"Well, I'll be off father," Damon was saying. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Monday. I do hope your stay here with my father won't be too trying. Do not believe a word he tells you, for he enjoys tall tales."
Preoccupied by the letter in his hand, True mumbled a goodbye and waved his son off with a mechanical reminder to behave himself and write if he needed more money. He was vaguely aware of his secretary rising to bid the boy a safe journey.
Meanwhile, he stared at the words slanted viciously across the paper, their spiteful news no doubt bringing great glee to the woman who had written them. One by one he absorbed those syllables and all the vitriol they contained. Like poison it writhed and burned in his stomach.
He looked up to find Sims still waiting beside him, tray tucked under one arm. "Sir, shall I—"
"Yes, clear the breakfast things, will you?" True bounced to his feet, crumpling the letter and forcing it down into the pocket of his riding jacket. "I must go at once to the farm and tend to some business."
On his way out of the room, he found Mrs. Monday underfoot, looking up at him expectantly.
She was still here? Of course she was. He hadn't yet decided what to do about her, had he?
"When can we begin work? You are already paying me, sir." Apparently this little fact bothered her greatly.
"Mrs. Monday, you have a day off today. There, you see, I might not possess any gentlemanly manners, but I am a benevolent employer. You did not expect that, eh?" He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the door. "Do go and enjoy your day off, Mrs. Monday. Cush, cush." Probably shouldn't have put his hands on her. The woman almost leapt out of her skin, but she said nothing.
Besides "probably shouldn't" had never stopped him before.
Hopefully she would take some time today to think about what she'd done by coming here. She appeared to be a woman of wit, intelligence and surprising good sense. Perhaps, when he returned, she'd be packed and ready to leave. Then he wouldn't have to tell her to go, because he was finding it unduly difficult to get the words right.
Tripped over her once, did he? Didn't sound like him. He wasn't in the least clumsy. The part about failing to apologize did sound typical, though.
He'd have to make that up to her somehow, before she left.
Three husbands dead, eh? He was right then. Drab-drawers did have an interesting story of her own.
Chapter Nine
"Writing his memoirs indeed," the cook exclaimed. "Who would want to read that filth? I never took to books and reading. Why would he put the evidence of his sins down on paper?"
"He says he's writing it for his children, Mrs. Blewett. He believes the truth would be a service to them."
"Pah! That lot aren't waiting for any service from Mr. Deverell other than a share of his handsome fortune, mark my words. They're all greedy fledglings. Except for Master Storm Deverell. He's a good lad, and the only one I've got time for."
Olivia said nothing about the making of that seed cake for Master Damon, which suggested the cook's opinion of him was not so wholly bad as she made out. Indeed, Damon had departed the house that morning with a large hamper filled with Mrs. Blewett's baked goods— enough to feed not only him, but also all the other boys at school. It had required both Damon and Jameson to carry it.
"It's the master's fault for not raising 'em with a firmer hand," Mrs. Blewett added. "He looks around sometimes as if he doesn't know how he came by so many children, as if they just followed him home like confused ducklings. Throws money at 'em and hopes for the best."
Yes, she had already witnessed his propensity to use money as a cure-all. "Perhaps he's writing the memoirs for himself too. I suppose he wants to get things off his chest. Make his confession, so to speak."
"Not dying, is he?"
"Not that I'm aware of." He certainly looked healthy enough, she thought with a cross sigh. It made her job much harder, while he had too much energy to dash about all over the place and couldn't be pinned down at that desk.
"He's got too much life in 'im, if you ask me. Flitting about all over the place from sun up to sun down, as if his arse is afire." Mrs. Blewett laughed heartily at her own crude remark and then again when she saw Olivia's expression. It seemed as if laughter was never far from the cook's lips, and when she dissolved completely into the jolly, raucous noise her whole body trembled with the motion. "That wicked feller will outlive us all, to be sure, no matter how many times they shoot at him."
"Have you worked here long?" Olivia inquired.
