True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  But if he waited, those slippery bodies would come close enough. Then he could scoop them up and toss them onto the grassy bank behind him. He had to be quick. And he was now.

  He counted in his head, memorizing the twisting pattern of their dance in the stream, knowing when another would be within reach. To any casual observer the fish moved about in a random manner, but he had studied them long enough to find a rhythm. There was a rhythm to most things in life.

  And he had time. Nothing but time and hunger.

  One day, he promised himself, he would no longer feel hunger. And time would be something that troubled other men. They would wait for him, while he did as he pleased.

  Sunlight dappled the surface of the water, dazzled his eyes, forced him to squint. The water was warm around his knees, lapping gently. The fragrance of summer swept and soared around him. The earth was alive and singing.

  A wasp landed on his arm, but he kept his still pose. The insect crawled along, tickling his skin. If he moved now to swat it away, the fish would know he was there.

  Here came his prey now, slithering through the water, tail flicking, mouth gulping. Sun flashed along its silvery body, beautiful and sleek. His mouth watered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Morning sun trickled lazily into her chamber like rich, sweet honey from a spoon. For a long moment she lay there, letting the light squeeze under her slowly upward-drifting eyelashes, finding it hard to believe she'd ever managed to fall asleep after the strange events of the previous evening. But she had. Slept well too. Deeply. As if she had nothing to trouble her conscience. As if she had not let that man — her employer, for pity's sake—kiss her and nibble on her skin. She touched her neck, ran her fingertips over the place where his teeth had skimmed her flesh.

  Olivia could see she'd have to lay down some rules now, even if her employer had an aversion to them.

  Finally dressed, her hair braided in its usual knot, she went downstairs and found the house quiet again. His library was empty, no fire yet lit in the hearth, her writing materials left exactly where she'd discarded them last night. Even the supper tray and the remnants of their "picnic" remained on the ottoman. Her gaze drifted over the carpet and found the torn green stalk of a strawberry discarded there next to a wine stain.

  She licked her lips, tasting again his kiss.

  He needn't think she was a woman to be taken in and played with like all the others, to be abandoned as the mood took him. He was restless, needed too much of everything, all the time. Could probably never be sated. Must be exhausting company for the women in his life.

  Outside the tall windows, sunlight danced on the water and gulls floated dreamily above, ready to swoop down and claim fish for their breakfast. The sea was placid today, the air calm, and the surprising mildness of the weather soon lured her outside. Surely even William couldn't forbid a walk for pleasure on such a morning. God's beauty should be appreciated, should it not?

  In her mind, William had opened his mouth to issue a warning about her boots, but really he should trust her by now to know where she was going. Olivia was responsible for her own decisions and standing on her own two feet. He ought to approve.

  She quickly tied on her bonnet and strolled out to explore the island farther than she had yet gone. Shielding her eyes from the sun's glare with one gloved hand, she took in the wild beauty of her surroundings— all very different to the orderly rose gardens and sculpted privet hedges of Chiswick.

  The far mainland was a stretch of steep granite cliff side with dewy green above and a tawny strip of beach below. There was not a solitary human figure in sight, only the birds out to feed, picking among the seaweed for shattered crab shells. The island of Roscarrock itself was rocky, a terrain littered with treacherous lumps and sudden sheer dips. But Olivia ventured to the very edge, taking a great bold breath of fresh sea air.

  A warm, gentle breeze carried the pleasing scent of rosemary to her nose and she looked around to find the source. It must grow somewhere in a rocky nook of the house wall. There she recognized catmint, a cloud of silvery leaves and lavender blue flowers peeping out of the stone. Hardy verbena and merrily nodding daisies had a presence in the rocky garden too, finding any spot to blossom. Bordering the edge of a downward tracking path, she found thick, strappy leaves of a plant she did not recognize and clumps of rosa rugosa, its blossoms now shed to let plump, ruby rose hips flourish with the new season.

  Although it was all very wild and unruly compared to her usual surroundings, it was undeniably beautiful. Raw, but breathtaking in a way her last husband would not have approved. William always took steady breaths, was a firm believer in one's bad intentions being directly aligned with the amount of air one's lungs used, and considered activity that broke his usual rhythm to be anything from a mild nuisance to utterly hazardous to his health. Whenever he caught a glimpse of Olivia's boots— clear evidence of over-stimulation and an excessive use of breath— his eyes were heavy with sadness and disappointment.

  As she stood on the tip of the island and surveyed the glimmering sea, her eyes suddenly found a dark blot among the waves. Without her spectacles she had to squint, trying to give the blob a shape, but it moved and changed as she watched. Finally she realized it was someone swimming in the sea. A man.

  In the next instant she knew who it must be. Who else would go out so far in water that must be chilly, despite the sun? The current was surely strong out there, but he swam easily and then disappeared beneath the surface.

  Olivia waited anxiously for his safe reappearance, but when it came he was much closer to the island. Her pulse thumped recklessly. His broad shoulders were touched by sunlight as he flexed them, bringing his hands up over his head. Then he dived forward again. With a jolt she realized Deverell was naked. Utterly and completely naked as the day he was born.

