Across the room his secretary had suddenly frozen. The ink bottle slipped from her fingers and fell to the carpet. Luckily the impact was not enough to break the glass. Her face had gone pale. She stared at the bureau for a moment, as if she saw something else there entirely.
"What's the matter now, woman?"
She didn't answer. Olivia was staring at the wall.
Worried, he got up and walked around the desk. Were those tears in her eyes? He couldn't tell. Could be the shimmer of reflected raindrops, he supposed.
It had better not be tears.
* * * *
Deverell didn't possess an umbrella. Mrs. Blewett had commented on it that morning when the rain started.
"The master says umbrellas are for dandies afraid of getting wet," the cook had chuckled while brushing her steak and kidney pie with beaten egg. "He says he can manage without one."
"Naturally," Olivia had replied.
But the rain today was joined by high winds, so an umbrella would not have been any use to him, even if he had one.
She had thought nothing more about it until now. However, it must have lurked in the deep recesses of her mind, waiting to pounce out on her again. For suddenly, as she stood at the writing bureau that afternoon with rainy shadows flicking around the walls, Olivia was transported back to another time and place. She saw, once again, the image of William standing by the parsonage front door, reaching into the umbrella stand. He kept a plain black umbrella with a chipped and scratched wooden handle. Not in the least decorative, but serviceable— like everything he owned.
Yet, on that fateful day there was a gleam of silver as he swept the umbrella out of the stand and prepared briskly to go about his business. And suddenly Olivia realized it was not his umbrella William took that morning; it was Christopher's expensive umbrella with the silver swan-neck handle. She remembered admiring it when her stepbrother surprised her with a visit just a few days before. The umbrella handle even had feathers carved into it and eyes of polished jet. He must have left it there by accident and taken William's umbrella instead when he walked out of the house. Perhaps Christopher was just as distracted on the day of his visit as she had been, when she failed to get the potatoes cooked in time for William's luncheon.
She closed her eyes, picturing the ornate, curved silver head of that umbrella.
In the grief of everything that happened after, she had completely forgotten.
So her husband took the wrong umbrella. That must be what had struck her as out of place on that day! William was a creature of routine, and any tiny diversion from it was enough to be noticeable.
She exhaled in a rush, her fingers squeezing tightly around the reclaimed ink bottle. Well, that could explain the odd feeling that had lurked within her on the morning he died. A small drop that upset the surface and made a bigger ripple as rings spread and overlapped.
Thank goodness she knew now what had caused that awful sensation. It was a relief to find a perfectly reasonable explanation. She had never been able to explain it to Inspector O'Grady when he questioned her. All she knew was that something had struck her as wrong that day before William left the house.
But how foolish she'd been not to tell her husband that Christopher came to visit two days before while he was out. There was no need for her to hide the fact. Even though William didn't like her stepbrother he would never prevent her from seeing a relative. She should have told William at once, but instead she'd put it off, and the longer she waited, the less reason she felt for telling him. And the more delay, the more it would seem as if she had something to feel guilty about.
William hadn't even noticed that it was not his own umbrella he took from the stand on that rainy morning. At least, he didn't seem to notice the difference.
"You look very white!" Deverell was striding toward her, frowning. "Good God, woman, you're ready to faint. You never have much color, even on a good day, now you're positively ghost-like."
Clutching the ink to her bosom, she blurted stupidly, "Mrs. Blewett said that you do not possess an umbrella."
He stopped two steps away and looked puzzled. "That's nothing to get upset about. Or is that a sin in your opinion?"
"I just thought...you ought to have one. It always rains in England you know. One thing we can be sure of. About the weather."
"The weather?" He squinted. "That's it?"
"I'll put the ink in the—" She moved to pass him and he put his hands on her arms to hold her still. How ironic that he should be the one to stop her moving.
"I hope you have been more impressed by my son Storm, than you were by Damon."
Her mind was lost elsewhere, but she struggled to make sense of what he said. "Mr. Storm Deverell is a pleasant fellow," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I like him."
"Good. There is one of my cubs who meets with your approval then. I have not been a complete failure as a father in your eyes."
He still held her arms, warming her with his touch, but not helping her pulse to find a steadier beat. "I did not dislike young master Damon," she said, speaking clearer. "It would be unfair to form any firm opinion, for he is still growing into his character. A boy inside a man as yet. Storm is more comfortable in his skin and it shows."
She looked up and found him studying her in that thorough, merciless way. It wasn't like her to wilt, but it was a good thing his hands were so firm, for his strength seemed to be the only reason she was upright at that moment.
Oh, the rain! The horrid rain. Pounding hard at his windows, it had taken her back to the last morning with William and that rush of guilt because she had, days before, received a visit— alone— with her stepbrother and not told her husband. A foolish thing. Why not tell William? Why should Christopher's visit have put her so out of herself?
Because the two men were not friends. They had quarreled, because William thought Christopher ought to sell her father's house and divide the profits equally to be fair. Olivia had not wanted that confrontation, but it was a subject that made her husband very cross and he refused to leave it alone. Christopher had told William it was none of his business. Thus the two men in her life were at odds and an unexpected visit from her stepbrother while her husband was absent could be nothing but awkward.