"I came here as cook the first time his wife left him. Twenty years ago, it must be now." She shook her head. "Twenty years at least. Time flies, as they say. I worked at the farm over on the mainland, you see, and when Lady Charlotte decided to run off back to London, she took the chef with her— some fancy fellow from the continent. Mr. Deverell asked me to come and fill in here and that's what I've done ever since. He doesn't care for fussy cooking," she explained with pride. "Likes my plain, hearty honest fare."
"The first time his wife left?" Clearly she had come back again, since some of his children were born less than twenty years ago.
"Oh, there were many such times. The lady was gone more than she was home. Always came back though, when she ran out of money. The screaming fights those two had could be heard on the mainland if it was a still night. But no, that was the first time she left properly— the first time she packed more than one trunk and was gone for a lengthy spell."
"Is that when she damaged the portrait in the hall? The one above the stairs?"
"Aye." The cook lowered her voice and leaned closer. "His fine lady wife found out, you see, that the master paid to send his first bastard child— young Master Storm— to school and that he arranged a monthly stipend for the boy's mother too. Lady Charlotte was furious, claimed he paid more attention to the bastard than he did to his legitimate son, Ransom. The master replied that young Storm was just as much his responsibility as her own child."
"I see."
"She wanted to take her child with her when she left, but the master refused to let her have him. Called her an unfit mother. That's when she threw the crystal wine decanter at his portrait."
"Ah."
"Storm Deverell now runs the home farm on the mainland for his father. He was always a hard worker. Not spoiled like the others. Has his head on straight. He ought to be married by now and a father himself— there's many a local girl had her eye on him— but he avoids all talk of matrimony and uses the farm as his excuse. Says it takes up all his energy. Mind you, he still has time to chase after a pretty face when he fancies it. Quite a charmer he is. Trouble for the ladies, just like his father."
Olivia, warming her hands by the fire, thought that someone ought to speak up on behalf of the betrayed wife in all this. "It must have been hard for Lady Charlotte, to know of her husband's infidelity. For it to be so public."
"Well, Storm was born before the marriage to Lady Charlotte. Mr. Deverell weren't much more than a boy himself — only just fifteen or sixteen, so 'tis said—when he fathered the lad by a gamekeeper's daughter out Truro way. Mr. Deverell didn't know about the babe until years later, after he were wed. His wife wanted the child and its mother out of her life, but the master said that since she'd married him for his money, she could take all that came along with him and not just the luxuries."
The cook's story was cut off sharply when Sims entered the kitchen. "I trust you have plenty of work to keep you busy, Mrs. Blewett? If not, I'm sure more can be arranged."
"Just having a friendly word with this young lady."
"And now perhaps you can complete some tasks more pressing."
Olivia hurriedly got up from her chair by the fire. "Is there anything I can do? I am at rather a loose end this morning, since Mr. Deverell took himself off to the mainland."
"You?" The butler glowered down his superior nose at her. "No, there is nothing you can do, but wait for the master to return, and try not to get under our fee
t in the meantime."
"Well then, since the fog has lifted slightly, I'll venture outside, Mr. Sims, and get myself acclimated. Mr. Jameson might have work for me there if I can find him."
"I would not advise it. The fog still lingers around parts of the island and you are unfamiliar with the territory," he muttered. "The master would be most displeased if he returns to find you damaged in some way, or lost over the edge. It would be a great inconvenience."
She chuckled dourly. "Yes, I would hate to inconvenience Mr. Deverell by getting swept out to sea. Well, if he spends a lot of time away I shall have to ask him to leave me tasks. I don't care to be idle."
Both cook and butler gave her odd looks and exchanged an even odder one between them. "I fail to see what he might give you to do when he is not here," Sims proclaimed in a deeply disgusted tone. "You sole purpose is to amuse him."
"Amuse him?"
The cook winked. "You mean, she's to write the master's memoirs."
It occurred to Olivia that her role in that house was being misinterpreted. "That is exactly what I am here for," she exclaimed. "I am a secretary."