  He was... splendidly beautiful. There, would that be a strong enough adjective for the dratted man? Surely he would like that.

  "She's doing it again. Someone ought to stop her."

  The rocks under her feet shifted. A few pebbles rolled away and dropped, bouncing and rattling until, with a splat, they landed in the water below. Olivia hastily backed away up the path, her heart pounding.

  She sincerely hoped he wouldn't see her watching.

  The solution, naturally, would be to stop looking.

  There he was again. For a man of his size he was graceful in the water.

  Perhaps his mother really was a mermaid, she mused. How long he held his breath beneath the surface! Olivia had never swum in her life. Although she'd heard of ladies occasionally entering the sea with the aid of discreet bathing machines rolled into the water from the sand, it was nothing she'd ever had a fancy to try.

  She was very warm, she realized, removing her glove and raising one hand to her brow.

  There was Deverell again, diving in and out, quite at home in the water.

  Suddenly he flicked his head around and raised his hand to wave.

  Olivia hastily turned and reached to pluck some catmint, as if she hadn't been looking at him at all. Then she embarked upon a hurried scramble back toward the house, but she moved so fast that she slipped on more loose pebbles, got one inside her boot, and wrenched her ankle. Her boots were in such a poor state that they gave her no stability and they were not well equipped for this terrain. She should have known better, should have listened to William whispering in her head. Her last husband was always so wise.

  Apart from his insistence on crossing that rickety old bridge every morning on his way to church, just to save himself a few steps around the lake...that was not so wise, was it? Not on the last day of his life.

  Although it was unfair of her to think that— she shook her head irritably as she scrambled back up the hill. How could he have known what would happen? Poor William. That narrow path around the lake could add as much as half an hour to the distance from the parsonage, especially on a morning when the ground was muddy, and William sensibly prefe
rred to keep his footwear and garments clean. While Olivia would have chosen the walk around the lake and even, when she was alone, stopped to feed the ducks, William always wanted to get to his church and pray as soon as possible, not to be out "rambling and wasting breath". So he used the ancient bridge to take a short cut across the lake.

  Stumbling and limping through the wild garden, angry at the world in general and with that stone grinding against her big toe inside her boot, Olivia thought back over the events of William's last day. It was not a memory she liked to visit often, but she needed something to take her mind off the naked man in the water somewhere behind her. What better way to keep herself from the temptation of looking out there again?

  "When did you last speak to your husband, madam?" Sergeant O'Grady — as he was called before his promotion—had asked.

  She let her mind return to that rainy morning, the last time she saw William alive, when she had watched him take his umbrella from the stand by the door and put on his hat. The same as he did every day.

  But on that morning...

  "Do be careful, William," she'd said, getting a sudden precognition of something amiss that day. It was April the seventh, 1841, half past seven on Wednesday morning. She knew the time, of course, because she had looked at the long case clock in the passage. Habit.

  Her husband was probably puzzled by the tension in her voice. "I am going to the church, my dear. As I do every day."

  "Yes, I know. But do take care. A chill just came over me."

  "A chill? Then you had best go and stand by the fire."

  "I meant that I had a terrible sense of foreboding. As if someone walked over my grave."

  "You know I do not approve of such expressions, Olivia. I thought we were in agreement on that score."

  She had merely bowed her head in silent acceptance and gripped her hands behind her back.

  "Now, I shall return for luncheon at precisely the hour of noon," he had added. "Please be sure the potatoes are properly boiled this time, my dear. They gave me the most terrible indigestion on Monday." At the memory of that discomfort his face crumpled wearily, the lines sagging and folding in like the pleats of a heavy curtain.

  "Yes, William." Olivia was deeply contrite about the almost-raw potatoes she had accidentally served him a few days before, after an unexpected visit from Christopher had distracted her from the duty of cooking lunch.

  As William passed out into the grey daylight, she'd thought about rushing down the passage and pressing a kiss to his cheek, but she knew he would think that quite unnecessary.

  When noon came the potatoes were crumbling apart, as they were overdone. To make them edible, Olivia had mashed them up with butter. She was just carrying them through to the dining room, when the verger came to tell her the terrible news. Her first thought was that at least William would not know how she'd failed again to cook the potatoes correctly— she could not bear to be caught in the frown of his disappointment. Then, as the realization of what had happened sank in fully, she lost her grip on the tureen of unhappy potatoes, letting them fall to the flagged stone floor of the passage.

  Once she got around to cleaning up the mess later, the potato had hardened and stuck to the stone. She almost wore out her knees scrubbing it clean again. No one had offered to clean it for her, although they all came to pay their dutiful visits to the new widow and, in so doing, had to step over the mess.

  In that moment she had thought to herself, No one would miss me if I wasn't here. She was just as invisible to the people left in her life as that dried, mashed potato.

  "Why did you feel something would happen to your husband that day, madam?" O'Grady had asked, frowning.

  She could give no answer. Perhaps it was because she had lost two other husbands before William? Was she beginning to recognize a pattern of signs? That much tragedy must leave some sort of mark on a person, she supposed.

  "Is that blood on your gown, madam?"

