"I am content. He is a good man who can teach and guide—"
"You will never see sense, I know. You never did, Livy. Stubborn as an ox." He got up out of the chair and laughed, patting her cheek with his cool hand. "'Tis a jolly good thing you have me to look after you. Well, we all have our own reasons for marrying. I have mine and you had yours. But I daresay you'll be back again one day, my burden."
When he left she was so distracted and angry that she wandered around the house for some time before she continued cleaning the grate with a great deal of violent scrubbing. And so she forgot the potatoes that day, leading to William's indigestion later when they were not properly cooked in time for luncheon. She didn't even notice that Christopher left his umbrella behind.
Two days later her third husband was dead.
* * * *
She was bad luck for men, that much was certain.
Freddy —sweet Freddy— undone by a fall from a broken curricle that should never have been raced.
Allardyce, who choked on a fishbone at the same tavern in which he had dined in solitary splendor every Saturday for his entire adult life. A habit he had not broken when they married, much to Olivia’s gladness, for it gave her a precious evening alone once a week.
And finally, William, falling from a rotted bridge, dragged under by his vestments and with no one to help him.
No, there could be no more husbands for her.
Like Deverell, she wasn't safe to be around.
Chapter Twenty-One
When he began winning at cards and dice, the other fishermen thought it was sheer luck. But then it happened too often and they became suspicious. They didn't believe him when he told them how he remembered numbers, how he read the probability and made calculations in his mind.
How could he, a boy who barely knew words, be so astute with numbers? No, he must be cheating. So they challenged him, accused him, threatened him with repercussions.
The boy did not shy away from winning, and he learned to protect himself — and his winnings—with his fists. Or with anything else he had nearby. He was labeled as a boy with a bad temper, but in his eyes he was only protecting what was his. That included his strange talent.
A rumor went around on the fishing boats that the feral boy had escaped the gallows. For some that was enough to give him a wide berth. Others looked to bully and belittle the boy.
It was a rough, harsh world, but then it had never been anything else for him. So he grew, like a hardy weed between cracks in a stone path. Not welcome, but too determined and stubborn to be eradicated.
The young man didn't seek friendships, for he had learned to trust no one.
But he was fascinated by women. Not girls. Women. And he went after what he wanted. As he grew up, they eventually stopped running away from him. He didn't know why they suddenly sought him out— it seemed to happen almost overnight— but he didn't care. He made the most of it.
Just as he knew a man had to eat whenever he had the opportunity, he felt the same way about women.
* * * *
Olivia had sent a note over with Mrs. Blewett to accept Storm's invitation to dinner, so he was well prepared, the long table already set and a large pot of stew and dumplings— made by the chuckling lady herself no doubt— kept warm over the fire.
It was a cold, windy evening with rain hovering in the air, but the farmhouse walls were sturdy and squat, built of thick stone to protect the inhabitants from those harsh storms that sometimes blew over the headland. Tonight inside it was cheery, the main focus being an enormous chimneypiece from which the blast of fire warmed the entire house.
"My father finally released you from servitude for one night then?" Storm exclaimed, dashing forward to take her coat and bonnet. "I began to think he would never give you up."
She tried to smile, even as she imagined True Deverell back on his island, preparing to greet a boat full of eager lovers. "He was most insistent that I come. I think he wanted me out of the way."
Storm laughed carelessly. "Probably. That sounds very much like father."
And all hope fell out of her. Feeling no such inclination to laugh, Olivia's struggling smile soon died away completely.
"You look damn cold, Mrs. Monday. Here... take a bench by the fire."
The journey by horse and cart across the causeway had been icy-cold indeed. It had also been fast and bumpy. Jameson wanted to get back to the island while he could still walk across, because he had to leave the horse at the farm. There was nowhere to stable horses on the island itself. Now she was, in effect, stranded here until the tide came full in and he could row across to fetch her. The handy man could have stayed with her at the farm, but, of course, he was needed to row some other woman back and forth, was he not?
She didn't have to be told the details to know what was going on. Even his son didn't try to hide it.
"It must feel odd to be away from the constant pounding of the waves," said Storm, pouring her a glass of something clear and very fragrant.
"I suppose so." She did feel a little giddy and uncontrolled. Like one of Deverell's paper bullets shot out of his slingshot, whirling through the air, wondering where she would land. Perhaps she was already accustomed to life confined to that small island. The sea air was in her veins now. How odd it was to think she'd never even seen it— in real life— until she came there. She had lived on a river, which was different. Quite different. Her knowledge of the sea came from books and paintings. Thoroughly different to being able to touch and smell and hear.
The sea was something that no one could control. Man had to learn how to live by the tides; no one had control of it.
Like Deverell.
Olivia had thought her fortress well-equipped to face the siege against its walls, but she sadly over-estimated her defenses. Now that she was away from True Deverell for one evening, at his own insistence, she realized how much she had fallen under his spell.
"Drink up!" Storm pointed at the glass in her hand. "It's some of my own recipe. Made by my own fair hands."
She took a sip and her eyes watered. "Goodness."
