True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (8 page)

"
Fascinating
."

"But while working for me
you'll learn the whole story of how I earned my fortune.
If
you decide to stay
and we don't frighten you off."

"I agreed to six months and so for
half a year I shall stay." Her voice was very firm, decisive. "I
never go back on my word. And I never change my mind."

Well, we'll see,
he thought. Women, in his experience, were
changeable as the weather.

As True led his new employee down the
passage, he noted dust on the console table and cobwebs on the
paneling. Would have a word with Sims.

He opened the door to the old nanny's
room and saw that a fire had been lit. At least Sims had seen to
that, so he must not have despised the new arrival too severely. It
was a sparsely furnished room though, a bit grim. "Here we are,
Mrs. Monday. There are spare candles in the box on the mantle. I
hope you'll find it comfortable tonight."

She walked into the room, her gaze
quickly assessing the place. "I'm sure I'll manage." Then she
looked at him again. "I daresay it amused you to make a fool of me
just now, sir, pretending to be Jameson." Her head tilted to one
side and a flicker of candlelight caught on the soft luster of her
pearl earbobs, drawing his attention to them again.

Interesting that she wore no other
jewelry— not even a wedding ring. He knew, thanks to his instinct
for probability, that those earrings were handed down, not bought
specifically for her. The woman's complexion was not suited to
pearls so no man who knew anything about jewelry would buy her
pearls. Diamonds or sapphires would suit her better. That meant the
pearls had belonged to a close relative and were passed down to
her. But since she apparently disdained ornament, Mrs. Monday must
wear them only for sentimental reasons.

Therefore, although she seemed intent
on denying it, this woman did possess some feminine tenderness
after all. One soft spot. Somewhere under her armor.

Uh oh, her lips were still moving.
Better pay attention.

"I was warned that you enjoy practical
jokes, Mr. Deverell, so I should have been prepared. But I hope you
got that mischief out of your veins tonight. I would not want
anything to prevent us working efficiently together from now
on."

He studied her thoughtfully, wondering
again what she was doing there. And why she thought she had any
authority to chastise her employer. This was not at all what he'd
expected when he sent his request off to Abraham Chalke. It
wouldn't do, of course. She was too young, too argumentative, too
disruptive— upsetting the staff. Poor Jameson probably still stood
in the kitchen with his mouth open, and Sims pouted in a corner
somewhere, licking whatever wound she'd given him with her sharp
words.

She couldn't stay. He must think of
his staff's sanity and the smooth running of his
household.

And he wasn't looking for more trouble
from a dratted woman. He'd had more than his share in that
regard.

Looking up at the ceiling,
he pretended to consider. "Hmm. Have I got the mischief out of my
veins?
Have I
?"
After a moment he looked down at her again and sighed. "Too early
to tell. Sleep well, Mrs. Monday. In the morning we'll discuss this
matter."

"The matter of your unacceptable
behavior, sir?"

"No, madam. The matter of
yours."

With that he left her, closing the
door and walking away with his lamp, loudly whistling the Sailor's
Hornpipe. A jaunty tune that she, her pitiful boots and battered
trunk had, for some reason, brought to his mind.

Chapter Six

Roscarrock Castle,
Cornwall

Early morning (Time
regretfully uncertain)

Thursday, September 1st,
1842
.

Upon waking Olivia went directly to
her window, eager to examine the view in daylight, but there was
not much more visible now than there had been in the dark of night.
Swaddled jealously in a thick cloud of fog that rolled off the sea,
Roscarrock Castle appeared to float in a world of opaque
nothingness. The chilled silence was broken only by a distant low
rumble as unseen waves collided with rock. And by the steady beat
of her heart, thumping reassuringly in her ears.

Well, here she was. She had arrived in
one piece, despite Mr. Deverell's "odds" against her, and there was
considerable satisfaction to be felt in this achievement,
especially for a woman who had never been far outside
Chiswick.

She went to the chair where she had
hung her coat last night and felt in the pocket for her father's
old fob watch, even though it had stopped working at some point
during her journey. Forlorn, she opened the engraved case anyway
and stared at the still hands. The timepiece had never let her down
until now. The winding mechanism appeared to be stuck.

Snapping the case shut again, Olivia
took a deep breath. She'd manage without it. She must. A fog-bound,
time-abandoned, drafty old castle inhabited by an eccentric gambler
was easy to bear when compared to the only other option of
remaining in Chiswick, to watch her stepbrother, Christopher, marry
Miss Lucinda Braithwaite.

Yes, Lucinda was primarily ornamental,
whined like a kettle left on the fire too long, and would probably
prove expensive to keep, but if that was the wife he thought would
make him content, it was none of her business. Olivia had known
three husbands— married each one in opposition to her stepbrother's
opinion— and just because she wasn't capable of keeping any of them
alive, that was no reason not to want better fortune for
Christopher. He could be very smug and had the uncanny ability to
keep his boots well-polished in all weathers, but it was hardly his
fault that all the puddles lurked in wait for her.

Putting that thought to rest, and with
it any temptation toward uncharitable feelings, she opened her
scuffed trunk at the foot of the bed. Too tired last night to
tackle the job, she'd left her unpacking until morning, draping her
coat, gown and stockings over a chair to dry, and sleeping in her
petticoats. The devil only knew what a crumpled mess her carefully
packed garments and belongings would be in now after so many days
of rough travel.

Fortunately the first item she
encountered was her old woolen shawl. She quickly threw it around
her shoulders in a warm hug, holding it to her face just to inhale
a breath of familiar scent. How could she have considered letting
her luggage fall into the sea yesterday? That proved how tired she
must have been.