"Of course you are," Mrs. Blewett rolled her pastry out with considerable force. "If that's what they're calling it these days."
She spun around to confront Sims, who surely knew the real reason for her employment there and was probably just being his usual uncooperative self, but the butler had already gone out again. The cook began to hum loudly as she worked, bouncing and tapping her toes against the stone floor. Olivia decided to sort this out with Deverell as soon as he returned. Better let him deal with his own servants. It wasn't her place.
Apparently she faced several challenges in her new job already. One of her most trying missions there would be keeping her slippery employer focused— rather like corralling an escaped seed ox. Another would be persuading the other staff of her chaste purpose in the house. From what she had already seen of Deverell, he would likely take mischievous delight in their mistaken assumptions.
Young Master Damon had warned her, "He will tell you all manner of nonsense. That he was left by a mermaid on the sand. That he can read the history of an object just by holding it. That he once fought a dragon...the tales are endless. The sort of thing only a child can believe. I'm sure you won't be fooled by any of them, Mrs. Monday."
He was right, of course, she would not be fooled. Even as a child she'd never enjoyed fairytales— only those of a decidedly midnight pallor.
As she left the kitchen to explore the house, Mrs. Blewett called out merrily, "Now don't go kissing Jameson again. The poor fellow still hasn't recovered from last night and the master won't want his handyman indisposed."
Oh dear! She really must apologize to poor Mr. Jameson, and explain herself when she saw him again today.
Such a menace she was to men, and yet she'd only ever tried to be useful.
* * * *
"Father," Storm greeted him with the usual sunny smile. "I thought you'd be by today, checking on the harvest."
The boy— yes, True still thought of his eldest son as a "boy" in many ways— must have been up since dawn. He looked tired, but happy. Evidence of how much his son enjoyed working the land. Storm was not the sort to want town life, fine clothes and Society parties. He lived plainly, had a good head on his shoulders and a warm heart in his sturdy chest. How could a father not be proud?
True's wife had despised his eldest child and made no effort to hide it. From the moment she learned of his existence she set out to destroy the poor boy. It was the only thing, apart from her appearance, into which his wife ever put any effort.
"I fail to understand why you must pay for that bastard's education," she had exclaimed. "Let him and his slattern mother manage their own affairs. I thought she was married to a blacksmith now."
"She was, Charlotte, but he has passed away. Since Storm is my child, he is my responsibility in any case."
"To send him money is tantamount to stealing from your legitimate child."
"If we are to discuss thievery, dear, should we not raise the matter of your cousin Horace?" She had begged him to hire Horace— a complete and utter wastrel— soon after their marriage, but he'd been caught stealing money from the club and had to be let go. "If Storm and his mother receive stipends from the Deverell coffers at least it is with my knowledge and consent. Unlike the unsanctioned allowance that managed to find its way regularly into your cousin's pockets until it was discovered. But then, your family has never been known for honesty has it, Charlotte?"
"How dare you compare my cousin to that slut and her bastard?"
"Quite. It was wrong of me. It is an insult to my eldest son and his mother."
Charlotte had thus declared her intention to leave. True didn't stop her, but when he asked what she meant to do about her own baby, she was adamant that she didn't want the boy with her. "Why would I want your offspring hanging on me?" she'd exclaimed, her eyes overflowing with volcanic spite. "A reminder of the worst mistake I ever made!"
"He is your child too, Charlotte," he'd reminded her.
"Do you think I don't know it? That I don't know how bearing your son has ruined my looks? As if that is not bad enough, now you force me to leave all my friends in London and live in this dreadful place, isolated from Society for six months of the year? And why? For you to be near that wretched little bastard of yours and his whore of a mother."
"I thought it would do you good to leave London for a while." There were many things and people in Town that were bad for his wife, but she couldn't stay away from them.
"So I could become even more dowdy and unfashionable? No, you can keep that needy brat of yours. You deal with its tantrums and that surly, pudding-faced nurse-maid. I'm going back to my life!"