He chuckled. "Some wines creep on you. This one runs you to ground and slaps you in the face." With one foot, he kicked a stool closer to her and dropped his backside to the seat. His casualness was very like his father, of course. As was his desire to see her inebriated.
Stop thinking about him. Stop seeing him in everything. Stop wishing he was there.
Damn the man. He sent her away, so he could enjoy an uninterrupted evening of sinful pleasure. Without her. Olivia wasn't certain which part of that bothered her more.
She licked her lips. "I like it. At least, I think I will. When my taste buds have recovered." Again she tried to smile, but found her lips too heavy.
Storm Deverell's blue eyes perused her with great warmth and he told her again how pleased he was that she accepted his invitation. "It can be a lonely life on this farm."
"I'm sure there are many other young ladies you could invite to dine." At the harvest dance, and on their trip to Truro market, Olivia had seen the local girls gazing at him wistfully. No, if he spent an evening alone it was by choice, so she found it mystifying that his father thought he should try and match-make for his son by using her. Of all people.
"How has my father been treating you? Well, I hope?"
Aargh! She didn't want to talk about him. "I have no complaint." Olivia wished she did. She ought to have plenty.
"He isn't working you too hard? He can be a terrible task master."
"Not at all." Another sip of blistering heat from that little glass of clear liquid.
"I wondered how father would manage," said Storm. "He hasn't had a woman around every day for a long time. Perhaps never." He got up to check the stew in the pot. "But you must know all about his marriage to Lady Charlotte by now. How they were seldom under the same roof."
"I know a little," she replied cautiously. "But they were under the same roof often enough to have t
hree children."
"That much is true. Although I have my doubts about Rush— the youngest boy."
"Doubts?"
Storm winced and then shrugged, "I suppose it does no harm to tell you. Father must have decided you're trustworthy or he would have sent you home by now."
"Tell me what?"
"Lady Charlotte was not exactly a faithful wife, particularly in the last years of their marriage."
"Your father knew?"
"I'm sure he did. She was not discreet. Had she hidden her affairs better he might not have divorced her. Since they led separate lives anyway, he could have let things continue as they were. But she embarrassed him publically one time too many and when her behavior began to effect the children— when they were old enough to know what was going on— that was when he decided to put an end to it."
Olivia listened to all this, quite certain there must have been infidelity on both sides. Storm, faithful to his father, would never say that. He would prefer to think his father blameless. Or as close to blameless as he could be.
"Not that his brats out of Lady Charlotte have ever recognized how he tried to save them from her," Storm added. "His daughter, Raven, has caused him endless trouble. He was never very comfortable raising a girl. Didn't know how to treat her. As for Ransom, he idolizes his mother. You know, of course, that he shot at father." He drank an entire glass of his own recipe in one gulp and then smacked his lips. "Fortunately he didn't hit any of the important parts. As far as we know. "
"As...as far as you know?"
"Well, Ransom was in his cups at the time. He doesn't know what he shot at. Fool boy."
Olivia was amazed at how easily he spoke of his father being shot. Even True had mentioned the incident as if it was another practical joke. She could not comprehend ever wanting to shoot her own father, but she had to admit shooting at teasing, infuriating Deverell would be a different matter.
"Why did he shoot his father?"
"Ah..." Storm dug a poker into the fire. "Ransom has always had a bee in his bonnet. Felt ignored. I suppose that was one way to get father's attention."
"I see." Olivia had heard a rumor that the shooting happened over a woman, but she kept that to herself.
"Ransom also wanted to punish father for whatever sins he thinks have been perpetrated against his mother. All of it false, of course. As children we fashioned ourselves swords and helmets, pretending we were knights of Camelot. Ransom was always valiant Sir Galahad. I believe he never shed the idea and still sees himself the same way. As father says, it makes him an easy mark for ladies with a sad story to tell and an abundance of clever tears to spend."
"And which Knight of the Round Table were you?"
"Sir Gawain, of course! Rough around the edges, but the true and rightful heir of Camelot. Fiercely loyal to his king and family, compassionate defender of the poor. And maidens." He laughed.
"So that makes Mr. Deverell King Arthur?"
"The mysterious boy, taken into hiding by Merlin for his own safety, raised in obscurity until he pulled the sword from the stone and became a great king. It is father's favorite story. Naturally."
She was amused by Storm's eagerness to paint his father in such a golden light. King Arthur, indeed! It was touching. But Storm was not disingenuous. He was honest, warm-hearted and spared no time for fools. So whatever he said about his father, she knew that he, at least, must believe it.
"When Lady Charlotte left the first time, Ransom was not quite two, but she was willing to abandon him. Didn't want the boy. She had no motherly instinct."
"But Mrs. Blewett said—"
"Yes, the general gossip is that he wouldn't let her take the child. Truth was, he told her she'd get no money from him if she left. Charlotte didn't think he meant it. When she discovered that he did— and she ought to have known by then that my father always means what he says— she had to come back. It was nothing to do with love for her son. My father cared for those children more than she ever did. And he only wanted her around for their sakes. He made that clear to her."
