancied the isolation, it seems. The place is rumored haunted by the headless earl, so if you hear steps up and down the gallery late at night, best not look out to see who it is."
He bounded ahead of her up the stairs. When he looked back, she was poised with one hand still resting on the newel post while she examined his shattered portrait. Her face was very white as it caught the curved edge of lamplight.
"I hope you're not frightened by ghosts, Mrs. Monday."
"Good heavens, no. I'm on their side. Who would possibly pass up the chance to get a little spirited vengeance on those who once plagued them?"
He laughed. "Is that a warning for me?"
She did not respond to that, too preoccupied by the painting. "Why have you not restored the portrait?" she asked, gesturing to where the image of his face should be.
"It stands there as a reminder never to marry again."
Having considered this for a moment, she said, "And no one can say how young you looked then, or remark upon the silver strands creeping along your temples now. Your vanity is safe."
"For your information, madam, I grew into my looks. I was not as handsome then as I am now."
"Well, I'll have to take your word for that, shan't I? Precisely my point."
Amused, he cleared his throat and moved on, taking the stairs three at a time in his usual fashion. Only when he reached the landing and found her still some way below, negotiating the steps in semi-darkness, did he suppose that he should have taken a slower pace to provide her with more light.
But she managed, skirt lifted with one hand.
He raised his lamp higher and saw that she wore some wretched old boots indeed. Suddenly he realized she was looking up at him and must have seen his puzzled glance at her feet. Her cheeks turned dusky pink, and she hastily dropped the hem of her skirt.
Clearing his throat, he continued, "The castle was eventually occupied again and passed down through a Cornish family, although the last inhabitant before me was accused of smuggling and deliberately luring ships into the cliffs to claim whatever bounty they carried. Thus, he met his end on the gallows. His son never wanted to live here and—"
"You won the place from him in a game of cards," she interrupted. "Yes, so I read." After a pause she added, with cutting deliberation, "Considering the gloomy history of the house, it would seem very few generations failed to keep the custom of kissing a Jameson."
"Exactly! See what happens when superstition is scoffed at, Mrs. Monday? And you thought I made it up." He heard a dismissive huff. "I suppose you believe I won this island by dishonest methods," he added.
She raised her shoulders in a stiff shrug and looked bored.
"Cheating, Mrs. Monday, is not necessary when one has a natural genius for numbers."
"Indeed?"
"A careful calculation of the odds alone can ensure the house eventually triumphs, every time. One must merely have the capacity to hold numbers up here." He tapped knuckles to his forehead.
"Fascinating."
"But while working for me you'll learn the whole story of how I earned my fortune. If you decide to stay and we don't frighten you off."
"I agreed to six months and so for half a year I shall stay." Her voice was very firm, decisive. "I never go back on my word. And I never change my mind."
Well, we'll see, he thought. Women, in his experience, were changeable as the weather.
As True led his new employee down the passage, he noted dust on the console table and cobwebs on the paneling. Would have a word with Sims.
He opened the door to the old nanny's room and saw that a fire had been lit. At least Sims had seen to that, so he must not have despised the new arrival too severely. It was a sparsely furnished room though, a bit grim. "Here we are, Mrs. Monday. There are spare candles in the box on the mantle. I hope you'll find it comfortable tonight."
She walked into the room, her gaze quickly assessing the place. "I'm sure I'll manage." Then she looked at him again. "I daresay it amused you to make a fool of me just now, sir, pretending to be Jameson." Her head tilted to one side and a flicker of candlelight caught on the soft luster of her pearl earbobs, drawing his attention to them again.
Interesting that she wore no other jewelry— not even a wedding ring. He knew, thanks to his instinct for probability, that those earrings were handed down, not bought specifically for her. The woman's complexion was not suited to pearls so no man who knew anything about jewelry would buy her pearls. Diamonds or sapphires would suit her better. That meant the pearls had belonged to a close relative and were passed down to her. But since she apparently disdained ornament, Mrs. Monday must wear them only for sentimental reasons.
Therefore, although she seemed intent on denying it, this woman did possess some feminine tenderness after all. One soft spot. Somewhere under her armor.
