If he came back, she would shout at him for leaving her alone in this place. It was improper. What was she supposed to do there all alone? People were looking at her and whispering.
So what, as True would say.
So what?
It was so easy for him to say, because he had not been raised to worry about what other people thought or said. To him it was all a game, the object to stay alive and amass wealth. A heart was just another muscle to him; it kept his blood pumping around his body. That was its only purpose, as far as he was concerned.
Yet, whatever he claimed of having no capacity to care, he had shown that he did. That he could. Worrying about her drafty room, her comfort.
Yes, he had many faults— as most people did— and she couldn't change them even if she wanted to. Which she did not.
Now she had fallen in love with the wretched, impossible man. It was a silly, besotted sort of love, not at all sensible and mature. Quite shameful for a woman who should know better.
What would he say if she told him that?
So what.
That is precisely what he would say, if she relented and confessed her feelings.
She had fallen in love with him and there was not even a working clock there to help mark the occasion. Even the pocket watch that once belonged to her father had gone missing, leaving her without that familiar comfort too.
Now she was terrified; for the first time in her life Olivia could admit to herself that she was afraid.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Looking out at the rain again, she watched that fine carriage pulling out of the yard, splashing through puddles. Two unfortunate fellows hung off the back, like half-drowned rats clinging to a raft. Lady Charlotte apparently didn't care about the comfort of her servants.
When she heard someone slipping into the opposite settle, she expected True's return. But it was another man. This one had a broad, ruddy face, bristling brows and mean eyes the color of muddy water. He sneered at her, making a motion toward the brim of his hat with stubby, thick fingers, but never lifting it from his brow.
"Well, missy, you're a pretty, dainty thing," he growled through pointy teeth, his lips agleam with grease. When he leaned across the table she smelled bacon on his breath, onions and ale. "What are you doing with the likes o' Deverell, eh?"
She quickly drew her hands from the table into her lap.
"Don't be shy," he said, winking. "What's your name then? We ought to get to know each other. I'm Joseph. Friends call me Joe. And so can you, missy."
"I don't think Mr. Deverell would like you sitting in his seat." She recognized the man from the last stretch of her coach journey to Roscarrock several months ago. He was the man who had sat opposite her and stared rudely the entire time. Just as he did now.
"Deverell's not the possessive, greedy type, so they tell me. Wasn't selfish with his wife, to be sure. He'd share a little of his good fortune with Joe." Abruptly he thrust one of his hands beneath the table and grasped her knee. "I watched you when you came in, that hair pulled loose by the wind. Caught my eye you did with your head held high, acting like a lady. But you needn't pretend to be all proud and prissy with Joe. You're his new bed-warmer up at Roscarrock, ain't you?"
"Get away from me at once." She jerked her knee aside, but he reached further under the table with surprising speed and trapped her hands where they were clasped together. His fingers were strong, his grip cruel and tight. The size of his one clammy claw completely overwhelmed the knot of her two joined hands.
"You stay there, missy." With a tug he pulled her hands toward him, bruising her arms on the table edge. "Spare a bit of lovin' for Joe."
As he dragged her hands between his legs, she freed her fingers far enough to administer a sharp, hard pinch. And she did not immediately let go, but twisted with the force of an angry crab claw. He yelped, releasing her, needing his hand to cover his wounded body part.
"You little bitch," he spat.
"Yes, and like any good bitch, I bite."
Olivia slipped out of her seat and walked out into the rain. Footsteps followed quickly after her, but when she turned to confront her assailant, this time it was Deverell.
"Where are you off to?" he demanded as he stepped through the door behind her. "I told you to wait there at the table."
Above them the sign creaked and groaned, buffeted about by violent gusts of wind. "Under the circumstances it seemed wiser to wait outside."
"Why? What do you mean?"
She shook her head, tempted to laugh as she remembered the startled, pained face of "Joe" when she twisted his seed bag in her fingers. "It doesn't matter now."
"Someone approached you?" Deverell exclaimed, eyes flaring with swift suspicion.
"A woman sitting alone in a tavern is subject to that sort of attention no doubt. You could not be oblivious to the possibility."
"How dare anyone approach a woman in my company?" A very dark look came over his face, a deep rage such as she'd never seen on those features.
"I was not in your company at the time."
"But they must have seen you were with me." His lips strained over his teeth.
"Quite. I'm afraid that gave them cause to think me a woman of loose morals."
Before she could remind him that she had managed the incident perfectly well without his assistance, he took her arm and led her back inside, demanding that she identify the miscreant. She refused, but even without her help it was not difficult to spot leering Joe, who still nursed his injury and now— since he thought it was safe to do so— loudly complained to anyone who would listen.
"I believe what they say about her now," he grumbled. "Every word. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she did 'er 'usbands in. Every one o’ the buggers!"
