A female friend. Ah. The previously mentioned Sally White, perhaps.
"And when I return we can get your cart unloaded."
Kate stood abruptly. She had to speak now, before he left. The man had no idea what he'd taken on and it was only fair to warn him. Now that the feeling was back in her toes and fingers, good sense came back to her head too. "Mr. Deverell, I fear I am not the right housekeeper for you. I think it would be a mistake for—"
He placed a finger to his lips and then pointed to where Flynn had fallen asleep, head on his plate, a crust of bread still clutched in one fist.
She whispered, "For both of us." He knew nothing about her or the trouble from which she'd escaped. He liked his life simple, but her presence would only complicate it. As he would certainly complicate hers.
What was the Reverend thinking?
"Is this because I'm True Deverell's son?"
Startled, she replied, "Of course not."
"You seemed to have changed your mind suddenly about staying. The moment you realized who my father is—"
"It's not that, sir. It's just...not...suitable. For you and I."
He put his head on one side again, as if pondering a deep thought. Then another smile shot across his face. Apparently a new one was never far away— or was it the same one, never quite vanquished and disturbingly irrepressible? "You mean you could never work for me because there is something between us?"
"I don't—"
"You're attracted to me. Now you've met your employer, you're afraid you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off him or your mind on the work"
She whispered crossly, "Certainly not!"
"Forgive me for being straightforward, but as I told you, that's my simple way. And we've a spark between us. I feel it and I believe you do too."
Her pulse quickened. "I'm not looking for entanglements of that nature, sir."
"I thought I caught you looking at me with a bit of flame in your green eyes, Duchess."
"I sincerely hope you're teasing again, Mr. Deverell. I have a son to raise, and he is the only male in my life now. I'm a respectable widow...and celibate."
He shook his head. "Well that's a damned waste."
In a rush of shocked breath she whispered, "I'm sure other ladies here swoon before you in great number, but I am not attracted to you in the least. I'm sorry if you are wounded by my honesty, but there it is."
He thrust his hands into the outer pockets of his greatcoat. "Then I must have been wrong."
"Yes. Indeed."
"I'll not be getting that kiss then."
Hand to her throat, she exclaimed, "What kiss?"
"The one I've been imagining since I first saw you."
So that was what he wanted in exchange for the rescue. She knew there would be something more than a plain "thank you" required. He was a man, wasn't he?
"Like I said," he added, "I have a tendency to blurt out whatever I'm thinking, as it comes to me."
Kate stared. "I suggest you see a physician about that."
"Will he fix me, Duchess?"
"He might try. Although I cannot guarantee his success. A man who has got away with it for so long will surely continue in his happy, uncensored state as long as he is able. One cannot teach an old dog new tricks."
His cheeks sucked inward for a moment, while he studied her with quietly bemused eyes. "I suppose you've got nothing that needs mending? Such as a tongue that strikes before battle's been declared, and a pretty face that's wasted—you don't want it admired, because any man you come across must be just as bad as those you've known before. For a young woman, Mrs. Kelly, you're remarkably swift to think the worst of a man. Perhaps a physician can give you something for that."
Again, he said all this in a low, even tone, which somehow made it more powerful than if he'd shouted.
There was silence, but for a cock crowing somewhere outside.
He took an audible breath. "Well, that's us sorted then."
"Sorted?"
"We both know where we stand. You can't tolerate the sight o' me— evidently the fact that I'm a Deverell will count against me, as usual — and I think you're a proud, prissy wench in line for a fall." He strode to the door, but stopped, hesitated, spun around on his heels and gave her an awkward, stiff little bow, as if he belatedly remembered an etiquette lesson from long ago. "The spark— if it ever existed— need never be mentioned again. So I'd say you can stay and work for me without danger."
After her last little speech she'd expected Storm Deverell to toss her out on her ear. She could have departed easily and gladly while under a cloud of anger. But instead he was quite calm and polite in the face of her rudeness. He didn't even raise his voice, let alone give her a good reason to leave.
"But the decision is yours to make, Mrs. Kelly." In a brighter tone, he added, "When the plowman comes, can you give him that envelope on the mantle to pay him?" With that he walked out through the open doorway and she listened to his firm, long stride crossing the yard to the stables.
Left standing stupidly, she struggled to collect her thoughts and her breath.
What a strange place this was. A very different world to the one she'd left behind her. But was that not the plan?
Hens squawked in the yard. The dog barked. Sunlight brightened the doorstep, but a breeze soon blew a cloud over and shaded the stone again. Crumbs blew across the table. The fire crackled softly. Somewhere water dripped. But she could not hear another person anywhere near— no churning sea of angry, impatient voices yelling through the walls, no vendors desperately hawking their wares outside, no hungry babies crying, no shrill disagreements scraping at her nerves until they were bloody and raw.
Just the sounds of nature.
And slowly her pulse resumed a steadier rhythm.
Kate lifted her son and carried him to the chair by the fire. Disturbed by the motion, he opened one drowsy eye."Let's stay here, Ma. I like it here."
"Do you indeed? And why, pray tell?"
"It smells nice. Better than London."