Uh oh, her lips were still moving. Better pay attention.
"I was warned that you enjoy practical jokes, Mr. Deverell, so I should have been prepared. But I hope you got that mischief out of your veins tonight. I would not want anything to prevent us working efficiently together from now on."
He studied her thoughtfully, wondering again what she was doing there. And why she thought she had any authority to chastise her employer. This was not at all what he'd expected when he sent his request off to Abraham Chalke. It wouldn't do, of course. She was too young, too argumentative, too disruptive— upsetting the staff. Poor Jameson probably still stood in the kitchen with his mouth open, and Sims pouted in a corner somewhere, licking whatever wound she'd given him with her sharp words.
She couldn't stay. He must think of his staff's sanity and the smooth running of his household.
And he wasn't looking for more trouble from a dratted woman. He'd had more than his share in that regard.
Looking up at the ceiling, he pretended to consider. "Hmm. Have I got the mischief out of my veins? Have I?" After a moment he looked down at her again and sighed. "Too early to tell. Sleep well, Mrs. Monday. In the morning we'll discuss this matter."
"The matter of your unacceptable behavior, sir?"
"No, madam. The matter of yours."
With that he left her, closing the door and walking away with his lamp, loudly whistling the Sailor's Hornpipe. A jaunty tune that she, her pitiful boots and battered trunk had, for some reason, brought to his mind.
Chapter Six
Roscarrock Castle, Cornwall
Early morning (Time regretfully uncertain)
Thursday, September 1st, 1842.
Upon waking Olivia went directly to her window, eager to examine the view in daylight, but there was not much more visible now than there had been in the dark of night. Swaddled jealously in a thick cloud of fog that rolled off the sea, Roscarrock Castle appeared to float in a world of opaque nothingness. The chilled silence was broken only by a distant low rumble as unseen waves collided with rock. And by the steady beat of her heart, thumping reassuringly in her ears.
Well, here she was. She had arrived in one piece, despite Mr. Deverell's "odds" against her, and there was considerable satisfaction to be felt in this achievement, especially for a woman who had never been far outside Chiswick.
She went to the chair where she had hung her coat last night and felt in the pocket for her father's old fob watch, even though it had stopped working at some point during her journey. Fo
rlorn, she opened the engraved case anyway and stared at the still hands. The timepiece had never let her down until now. The winding mechanism appeared to be stuck.
Snapping the case shut again, Olivia took a deep breath. She'd manage without it. She must. A fog-bound, time-abandoned, drafty old castle inhabited by an eccentric gambler was easy to bear when compared to the only other option of remaining in Chiswick, to watch her stepbrother, Christopher, marry Miss Lucinda Braithwaite.
Yes, Lucinda was primarily ornamental, whined like a kettle left on the fire too long, and would probably prove expensive to keep, but if that was the wife he thought would make him content, it was none of her business. Olivia had known three husbands— married each one in opposition to her stepbrother's opinion— and just because she wasn't capable of keeping any of them alive, that was no reason not to want better fortune for Christopher. He could be very smug and had the uncanny ability to keep his boots well-polished in all weathers, but it was hardly his fault that all the puddles lurked in wait for her.
Putting that thought to rest, and with it any temptation toward uncharitable feelings, she opened her scuffed trunk at the foot of the bed. Too tired last night to tackle the job, she'd left her unpacking until morning, draping her coat, gown and stockings over a chair to dry, and sleeping in her petticoats. The devil only knew what a crumpled mess her carefully packed garments and belongings would be in now after so many days of rough travel.
Fortunately the first item she encountered was her old woolen shawl. She quickly threw it around her shoulders in a warm hug, holding it to her face just to inhale a breath of familiar scent. How could she have considered letting her luggage fall into the sea yesterday? That proved how tired she must have been.
She thought over her conversation with Mr. Deverell last night. Not a very good start. But Olivia would never have said many of those things to her employer, had she known who he was when he entered the kitchen. Today, well rested from her journey, she must keep her opinions and thoughts to herself, not let him goad her into any sort of debate.
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 5