Charlotte had no maternal instincts. Selfish to the bone, her thoughts were always for herself. She only complained about his illegitimate son taking attention away from her child, because she was thinking about the money. That's all her children ever meant to her; they were conduits to True's fortune and as such they would keep her in luxury for the rest of her life. Or so she thought.
"If you leave the boy, Charlotte, you can forget about coming back here again. You can forget about me sending you any allowance. Go back to London and your friends and we'll live separate lives. If you prefer their society so much, let them take care of you. But you'll get nothing more from me. Not a damn penny."
The wine decanter hit his portrait soon after. It would have hit him had she possessed better aim in her soused condition.
Storm was too young then to understand the animosity caused by his existence. It didn't take long, though, for his eyes to be opened. Growing up, the boy was victimized by Charlotte's spiteful rancor more than once, but he bore it stoically. Perhaps that annoyed her even more, True mused. Storm didn't fly into rages like his father; his mild manners he clearly got from his mother. If anything he avoided confrontation.
Just as he avoided carrying post to his father when he guessed it brought bad tidings.
True took the crumpled ball of Charlotte's latest letter from his pocket. "Did you know about this?" he demanded. "My daughter has always shared her troubles with you rather than me. You must have known something was afoot."
"Something? Like what, father?" Storm couldn't lie to save his life. His eyes were very blue and in pain anytime he thought he might disappoint. It made True think suddenly of Mrs. Monday's eyes and the similar light within them— muted in her case, but just like a pup ready to flinch.
"Raven, it seems, is to be married. And I must be the last to know."
His son groaned, set down the pitchfork and shrugged into a worn leather jerkin. "Raven wrote to me that her mother had introduced her to some rich fellow in silk breeches. But in all honesty father, I can't keep the names all straight in my head. One in-bred aristocratic dandy sounds much the same as another to me. Besides, I didn't think she took any of 'em seriously. You know how Raven is, she likes to have her fun.
"
Oh yes, he knew his daughter. Sadly. Raven was more intent on rebellion, in many ways, than his sons. Her mother made a great fuss of her because she was the only girl, but it was all empty affection— all for show. And revenge against him, of course.
His former wife had wanted a large, extravagant "coming out" ball for Raven in London, but True would have to pay the bill and he declared his daughter too immature, too deeply under her mother's influence.
"What's the quote from that book you like so much?" he'd said to Raven. "Until you can prove to me that you've spent ten minutes of any day in a rational manner..."
It may not have been an exact quote, but it was close.
After that his daughter fled up to Edinburgh in a mighty sulk, anxious to be consoled by her mother. Since then Charlotte had been parading their daughter about like a piece of meat on a butcher's wagon, trying to catch the deepest pockets in Scotland. Now, according to this letter, an engagement had been settled upon. Without True's permission, or even consultation.
Storm confessed. "I would have told you before, father, if I thought anything would come of it. But I never thought Raven would agree to anybody her mother picked. Doesn't seem like her at all." The two men walked together into the barn, and Storm poured two tankards of cider from a barrel that stood just inside the door. "I thought she'd get beyond this stage by now and be back here to make it up with you."
True laughed harshly. It spat out of him before he could take his first swig. "That girl will never come back for my forgiveness. She's stubborn— like all my sons— but with the added trait of feminine irrationality. It's a wretched combination. Worse still, she's been under her mother's influence ever since I told her I would not pay for that damned ball this past spring."
He'd refused because he knew Charlotte's so-called friends would attend merely to gawk at his daughter, as if she was a public curiosity. The vultures waited for Raven Deverell to make one mistake— they looked for fault. But no, her mother did not care about Raven being an exhibit. Charlotte wanted a gaudy performance with herself in the midst of it. Now she'd managed this engagement to some oily cretin. And True would be expected to pay for the wedding, or else he would, once again, be the enemy in his daughter's eyes. Apparently, he was the one who thwarted all her chances for happiness. That was the accusation Raven had shouted at him before she ran off to her mother.
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 9