She held him in her lap, cuddled close. "Does it?"
"And the pigs are happy here, Mr. Deverell said. Makes the bacon taste good." Flynn yawned and curled tighter, resting his head on her shoulder. "Where's Reverend Coles?" he murmured.
"He's gone to sleep to dream of Heaven."
"He won't never wake up again?"
"No. When an old person dreams of Heaven they stay there. But he can still watch over us."
"What if I dream of Heaven?"
They'd had this discussion before, but he liked to be reassured, of course. "You're much too young and have a great deal to do here. Only when you can do more good from up there, will you dream of Heaven."
"And sleep forever."
"Yes."
After a moment, he said, "Sing me a song. You haven't sung to me all trip, not since we left London, Ma."
Softly she began to sing one of his favorites: Kathleen Mavourneen.
"What does Mavourneen mean again?" he whispered at the end, as he always did.
And Kate replied, as she always did, "It means 'my darling'." She planted a quick kiss on his brow, but he was already fast asleep.
Now, at last, a moment alone to observe her surroundings, without worrying about her expression giving her away as a hunted animal.
Above the mantle there was a framed, hand-drawn, detailed map of the area — the only decoration on the wall. Against it rested the envelope that waited for his plowman. Fancy leaving it there where it might be stolen. Leaving his door open to all and sundry, including her!
She'd never met a man so trusting— and artless, if it could be believed that he always spoke his mind.
Yet he was a Deverell and wise, respectable women stayed away from Deverells.
In truth, Kate didn't know what to think of him and she usually had men sewn up fairly quickly upon meeting them for the first time. In his case she was all adrift.
She looked down at her son. Sandy l
ashes fluttering against his cheeks, the boy slipped into deeper dreams, trusting her arms to keep him safe. As they would, always, of course.
Our house is in that cart.
Poor soul. She had moved him from one temporary accommodation to another since before he was born. Now he was of an age to want something permanent. She supposed that by clinging to the ragged collection of objects in that cart Flynn was creating a place in which he belonged. A home.
Perhaps her sudden stop today in the river was a sign from the Almighty. Could it be that the Good Lord— and the spirit of Reverend Coles— were telling Kate Kelly it was time she too brought her tired wheels to rest?
Chapter Four
"Sorry I was late, Olivia. Got held up this morning with the lambing." He set the horses into a quick trot as they took the road to Truro. "At least the rain has passed."
"Thank goodness! I feared we'd have a wet day at the market and I have much to buy."
He smiled at her. "Finery for the wedding day, eh?"
"Nonsense," she replied briskly, hooking her arm under his. "You know I don't hold with fuss. I want an unpretentious, plain ceremony, as I told your father."
"And what does he say?"
"That he refuses to skulk around as if I'm ashamed of him for a husband. He wants a large, silly party with all the blessed trimmings. The man is impossible."
"Aye, but you knew that before you agreed to marry him."
Her lips cracked apart in a little smile. "Yes, I did, I must confess. I knew what I was getting into, even before I came here to work for your father."
It was not yet two years since the thrice-widowed Mrs. Olivia Monday arrived at Roscarrock to take on the post as secretary to his father, but to Storm it seemed as if he'd known her much longer. He'd felt a friendly connection with her instantly. His father, in usual bull-headed fashion, had tried to make more of it and push the two of them together at first. Before realizing he was in love with her himself.
"It'll be strange, I suppose," she said, eyeing him coyly, "to have a stepmother who is the same age as you."
He laughed. "I'm sure I'll get used to it. My father is barely sixteen years older than me, remember?" In many ways his father was more like an idolized elder brother. They'd shared many an ale together and even a few women. Not at the same time, of course, whatever rumor alleged. And gossip was plentiful when it came to True Deverell and his "litter".
Storm's father did not live by many rules, but he had one he followed strictly; he never explained, excused or felt the need to defend his behavior, which was all well and good, but meant that a vast deal of unsavory gossip went unchecked.
"Don't waste your time," he would say with a shrug. "Those who have no excitement or success in their lives must always talk about, judge and criticize someone who does."
There was certainly no shortage of "excitement" in the Deverell tribe.
But as Olivia said, she knew what she was getting into, and fortunately she didn't try to change Storm's father, but loved him exactly the way he was, faults and all.
When she recently came into a large, unexpected inheritance from her maternal grandmother, many locals — those who thought her an opportunist, marrying Deverell for his money—had expected Olivia to pack her trunk and leave. After all, they whispered, why would any respectable woman put up with him if she had her own money and didn't need his?
Olivia stayed, however.
Always primly dressed, and with her own behavior beyond reproach, she defied and irritated the gossips to remain with True Deverell, a man once named "the worst rake of all time". And she was quite content. That's how rare a woman she was.
"What good would that inheritance be to me if I had to live without your father?" she'd said. "I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to spend it without him to advise me. I'd probably take up with a very young, very well-proportioned, not very articulate, Italian sculptor's model who would rob me of every penny in a short amount of time, leaving me destitute and riddled with the pox."