She thought over her conversation with
Mr. Deverell last night. Not a very good start. But Olivia would
never have said many of those things to her employer, had she known
who he was when he entered the kitchen. Today, well rested from her
journey, she must keep her opinions and thoughts to herself, not
let him goad her into any sort of debate.

One by one she rediscovered her old
gowns from inside the trunk, shook them out and laid them in a
thin, neat pile on the bed. Fortunately, she'd never been able to
afford servants, so she'd sewn all her garments in a way that meant
she could dress and undress herself. That would be useful now,
since there was no maid at Roscarrock Castle either. Olivia's gowns
possessed no troublesome out-of-reach hooks, so she was entirely
self-sufficient. As for her hair, she'd never been one to try new
styles. A simple braided bun was quite enough for her, could be
managed easily with her own pair of hands and didn't even require
any heart-breaking consultation with a mirror.

Reaching further into her trunk she
recovered the small, framed silhouette of her last husband, where
it was nestled protectively in the soft, worn velvet of her best
evening gown. The need to keep his picture safe from damage was the
only reason why she packed that particular gown, for she certainly
didn't expect to wear it here. But poor, dear William deserved to
be kept safe in the folds of her best gown. Theirs might not have
been a passionate love match— his greatest devotion was to his
faith— but it was a practical union that saved them both from
loneliness and helped steer Olivia onto a better path, away from
the wayward direction in which her bad temper and sinful
imagination might otherwise take her.

After a first brief marriage embarked
upon in lust, and a second short union initiated by her pride and
wrath, a penitent life with William Monday had probably saved her
soul. Or, at least, it was on its way to saving her, until sudden
death took him too from her side, and then Olivia was forced to
find another purpose. She certainly couldn't risk getting married
again.

What would William make of her coming
here and taking this position?

Why, he would say she must go where
she could be most useful, of course! That was her kindly William,
always so wise and never a thought for his own comfort.

On the other hand..."If you take that
position so far away in Cornwall you won't be here for my wedding,"
her stepbrother had protested. "Who will make certain everything is
done correctly and on time? Lucinda has no mother to look after all
those little things, and we were relying upon you to sort it out."
That was her stepbrother Christopher— full of his own immediate
needs and never able to understand hers. Always hard-done-by in his
own mind.

It would surely do her stepbrother
good to learn how to do all those "little things" for his new bride
himself. Alas, Olivia could quite imagine the pretty couple slowly
starving as they lay in bed waiting for someone to feed them. Like
baby birds in a nest with their beaks wide open.

"That young man is dreadfully
spoiled," William used to say. "It seems his mama did him no
service while she was alive, adoring and coddling him as she did.
And now you are in danger of doing the same because of this
partiality which allows you to willingly overlook his faults. He is
not your responsibility, my dear, and one day he must stand on his
own two feet."

Yes, standing on one's own two feet
was very important.

She gave the glass of William's
silhouette a quick huff and rubbed it with a corner of her shawl.
Perfect, not a smear! Rising from her knees she went to the mantle,
wiped a spot clean in the dust, and placed him there with
reverence. Now he could watch over her in his calm, steady, knowing
way.

Beside him she placed the painting her
stepbrother gave her several years ago. Well, he didn't exactly
give it to her. She'd found him throwing it out, so when she said
she liked it he told her she could keep it.

"You never did have any refined
taste," he'd said with a sigh.

Christopher had been raised to
appreciate the finer things in life, even though he couldn't afford
them. He liked nothing until he'd been assured it was fashionable
or expensive. Olivia's more impulsive, instinctual, mostly
unfashionable tastes irritated him.

When their parents married, Olivia was
sixteen, her new stepbrother a year older. Christopher was very
close to his mama, but she died within a year of the wedding, and
then Olivia took on the role of listening, sympathetic ear. She
spent much of her time looking after Christopher. Most often,
however, she was of no more importance to her handsome stepbrother
than a chair against which he was accustomed to stubbing his toe.
An old, out-dated piece of furniture in need of restoration, but
reliable when there was a shortage of seating.

Once, as her father and Christopher
played chess and Olivia read a book nearby, she heard her
stepbrother exhale a sharp expletive of disgust at losing. When her
father reprimanded the young man for using such a word in the
presence of a lady, he'd looked over, smiled pleasantly, and said,
"Well, goodness, it's only Livy. I thought you meant someone else
had come in." Then he turned back to the game.

She had, several times, overheard him
lamenting that she would, one day, become his "burden" —even
calculating how many years she might live, how much she would cost
him in food and board. "One doesn't like to be morbid, but one must
think of these things," he had said to her father. "It is not
likely she will marry, is it?"

Why not? Because, in addition to her
lack of dowry, dark sense of humor, unfashionable features, refusal
to dance, and reticence to speak much in company, Olivia had once
committed the greatest social faux pas anyone within fifty miles
had ever heard about.

Sent against her will to be "looked
at" as a potential governess for the daughters of Lady Arabella
Frost, and finding herself surrounded by a cluster of haughty
society ladies who were plainly trying not to laugh at her old,
ill-fitting frock, Olivia took the last rout cake from a
three-tiered china serving platter and calmly stuffed her face with
it, much to the silent but very obvious indignation of those
present.

As she had said to her father,
"Someone was going to eat it. Why shouldn't it be me?"

Needless to say, she was not engaged
as a governess. One might think the incident too small and
insignificant to make many ripples for long, but in the close-knit
circle of that society they apparently had little else to talk
about. The incident was never forgotten, nor forgiven. Wherever she
went, she was The Girl Who Ate The Last Cake.