Olivia looked on in some mortification and anxiety. So that was what they were all thinking when they looked at her. They, like Inspector O'Grady, thought there was something more deliberate than a curse in her past. She could not get away from the gossip, even here.
Her stomach churned with renewed nausea.
Deverell walked up to the other man and tapped him on one burly shoulder. She wanted to turn away and leave again, but her feet would not move. Faces turned to watch and the tavern noise drained away like the last drip of wine from a jug. The would-be molester paled, eyes drawn into tight slits, shoulders rounded.
If anyone at The Fisherman's Rest that afternoon expected thrown fists, they were destined to be disappointed, however.
The villain was calmly brought over to Olivia and commanded, in a cool tone, to beg for her forgiveness.
On his knees.
One might have heard the proverbial pin drop.
Despite the large man's earlier bluster, he was remarkably cowed by True Deverell, whose unruffled demeanor held just as much menace as a pointed pistol. Olivia had already felt the aura that surrounded her employer, of course— something like the warning posture of a wild dog ready to protect to the death. And people knew he did not live by the rules, so in that sense he was unpredictable.
"Tell this lady you were mistaken in your assumptions about her."
Slightly appalled, she watched while the big man— yes, bigger in stature even than True— reluctantly complied, struggling down onto his stiff knees and muttering under his breath.
"I was mistaken, ma'am," he grumbled. "I'm sorry."
"That's better. I would make you kiss her shoes, but you are unfit to touch her." Then he cast a slow look around the tavern and said, "Mrs. Monday is a respectable lady I have employed as my secretary. For those of you who are curious, I asked her to be my mistress and she's not in the least interested. She is, therefore, deserving of your admiration, not your scorn. Next time you see her, remember that."
He held the door open, bowed his head and waited for her to walk through it. Somehow she managed to do so without laughing at all the shocked faces they left behind.
This was his idea of making the situation better?
&nb
sp; As he helped her up onto his horse behind him again, he said, "See, fear is more powerful than that love you talk about."
She put her arms around his waist. "I don't fear you. I would never fear you."
But he didn't hear her for she spoke very quietly and the horse's hooves drowned her out.
True turned his face to look over his shoulder. "By the way, what I told you about Sally White and her sisters was a lie. I never shared a bed with her. Don't even know if she has sisters. I told you that to shock you, or get some reaction. I might have known it wouldn't make a dent in your armor."
Astonished, she did not reply. Why this? It was not necessary for him to tell her that, yet he did. He conceded defeat in that low voice, contrite and warm. Self-effacing.
He went, just like that, from striking fear into the heart of a great, stupid bulk of man, to lifting his palms to her in confession.
She wanted to ask about his wife, but could not find the words.
"Are you ready to work this evening, Olivia?"
"Yes." No hesitation. She would be ready to help him whenever he needed it. For as long as he needed her. Gripping his waist tightly again for the ride home, she closed her eyes against the cold air, until all she saw and felt was the glow that seemed to surround True— and her too, when she was in his presence. The dreadful rumors and Christopher's angry letter were unimportant, cast aside.
She had seen his wife, who was indeed beautiful and everything Olivia was not. But it was over and he returned to her.
No one could do or say anything to hurt her anymore.
Even the rain had ceased to trouble her and she felt like a young girl again, as she was when she loved to walk out in it and did not care how wet it made her. Before she had any bad memories of death to cloud the simple pleasure.
She had sand in her hair and under her fingernails, yet she didn't care. He had the same.
The air was new, shining with expectation. Like a barrel of rainwater, it hovered, stretching at the brink, waiting for one more drop to fall and make it overflow.
* * * *
He knew better than to believe his wife.
Or he should.
But as they rode home to Roscarrock, he thought back over Olivia's little deceptions— beginning with the fact that her spectacles were merely glass.
He had seen her in the hall one afternoon, handing Sims a book. "I hear you are fond of reading. I thought you might like this."
Still and impervious as a stone monument the butler had stared down at the little woman and her offering.
"It's a very good book. Don't worry, it's not a silly romance. It's a history book. I think you'll find it fascinating." She paused. "You don't have to thank me."
Finally the butler accepted it from her hand. "I suppose I can peruse it, when I have some spare time."
"Yes, and I would love to discuss it with you in the future."
"You have an interest in history?"
She nodded eagerly. "And I understand you can tell me all about Roscarrock castle. Mr. Deverell did try, but you, I am told, are the expert."
"I...have some knowledge of the local area, madam."
"Then I would be intrigued to hear it, whenever you have the time. I know how busy you are."
Thus she succeeded in thawing a little of the chill from his butler's expression. It would take more than one book to befriend Sims, but the foundations were laid now on common ground.
At that time True had wondered why she cared to make the effort. What was she up to in his house? Helping his cook, flattering his butler, kissing his handyman...
He did not know what to make of it.
"Father," Storm had laughed, "you and I simply have to get accustomed to the idea of a woman with no ulterior motive. Not a bad one, anyway."