Yes, she had a wry sense of humor that Storm appreciated. But he knew Olivia would never do anything foolish with her money. She was much too sensible and had her head screwed firmly on the right way.
He thought how lucky his father was. Although born a foundling with so many odds against him, True Deverell had rolled some very good dice— literally and figuratively. He'd certainly been fortunate to find a woman who could put up with him and all his quirks. A clever, honest woman who genuinely loved him, for all his faults. It was almost enough to make a man believe in "happily ever after". Almost.
"Despite the fact that I want no fanfare, I would like to see you in a well-made coat — a handsome cutaway perhaps—at the wedding," she said firmly. "After all, you are your father's eldest son."
He winced. Happy as he was for his father and Olivia, he wished he might retreat into the background on the big day and not be forced into fancy, uncomfortable clothes that he was unlikely to wear again. He never took much pleasure in social events, usually felt awkward and out of place.
"You can be measured today at the tailors. There's no time to send away to London, but Mr. Thrupp in Truro is very good, so I hear. What about clean evening clothes for dinner at Roscarrock when everybody comes down for the wedding?"
"It's only family. I'm sure my old buckskins will suffice."
"Your father wants you to make an effort. You know how he is. Clothes make the man, as he likes to say."
Storm began to suspect this trip to Truro was really planned to buy him new clothes after all and that Olivia had merely tricked him into coming by pretending she needed his assistance. "My father never used to care. He always said it didn't matter what people thought of us."
"However, he has grown up to appreciate two things, an education and the cut of a good coat." Apparently, she mistook his heavy sigh for weariness. "You work too hard, Storm. I've told you before, it'll age you before your time if you don't find a nice girl to look after you and give you cause to stay home once in a while."
"I've got girls to play with when I fancy 'em." He smirked, looking away down the road. "Nice and naughty."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" After a pause, she added, "It's not all about that."
Storm cast her a doubtful, sideways glance. "What else could it be about? It's what women were made for."
"Now you sound like your father."
"Who else should I sound like?"
She laughed, shaking her head.
Staring at the road ahead, Storm thought of what his father called, "The Spark". It was the primal heat of attraction that sometimes happened between a man and a woman. Storm had experienced that spark before— or so he thought. Today, however, he realized that all those other times had not happened for him the way his father meant. Those sparks fizzled out easily and could not compare with what happened to him today.
This morning it was very different. He was still suffering from the result, feeling a little singed.
"Tomorrow is the estate sale at the Putnam farm, is it not?" Olivia asked.
"Hmm." His mind reluctantly forced back from a pair of rose-embroidered stockings, he grumbled, "Joss Restarick stopped in this morning to let me know he means to bid on the land too."
"But your father said you have plans for it."
He nodded. "It's a fine, sheltered spot with good soil. A nice little orchard on the property too. And the buildings are sound, perfect to house more stock." Storm wouldn't tell anyone why he really wanted that farm. Best not let word get out. So he gave the usual answer. "Old Steadfast Putnam built those stone walls with his own hands when he was a young man. I'm sure you've heard how particular he was. He knew stone like no one else."
"Such a pity he and his wife had no children to inherit the property. They married later in life, I understand. Steadfast Putnam was as resistant to marriage as you are, it seems. He left it too late, sadly, to have offspring."
Ignoring that broad hint, he said, "I'll ma
ke good use of the place and make it pay. The old man couldn't work the land as much these last five or so years and he was too stubborn to get help in. I offered, many a time, to go over and lend him a plow for those two fields, but he'd have none of it. Accused me once of wanting to ‘poke about’ on his land. Fair tore me apart to see those fields left idle. He let his pride get in the way of sound business sense."
"Sometimes pride is all a man has left."
"I'm not surprised it's all he had, since he was a mean old bugger with no mind for looking to the future. "
"One shouldn't speak ill of the dead." She shot him a sly sideways glance. "Besides, pride has been something of a failing in your family too from time to time."
"Can't think what you mean, stepmother." He squared his shoulders and added briskly, "There's few folk so humble as I."
"Yes, of course. This would be the insufferable humility that leads you to endure excessive self-confidence, generally ignore advice and always think you know best."
He sniffed. "As a matter of fact, I have taken your advice recently, you'll be pleased to know."
"You have? Gracious!"
"I decided to hire a housekeeper and wrote to Reverend Coles, as you suggested."
Her eyes widened and she held her hat with one hand as he quickened the horses. "I'm very glad. Now you will have someone to keep you in line."
"Hmm."
"I look forward to meeting her. What is she like?"
"Very... proper."
"Then I hope you are polite to her."
"As long as she's polite to me," he muttered.
"She has good references?"
"Not a one." Storm couldn't help himself. Olivia's disapproving countenance was always amusing to see and he'd been on the receiving end of it a great deal. One look at that expression reassured him that he wasn't losing his touch.
"Why would Reverend Coles send you a woman with no references?"
"Perhaps she was the best he could get to work for a filthy rotten Deverell."
"Nonsense, I'm sure you're paying a very good wage. Like your father, you've always thrown money about as if it cures all." She shook her head, tut-tutting under her breath, adding to his amusement. "She can cook at least?"
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