The glimmer of a silver umbrella handle...
"Storm tells me he invited you to dine at the farm whenever you are free."
Again Olivia dragged her mind out of that dark tunnel and back to the present. "Yes...yes, he did."
"Then you should go. Don't disappoint him."
"But I—"
"You need an evening off. Despite what you say, I think I have worked you too hard and it's taking a toll. Look how pale you are!"
"Mr. Deverell, I told you I wish you would give me more to do. I am not, by any means, worked too hard and I—."
"Go tomorrow evening— I insist— and dine with my son. If the rain has stopped by then."
He would bruise her arms if he didn't let her go. No man had ever looked at her the way he did on that rainy afternoon. And she was wearing her spectacles, but he still looked at her with hunger in his gaze.
Christopher always laughed at her in spectacles and said she looked like The Old Lacemaker in a painting by Nicolaes Maes.
Her mind was spinning and could not settle. The rain throwing itself at his window had put her on edge, her senses in a turmoil. She didn't know whether to weep or be angry. This too was not like her.
Now Deverell was trying to be rid of her for an evening. Was he tired of her company and in need of something more exciting? She thought of those mainland "hussies" Jameson used to bring over for him on the rowboat, according to Mrs. Blewett.
Anxiety and confusion made her voice sharp. "If you wish for me to dine with your son, I will, sir. After all, I must follow your commands while I'm a resident of this island. As you said when—"
"It's not about me." He let go of her arms abruptly and turned to walk back to his desk. "Storm likes yo
ur company and he's been waiting for you to go. It will be a pleasant evening for you, away from," he waved his hand through the air, "all this."
She swallowed hard and smoothed both hands over her bodice, but it did not calm her heartbeat. When he had touched her tonight, she had not wanted him to let her go again. Instead she wanted to lean against him and let his strength envelope her.
"My son will cheer you up, put some color back in those cheeks. In fact, you should make it a regular appointment to dine over there, a few times a week. Why not? I'm sure you're bored wretched with only my company every evening."
As he was with hers? Yes, he wanted rid of her, so he could entertain one of his lovers, perhaps. Or a whole gaggle of lovers, she thought, chagrinned. It was not only Mrs. Blewett's gossip she had to go on, was it? He'd boasted about his "urges" as a red-blooded male, and in his memoirs he held nothing back, so she knew what he thought of females and their place in the world. In his world, especially.
I told her I wasn't safe to be around. Never had been and never would be. I warned her that I was not the sort to fall in love. I'm not made that way.
So she ignored the fierce pain where she'd just bitten the inside of her cheek, and said firmly, "Very well, I shall go across to the farm tomorrow evening."
"Excellent." He still had his back to her and was arranging papers on his desk. "I'll tell Jameson and he can drive you over in the cart before the tide comes in."
"How will I get back again?"
"Jameson can row you back in the boat. Just arrange a time with him."
"It seems a shame to put Mr. Jameson to so much trouble."
Deverell shrugged his wide shoulders. "He's accustomed to it."
"I bet he is."
Her employer swiveled around to look at her. "I beg your pardon?"
She said nothing, inwardly kicking herself.
"I thought you said you don't gamble," he added, one eyebrow arched, a smug look on his face.
"It was a figure of speech," she snapped.
He swept her from head to toe with a slow, menacing gaze and then returned to his papers. "Stay as long as you like at the farm when you go. Storm will enjoy the company. There is no reason to rush back."
She wanted to throw something at him. Her fingers itched to reach for a weapon. It was ridiculous. She had never felt anger this raw.
But it was not only anger.
No man had ever held her so— physically or mentally— entranced. And perplexed. Olivia could still feel the imprint of his fingers around her upper arms. Like claw marks. Beautiful claw marks.
Perhaps an evening away from him would be a very good idea.
"While I'm gone, sir," she said sweetly, "you might consider writing to your daughter." He had been putting it off, ignoring her suggestion that he extend an olive branch. "If you have time."
Keeping his back to her, he made some noise that could mean anything.
"It might be a pleasant idea," she added, "with the Yuletide season upon us soon, don't you think?"
"Hmph. I don't celebrate. Never did."
"Well, if your daughter is as stubborn as you, I suppose this rift will never be mended. But you are the adult. It is surely up to you to lead the way and make a mature move toward peace. If that is the state you desire."
Now he turned to look at her again, scowling. "I thought you said, Mrs. Monday, that you know nothing about being a parent?"
"It was merely a suggestion, as your secretary. Should you need some way to pass the time, while I am gone tomorrow night." After all, why shouldn't she give him advice since he was always trying to give her commands and tell her how to dress?
His narrow-eyed, critical assessment scorched her face. "I'm sure I'll manage. As I did before that pickled fool Chalke sent you to me. And as I must when you are gone again. Since you claim you can't stay with me. Or won't."
She swallowed. "Yes, I suppose so."
"Never let your happiness depend upon the company of another," he said, turning away again.