But the seeds of doubt were planted, and suddenly there was a sinister color to everything she did.
He'd known from the beginning that there was much more to her story than she would tell him. A woman who insisted on hiding herself behind pretend spectacles and deliberately unflattering gowns was clearly trouble. Over time, taken in by her wide eyes and reluctant smiles, he'd let her become too important in his life.
True had a great deal to think about.
* * * *
When they got back to the castle, she suggested making hot chocolate in the kitchen to chase the damp chill away. He was rather quiet, she noticed. It was unusual for him.
"Mrs. Blewett has been busy making mince pies," she said, to break the strained silence. "She's excited, I think, that the young Deverells will be home soon. You must be too."
"Must I?"
"And they will be looking forward to seeing their father, no doubt."
"Hmph. My children won't care if I'm here or not, as long as Mrs. Blewett feeds them well and the beds are aired." When he looked at her, his eyes were very dark, two rain clouds ready to break. "My family is very different to your own, Olivia. As you will see."
"In what way?"
His reply was a curt, "You'll see."
Oh, his wife. Whatever she had told him it had put him in a bleak mood.
She put her hands behind her back. "I have no family left except my stepbrother."
"But you are close."
"I suppose so."
"You've known each other a long time."
"Twelve years."
"And now he's getting married...I believe you said."
"Yes." Olivia wondered at this sudden interest in Christopher. But not for long.
"Is that why you left Chiswick?"
There was no point in denying it had some part in her leaving her home. "There were certain reasons connected to that," she said carefully. "As I told you, I wanted to be of use, to find a purpose, not to be a burden on my relatives."
"On Christopher. You said he is your only relative now."
"Well, yes."
"You are fond of him."
"Of course. As a brother."
"As a brother. But he is not your blood brother."
"No."
There was a pause and then he snapped. "You look flushed."
"Because this is strange questioning and I do not know what has prompted it."
He shook his head, scattering raindrops from his hair. “You don't?"
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "If there is something you wish to ask about Christopher, please do so."
"Are you in love with him?"
"In... love?" Olivia gasped. "Of course not." It was too ridiculous to comprehend.
"But you kept that picture he painted. You write to him with an excessive use of curls in your handwriting—"
"I am fond of him as a sister should be and so I write to him. Is that troubling to you?"
He was grinding his jaw, staring at her. "I do not know what troubles me the most about you and the things you don't tell me."
She waited a moment to see if he was teasing her again, but the anger did not fade and his face did not soften. It made no sense to her that he should bring this up now. "For all your much-vaunted talents of perception, sir, you failed this time. You know nothing about love, of course, so you could have no idea what the signs might be, but I can assure you that one letter and a painting, kept because of the subject matter, do not constitute a grand love affair."
"Now I am sir again?"
"Yes. While you question me as if I have committed some crime, I shall call you sir." The words flowed out now on a flood, her voice getting louder with every syllable. "I could call you many worse things after you left me unescorted in a tavern for half an hour or more, while you met with your wife in a private room. And I wonder if you knew she would be there all along and that you went to meet her, which means it was not merely a pleasant ride we took together after all. But I have not asked anything about it because I am being ladylike and composed and keeping my chin up, trying not to care, because you would say so what, and tease me. And no I am not in the mood to help you write your memoirs t
onight, I changed my mind."
Anxious for something to do with her hands, she poured out the hot chocolate.
"Would you like some or not?" she shouted at him in the same cross tone.
After a pause, he corrected her quietly, "Former wife. I met my former wife. And I told you before that you may ask me any question. I will always give you an answer."
Still holding the chocolate pot, she said, "Then what did she talk to you about? What did she want that has changed your mood?"
"We talked of my daughter Raven. We talked of the memoirs, about which she had somehow heard. And we talked," he paused, "about you."
"What about me?"
She had never seen him as still as he was now, hands at his sides, feet planted solidly, shoulder-width apart. "It seems your stepbrother wrote to Charlotte."
"He did what?"
"In some attempt to win himself an ally and get you sent back to Chiswick perhaps? He thinks you ran away because you're in love with him."
How dare he? She was speechless.
"Oh, and he enlightened Charlotte as to the matter of your three husbands and what you might have done to them."
It was so like Christopher to imagine her in love with him. His vanity knew no bounds. She supposed he wanted her back under his thumb again, had realized how much she did for him. To get her back he had decided to spread those terrible rumors about her three husbands. Did he imagine that would send her scurrying back with her tail between her legs?
"I see." She finished pouring the chocolate. "And do you believe me capable of murdering men?"
His eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you might be capable of. You don't show me your true self. You—madam—hide!"
"I certainly do not!"
"The only time you let the sparks out of your tinder box was last night and then you attacked me with a poker."
If he was joking again it had gone too far in her opinion. She slammed the pot of chocolate down, picked up her cup and walked out of the kitchen with her chin higher than it had ever been.
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 25