"Why doesn't he say that? Why not tell people like Mrs. Blewett the truth?"
He sighed heavily. "Folk believe what they want to believe about my father and he always had this infuriating belief that he doesn't ever need to explain himself, or apologize for what he is. He's held on to a lot about his life, mostly to protect the children from being hurt, I suppose."
"But now he means to tell everything in his memoirs."
"He thinks they're all old enough to hear it. He wouldn't tell it all for anyone except them."
Yes, Olivia had noted True's fondness for his children. It was in the way he spoke of them, the pride in his eyes, even when he would deny it. "Them? But you are one too."
"I suppose I am." He laughed and jerked one shoulder upward, almost shyly. "I often forget. Seems like me on father's side and them on the other."
"Perhaps because you're the eldest and he was so young when you were born. Really only a boy himself."
"Or because I'm a bastard?" He laughed easily over the word, but his eyes were too blue. Olivia had never known that "too blue" was possible until she looked into his gaze that night.
Blue could be something other than calm and summery. God help any woman who tried to tame that. "He does not discriminate between his sons born out of, or in, wedlock."
"He may not. But the world doesn't follow his rules." He looked away for a moment and she suspected he was calming his temper. "You do a lot of that, do you?"
"A lot of what?"
"Thinking about the meaning of things. Searching for causes?" He chuckled as if nothing ever troubled him, but she was not fooled. "With those big questioning eyes you must be driving father to distraction."
"I'm sure he finds me tiresome company occasionally."
"But I believe you're doing him some benefit, Mrs. Monday."
"Why?"
"He's been in a much better mood lately."
"Gracious, what is he usually like? I'd hate to see him in a worse mood."
"You're a good influence. He calls you an eye of tranquility. It's a novelty for him."
"A novelty?" she scoffed. "Then it will soon pass."
"No doubt," he replied breezily. "Women don't stay around for long. His attention invariably wanders to the next pretty new thing."
She took a braver sip of the burning liquid in her glass and tried not to show any effect. A little homemade wine would not get the better of her.
"That's why my father likes the solitude of Roscarrock. A woman has to be pretty damned determined to get there if she wants him and most concede defeat after a while. There's only so much they can put up with and even the money isn't enough inducement for some." He leapt to his feet. "Now that stew had better be ready, I don't want to keep you away from him too long."
Olivia moved to a seat at the table, hungry again. Her appetite had seldom been as lusty as it was since she arrived in Cornwall. Must be the sea air.
"Why doesn't you father celebrate Christmas?" she asked.
Her host thought about it for a moment and then replied, "I don't think he knows how."
It might have been be the saddest thing she'd ever heard, but she refused to let it pluck at her heart strings. The man was rolling around in his bed with a handful of light skirts at that very moment. He did what he wanted all the time, and was despicably smug about it. He made all the commands and followed none himself.
It was Christmas every day for a man like Deverell. The boy who came from nowhere to rule as king of his own island.
"Would you like another?" Storm held out the jug of wine.
She nodded. "Yes. Thank you."
Why not? Perhaps it was time she let her hair down a little. Who cared? Who was there to disapprove?
* * * *
Sweating after the exertions of his evening, True tucked in his shirt, returned to his desk and wrote a hurried letter. He signed it, blotted it, folded the paper and sealed it with wax. Th
ere it was done. May she now be bloody satisfied. He poured himself a large glass of brandy in some hopes of assuaging his thirst.
How quiet the damnable house was without Olivia, he thought suddenly. She'd been gone a few hours. It felt like days.
Strange. He'd never missed a woman's company before. Usually he felt great truth in the saying "familiarity breeds contempt". He was glad to see the back of most women after a brief while, although, in the case of Olivia Monday, there had been no physical intimacy beyond a few kisses. Theirs was a connection of a different kind. There was always something new to discover about her and he was still unfolding all her layers.
Poor woman had looked "all in" yesterday. He hoped her evening with his son would return her spark.
Something stung the back of his hand. Ah, a scratch. Bleeding now, a brilliant red drop falling to the sealed letter on his desk.
* * * *
Jameson was late with the boat. When they finally spied his lantern swaying in the wind, Storm exclaimed, "I thought they'd forgotten you."
"As did I," she replied, grim.
It had begun to rain again and all the warmth of the farmhouse had long since left Olivia's limbs. She huddled beside her host on his cart, waiting under the semi-shelter of a gnarled tree branch that overhung the narrow, muddy path.
"Well, good evening, Mrs. Monday, and thank you for sharing the time with me." Storm jumped down and reached up to help her. "Come again, anytime you need escape."
The next time your father wants rid of me, you mean, she thought icily. "I shall. Thank you. It has been most pleasant."
She walked down to the beach, one hand holding on to her old bonnet to save it from the slanted gusts of rain. Jameson waded to shore in tall boots and an oilskin coat, dragging the little rowboat behind him.
"My apologies for being late, Mrs.," he gasped out, rain shining on his big face.
"That's quite alright," she replied tightly. "I'm sure you were busy fetching and carrying for Mr. Deverell."
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 20