Ah, yes. Stand on one’s own two feet. How ironic that his advice to her was so similar to dear William's. Olivia would have laughed, if she wasn't so close to tears.
* * * *
She ran to her room and lay on her narrow bed, fists clenched like those of a willful child. Although it made her sick, she forced herself to remember every second.
The Parsonage, West Lane, Upper Hollworth, near Chiswick
A quarter past ten o'clock in the morning
Monday, April 6th, 1841
Christopher was at the door when she opened it. The last person she expected. His hand, holding the silver swan neck of his umbrella, was poised to rap impatiently upon the door again.
"I began to think you were out," he exclaimed. As if it would be the height of stupidity if she was discovered anywhere other than wherever he thought she should be, exactly when he thought she should be there.
"I was not expecting guests." She panicked at the stains on her old apron. "I was cooking in the kitchen at the back of the house. I wish you had —"
But he swept by her and into the flagged passage, looking around with his usual sneering appraisal. "It occurred to me as I was passing, that I ought to call in. It has been sometime since I paid a visit. Where is Monday? Out it seems."
"William is at the church." She led him into the parlor, although there was no fire lit yet. Sooty paper was spread down on the hearth, as she'd been about to clean the grate when she remembered she still needed to peel the potatoes— which she had just begun when the doorbell rang. "I'm in the midst of spring cleaning. Please forgive the mess."
"You have no house maid?" he muttered, pulling off his gloves. "You might at least get some capable young girl from the orphanage."
"William doesn't like strangers about the parsonage and he thinks I should be able to manage by myself. It's not a big house."
Christopher gave a hollow laugh. "You mean he prefers to save money and won't hire anyone. He has a free slave at his disposal."
"I don't mind. I like to be busy."
He cast her a sour look and sat heavily, falling back into a chair by the cold hearth. "Of course you do. Good Lord, you look tired and worn. I cannot, in any sincerity, say that marriage suits you, Livy. It never did." He exhaled a short, harsh, smug laugh. "Well, I suppose this husband has lasted longer than the other two, at least."
She hoped he wouldn't stay long. If William came home early it would be uncomfortable. After the quarrel over her father's house, her husband never wanted to invite Christopher to dine with them and had been visibly relieved when the young man went north.
However, William was a man of routine. He was never early or late. It should be safe.
And what if he did come home and see Christopher there? She was doing nothing wrong to welcome her own stepbrother.
So why did it feel sinister?
The moment she saw him on her doorstep her heart sank, her pulse almost came to a dead halt. His sudden reappearance in her quiet life was like that of a black crow at her window, watching her with a beady eye.
"You are back then from Manchester," she managed finally, after searching for conversation. "I thought you liked it there and would stay. I thought you had found some good business there." Had hoped he would stay. But perhaps that was an unkind thought. Christopher had always been concerned for her wellbeing, especially since her father died. He could not help that he showed it in odd ways. She ought to be glad to see him.
"Good God no, the people there are barely civilized. The north is a miserable place."
"Oh, dear."
"But I do have some good news to cheer you." He announced proudly, "I have found a potential worthy bride. Miss Lucinda Braithwaite. Her father owns a successful mill, and she is his only child. His only heir. It could all turn out very well for me."
She was not surprised that he'd found a woman to marry. After all, he was effortlessly handsome and could be charming if he wished to be. But it did make
her smile inside that he had to find a "worthy" bride— as if he had so much more than his looks to offer. "I am very happy for you."
"Yes, well..." he brushed a hand over his knee, clearly pleased with his accomplishment, "you must meet her soon, when she comes to Chiswick. I shall invite you to luncheon one day."
She felt a little pang of sadness as she looked at him sitting there, talking about Lucinda, the woman he meant to marry. The young woman he thought would fit his perfect ideal of a bride. No doubt she was a flawless beauty, confident and shining. Like him.
Olivia had never forgotten how her first sight of him took her breath away. That first fleeting smile as they were introduced. He was the most handsome young man she had ever seen. Instantly she—not the sort of girl anyone noticed unless she did something shockingly bad— fell under his spell.
Perhaps, somewhere in her wicked heart, she had hoped her stepbrother would never marry. Once he did, he would never need her for anything ever again— even that little bit of use she had been to him, could never be again.
But that was selfish of her.
"I am glad you have found love, Christopher," she said with great warmth of feeling.
"Love? Sakes, one does not marry for love, Livy. It will be a most advantageous match for me financially and socially. You see, that's where you always went adrift. Not that you can possibly claim to love that tight-fisted, bore, William Monday, anymore than you loved the drunken buffoon who couldn't pass up a wager, or the penniless old dandy who didn't chew his food properly and choked on that fish bone."
She folded her hands before her and said softly, "William is a good husband, very kind."
"And look how he makes you live." He waved his gloves around, gesturing at the damp walls and chipped furniture. "In a state of grim poverty that grinds you down like an old nag kept too long at the plow. Clearly he has no more liking for you than he would have for a housekeeper. You never married to get anything for yourself."
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 19