True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  The reply shot out of her before she could stop her tongue. "It couldn't be very good for you either, at your age."

  His eyes flared like shooting stars. With one savage stab of his fork he speared a boiled potato —without looking at it—as if the hapless vegetable was his arch nemesis. "I keep myself agile and limber. As you know. Certainly never had any complaints."

  She touched a napkin to her lips and looked away with studied indifference.

  "Should you ever change your mind about your sleeping arrangements," he added, "and feel desirous of a little excitement, you know where to find me."

  But she wouldn't know when, she mused, thinking of the odd hours he kept. Did the man ever sleep?

  "Something troubles you, Mrs. Monday?"

  "I was just wondering if you pester your bedmates for compliments, the same way that you do for Mrs. Blewett's pork pie."

  He snorted. "Never needed to."

  No, she was sure he wouldn't. Impossible man.

  "Know what ails you, Mrs. Monday?" he exclaimed suddenly, holding the speared potato aloft on the tines of his fork and pretending to examine it.

  "I wasn't aware of anything ailing me." Apart from you, she thought.

  "Your hair is too tight. You ought to wear it looser. Or down."

  "Down? That wouldn't be proper for a woman of my age. It would look ridiculous."

  "No one need see it but me. And I won't tell." He thrust the potato into his mouth and spoke as he chewed. "As long as you bribe me not to give you away."

  "I have nothing to bribe you with."

  He cast her a sinister, sideways glance. "Oh, yes you have."

  If only it was that simple. "You should not speak with your mouth full. Don't you remember what you told Damon? That this is your chance to learn how to behave, not to make a fool of yourself around a proper lady?"

  "I remember that I said it was his chance. It's too late for me. My clay is dried in the grotesque form you see before you."

  "Is that the excuse you always use?"

  "Yes. Why not?" Stuffing another potato into his mouth, he laughed at her through those unearthly eyes.

  "If it's all the same to you, I'll keep my hair in the style I've always worn it, Mr. Deverell."

  "Suit yourself," he muttered, reaching for the wine decanter that Sims had left beside his plate before he withdrew, "I've got a good imagination and that'll have to tide me over." He licked his lips. "I shall imagine how it curls and ripples like a waterfall. All the way to the cheeks of your behind."

  Olivia hastily resumed her own dinner, not wanting to read his teasing gaze any longer.

  And then he set the decanter back without pouring from it and he shook his head, "Perhaps it is just as well you sleep well away from me. For both our sakes."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Autumn settled in on Roscarrock island, leaves abandoned the trees and birds gathered to fly south, but they still had not progressed far with Deverell's story. Olivia lay awake at night to think about the abandoned little boy who grew up wild. It was a sad tale, but he did not see it that way. He spoke of his poverty and hunger as if they were old friends. Almost as if he missed them now that he no longer knew either.

  He claimed he wasn't afraid when growing up without friends or family, but he must have been, surely. Sometimes a person felt the need to say they were not fearful. As if words would make it so. Olivia knew all about that.

  Deverell constantly pried for her opinion, wanting to know what she was thinking, what she felt. But she remained guarded. He was a man with less than flattering opinions about women, and she had been trained to keep her feelings tucked out of sight. So they circled each other — she being wary, and he bemused, curious.

  Since he preferred to work in the evenings, Olivia had to give up her usual routine to accommodate his odd hours. Going to her bed so late made it harder to get up early, of course, but she refused to let him call her a slug-a-bed again. If he did not need much sleep, then neither should she.

  When Storm Deverell took her over to Truro for market day, she found him good company. He patiently tolerated Mrs. Blewett's chattering gossip all the way there and back with a kindly smile and the occasional, "You don't say" or "He never did!" He dealt with every trader at the market in a pleasant but no-nonsense way, making it clear that he would treat everyone the same, always be fair and never be cheated. Olivia saw many similarities to his father, but Storm did not possess the same unpredictability. He was more content, much less restless.

  He may have been safer to spend time with, but he did not make her skin sizzle.

  There was only one person with whom Storm Deverell shared cross words that day— an unshaven, dark-haired young man they encountered in the marketplace. Olivia did not know what their angry discussion was about, but she did hear Storm exclaim under his breath,

  "Bloody Restaricks. They're all the same. Horse-thieves, cheats and smugglers."

  Mrs. Blewett explained later that the Restarick family lived just over the valley from Storm's farmhouse. They had feuded with the Deverells over land ownership and polluted streams for at least a decade.

  "Young Joss Restarick just buried his father and took over as the man o' the family," the cook added. "He's got twice the gunpowder and a much shorter fuse. It'll be trouble for the Deverells, you mark my words."

  The subject of their conversation had looked over at Olivia and sneered openly before turning his back.

  Mrs. Blewett whispered. "They're a bad lot, them Restaricks."

  Even worse than Deverells? she wondered, amused by the cook's blind loyalty.

  But Joss Restarick was not the only soul to stare at Olivia that day in Truro. She caught the tail end of many inquisitive glances thrown her way.