  "Yes." Olivia had looked down at the little red splatter on her muslin. "I cut my finger while peeling the potatoes."

  The sergeant had then asked her about the pigs they kept. "The neighbors tell me you are quite adept at the slaughtering, Mrs. Monday."

  "Well, someone has to do it," she replied sharply, her defenses quickly raised. Didn't mean she enjoyed it. In fact, it brought her out in a cold sweat whenever she knew the time approached, but once again William refused to pay for that service too. She might have added that she was also the person who chopped down trees, dug gardens and chased away bill collectors, because her husband was not capable. But the sergeant didn't want to hear about that.

  In any case, she was a person who went on with life, not letting anything distract her from the tasks that must be done— the routine of existence.

  Routine was very important. Had William not needed to remind her about the potatoes on that weeping April morning, he might have left the house a few moments earlier and dodged the fateful moment when a rotted section of the footbridge gave way.

  Sullen, she sat on a flat rock to unlace her boot and shake out the intrusive pebble. Deverell, meanwhile, must have swum to the island with speed, for she heard him already splashing at the base of the steps, then grunting as he heaved his body out of the water. She looked around desperately. Had he brought no clothes out with him? There must be something laid nearby on the rocks. But no. There were no garments discarded. He would surely not approach her naked? Surely not. Not even him.

  She heard heavy breathing as he began his ascent. Of course, she realized in horror, he must think she'd dashed back into the house. He would not expect to find her sitting there with one boot off. Lingering. He might think she did it deliberately.

  "Mr. Deverell," she called out, "I have sprained my ankle. Please do not come any closer until I am out of your way."

  There was a low curse and then his face emerged between two, permanently wind-bent branches. "You rise early today, Olivia. I wasn't expecting you about for another few hours at least."

  Was it early? She had no idea, although the tide was not yet out, which should have given her a clue she realized. Water dripped from his black hair and his eyelashes. This morning his eyes were startling, the color of the moon on a clear night, and full of mischief. She dare not look too long. "How am I supposed to know the time when you have no clocks in the house?" she demanded crossly. "I am quite at a loss!" And she was too. But in many other ways, in addition to timekeeping.

  "Perhaps you might lend me your bonnet?" he suggested.

  "My bonnet?"

  "To help preserve my modesty. Or some of it. If you would be so kind."

  Ah. She untied her ribbons and held the straw hat out to him with as steady a hand as she could manage, carefully averting her gaze.

  He took it.

  "When I woke the sun seemed high," she explained. "Had I known you were out here—"

  "No need for excuses, Olivia. Your curiosity about my naked body is perfectly understandable. You're not the first to sprain something trying to catch sight of my superb masculinity."

  "I was not—" She heard his low chuckle and realized he was mocking her. Again. "You really ought to have a clock in the house."

  "But I like keeping visitors in confusion and myself in a state of timelessness."

  "Of course you do," she muttered.

  He feigned comical concern, "Are you ill? You're perspiring in a very unladylike manner."

  She took a handkerchief from her coat pocket and fanned her face, looking away from the difficult male. "It is warmer today and I think I've had too much exercise."

  "You were moving somewhat speedily upward and backward. I'm not surprised you twisted an ankle."

  "I'll be quite alright. Please go on into the house." She closed her eyes tightly, expecting to hear more rustling.

  But suddenly Olivia was swept off her perch and caught up in a strong pair of arms.

  She opened her eyes. "What are you doing, sir?"

  "You ca
n't walk on that ankle, can you, woman?"

  "I can manage!"

  "And it will swell up like an unsightly balloon. I have to look at these ankles of yours and I command that you keep them shapely."

  "You shouldn't be looking at my ankles," she grumbled. "Put me down on my own two feet."

  "Tsk tsk. What sort of gentleman would I be to make you limp back to the house in pain?"

  "I didn't think it mattered to you, sir."

  "Your ankle? Why would the fate of your sad little ankles not matter?"

  "I referred to being a gentleman. Last night you warned me that you could make no promises about your behavior."

  "Ah. I can't honestly say it does matter to me. But I know it matters to you. So I shall try to be good."

  Olivia had nothing to say to that. The idea of anything that mattered to her being important to a man like him— or to anyone—was very odd. And if this was his version of trying to be "good" she feared there was no hope, but to say so would be discouraging.

  He carried her through the untamed, rocky garden, and she tried to forget the fact that he was naked with only her bonnet tied around his groin.

  "Did you sleep well, Olivia?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "I did not. I spent a wakeful night after you left me so abruptly."

  "I'm sorry. That is unfortunate, sir." She watched a bead of seawater make its steady course down the side of his neck. "I slept very comfortably."

  "I don't suppose you thought about me," he pressed.

  "No. Good heavens, why ever would I?"

  He scowled, gripping her tighter to his chest.

  "I do hope my bonnet doesn't slip," she muttered. "Are the ribbons holding it up sufficiently?" She dare not look for herself, but she knew they were not terribly long ribbons and badly frayed.

  "Ribbons aren't necessary to hold it up," he replied stiffly. "Not at this moment."

  "Oh."

  "And unless you want us to go off into the realms of the improper conversation again, I suggest you leave it at that, Olivia."