True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (28 page)

"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
your 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."