  "Father doesn't generally keep company with respectable young women," Storm explained. "Don't mind them. They can't help wondering."

  "But Mrs. Blewett is respectable."

  "You're not Mrs. Blewett, are you," he replied with a meaningful look that swept her like a flare of sunlight.

  She began to wish she was that lady and thus apparently immune from all this speculation.

  When she discovered her reticule suddenly much fuller than it should be, Olivia knew someone had added to it. Both men denied it when she confronted them, but only Storm was convincing. His blue eyes did not hold the power to deceive even partially.

  "I expect my father wanted you to buy something for yourself," he said. "He likes to give people money."

  "He did mention something about me buying material for a new gown." She was still mystified by that. Surely he had many other things to worry about other than what she wore.

  "Well, there you are then." He shrugged. "He has probably grown tired of seeing you in that old thing. He always says a woman should take pride in her figure and not hide it."

  A woman's figure, indeed! As if it mattered what she looked like. As if he should even be aware of her figure. Just because he was paying her a wage, he seemed to think that gave him rights to take ownership in everything about her, from her ankles to her hair.

  Olivia tried to give the money back but her employer refused to take it, swearing it wasn't his. She would have put it back in his desk drawer, if he didn't keep it locked and the blasted key hidden on his person. When she left the money inside his ledger, she found it back in her reticule the next day, with no hint of how he'd returned it behind her back.

  * * * *

  When the harvest was safely in, Storm Deverell held a party in celebration at his farmhouse on the mainland. Olivia did not really want to go; she was never very fond of large, boisterous parties and she would have preferred a quiet night in with her books. But her employer insisted she attend.

  "Put your books and your spectacles away for an evening. And put a bow in your hair, or something," he said, waving a hand airily in the direction of her head.

  "A bow? Now, it's a bow? What sort of woman do you think I am? I'm not five."

 
"I've seen women wearing bows— women who were most definitely not five. All manner of bows in all sorts of places."

  "Bows are not my province. Mercifully, they never shall be. I'll leave them to you, sir."

  Now he tried on a vexed expression, meaning to mask his amusement. "Pah! Have it your way, woman. I don't know why I bother."

  "Nor do I. So please don't."

  But she did bind her hair a little looser that evening and picked out her least grey gown— which was more of an orangey brown. For a moment she was tempted to put on her best frock, but she didn't want to make it look as if his criticism bothered her.

  Watching her employer that evening, she admired how he moved through the crowd with ease, just as informal with his field laborers as he had been with her. However, there was something about him— that strange, inexplicable air — that kept folk at a respectful distance. He could not be mistaken for one of them, even if he tried to blend in and act as if he felt at home there. He stood out like a black sheep amid a flock of white. Or a wolf among them, she thought, remembering her first impression of the man. His pacing restlessness kept him apart, not to mention his sheer male beauty.

  It must be just the same for him when he walked into a group of blue bloods and aristocrats at his club. The man who had named himself True Deverell wouldn't belong among them either. He was one of a kind. Had to be. There couldn't possibly be another like him anywhere.

  "Mrs. Monday, you are not dancing," he said, when he drew near to the bench where she sat watching. He wore all black this evening, except for his shirt. It looked very smart, made him appear even taller.

  "You are observant, sir. I am indeed not dancing."

  "My son has asked you twice, he tells me." He sat beside her.

  "He has."

  "And you refused. Mrs. Monday, I command that you dance with my son."

  "Is everything in life that simple for you?" she exclaimed. "You command and it is done?"

  "Usually. It was until you came along and refused to be cowed by my magnificence."

  She had to smile at that. "Yes, I'm sure I was quite a shock. But there you see your son enjoying a jig with another young lady. He looks very content, so I don't believe my refusal has injured his confidence. He is much in demand as a partner and only asked me to be polite. Now that he has done his duty by asking, his conscience is served." For a fleeting moment she wondered if her employer would ask her to dance too. Would he think she hinted? Her heart thumped uncertainly, breaking its gentle canter.

  But no, she was safe. He had not danced all evening, despite the wistful glances of several pretty women of all ages. Dancing was clearly one form of exercise in which he did not partake. She was feeling rather relieved about it, which was selfish of her. Just because she didn't care to dance, didn't mean the other ladies present shouldn't have the pleasure of his company for a reel.

  From the side of his mouth, he whispered, "All work and no play, Mrs. Monday? You know what they say about—"

  "I didn't come here to play. You did not engage me for that."

  "Good lord, woman," he laughed, "are you sure you're only eight and twenty?"

  Olivia kept her face stern, in case anyone was watching them together. His hands rested on his knees, only inches from her.

  "What do you do for amusement?" he demanded.

  The image came to mind of that parsnip finger placed upon the pianoforte keys in a puddle of jam. She shook it off. "I read."

  "For pity's sake," he muttered.

  "What, pray tell, is wrong with that? You said yourself that you enjoy stories, sir."

  "I do. But I enjoy many other things besides. I don't limit myself."

  "So I've noticed."

  "Mrs. Monday, that tone of censure will get you into trouble with your employer one day. He does not care to be chastised by a woman more than ten years his junior."

  It was not the first time he'd admonished her, but rather than deal out any punishment for her "disrespect" he continued being exceedingly generous. Olivia had begun to wonder exactly what she would have to do in order to win a sincerely cross word from the man.

  "I believe, young lady, that every soul needs to play once in a while. There is a child inside all of us. Except you. It seems you were born with the wisdom and maturity of Old Father Time. "

  "Some folk are mature for their age, while some folk never grow up at all. Some don't want to."

  "I suppose by the latter you mean me."

  She glanced sideways. "If the shoe fits..."

  "Ah! That reminds me. We really must do something about those terrible old boots of yours. Is that why you are reluctant to dance? Can't have you twisting your ankle again, can we?"

  Hastily she drew her feet under the bench. "My footwear is perfectly adequate. And no concern of yours, sir."

  He swayed closer, his breath warming her ear, the sweet scent of cider tickling her nose. "Since you came to my island and put yourself in my hands, everything about you, Mrs. Monday, became my concern. Everything. From your doe eyes to your cold toes. And all the delectable delights that come between. If you set aside your fears and put yourself into my hands, I could look after you as you should always have been looked after. Other men may have been remiss. I would not be."

  Olivia found herself unable to respond without her voice betraying her unsettled pulse. Then, after another moment he added, "If you are mature for your age— so wise and sensible— while I am unable to grow up, you do realize that makes us a perfect partnership?"

  She concluded that he must have drunk too much scrumpy cider. There was an excess flowing that evening.

  "A working partnership, of course," he added, straightening up, squaring his shoulders. "You didn't think I meant anything else, I hope, madam."

  "Certainly not."

  "Because, my son Storm is very...much more suited."

  She stole another quick glance and saw him frowning into the distance. Eventually he stood and walked away, leaving Olivia to get her heartbeat under stricter control.

  It was becoming more difficult to repair her defenses after every conversation. He had laid siege to her. Each time he made a concerted effort he succeeded in breaching her borders a little more and yet he seemed not to know why he was doing it. He advanced and then retreated.

  Olivia wondered if this was his usual habit— if he was amusing himself at the expense of her blushes— or whether he meant the things he said.

  No indeed, there was no one else like him in the world. Thank goodness! One was quite enough.

  * * * *

  She wrote to let Christopher know she had arrived at Roscarrock in good health, and to reassure him that she did not regret her decision. There was hardly anything she wanted to tell him about Deverell— even fewer things she could tell him— so she filled the paper with inanities about the weather, and local flora and fauna. She also made polite inquiries about Chiswick and, of course, Lucinda. As she read it through before sealing her letter, Olivia realized it was a very dull, dutiful essay. Its dryness might cause Christopher to suspect her of hiding something, therefore she added a hasty line at the bottom to tell him how only his paint brushes could do the scenery here much credit. There, that was better. More like her old self.

  He was probably still angry with her for leaving. Christopher could be very ill-tempered when things did not go his way. Fortunately, Mr. Chalke had arranged for her to travel immediately, the same day she told Christopher of her plans, which meant there was really nothing he could do but stifle his fury. It cut down on the unpleasant scene she might otherwise have faced.

  Although she had dismissed her stepbrother's concern with her usual defense of dry humor, she understood that he worried not only for her reputation, but about how her actions reflected upon him, since he was now the one remaining male relative in her life. She was sorry if it caused him any pain, but it would pass; he had hurt her feelings many times and yet never seemed to know it and she concluded this was because he never s
uffered deeply himself, never let anything sink in below his well-maintained surface. He was lucky.

  Could there have been anything more behind his anger at losing her? Sometimes, she let herself imagine that he had finally begun to appreciate her worth. A gratifying idea, but not likely.

  Well, it was done now. She had taken herself out of the way. It was for the best. Christopher must learn to look after himself, and his needy bride, without her.

  Burden, indeed. But he'd got it quite the wrong way round.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "What do you plan to do when you leave me, Mrs. Monday?" Deverell asked her one evening. "Shall you go back to Chiswick happily?"

  "Why would I not?"

  "Living here with me, you might form a thirst for adventure and the wilder side of life. You might be a plant who, having stretched its roots, grows too big for its pot."

  "Perhaps I shall find another position, similar to this." She hadn't thought of it until he asked. "Mr. Chalke will help me, I'm sure." Yes, she liked the idea of keeping busy with interesting work, using her mind.

  Trouble was, here at Roscarrock there was much more than the job itself that she found enjoyable.

  She looked at the man across the desk. His head was bowed while he read over another Chapter and scribbled a comment in the margin.

  "Think you can put other men in order too, just like me, eh?" he muttered, not looking up.

  "Yes. I believe I can do a great service to disorganized, distracted gentlemen all over the country."

  He dropped his pen and there was a pause while he examined his knuckles. Then he said abruptly, "If you find yourself in no haste to go home, I could extend our agreement beyond the six months and take you to London with me."

  "For what purpose?"

  Finally he looked up. "You could help me there."

  "Doing what?"

  "This and that."