True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (13 page)

On his way out of the room, he found
Mrs. Monday underfoot, looking up at him expectantly.

She was still here? Of course she was.
He hadn't yet decided what to do about her, had he?

"When can we begin work? You are
already paying me, sir." Apparently this little fact bothered her
greatly.

"Mrs. Monday, you have a
day off today. There, you see, I might not possess any gentlemanly
manners, but I am a benevolent employer. You did not expect that,
eh?" He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the
door. "Do go and enjoy your day off, Mrs. Monday.
Cush, cush."
Probably
shouldn't have put his hands on her. The woman almost leapt out of
her skin, but she said nothing.

Besides "probably shouldn't" had never
stopped him before.

Hopefully she would take some time
today to think about what she'd done by coming here. She appeared
to be a woman of wit, intelligence and surprising good sense.
Perhaps, when he returned, she'd be packed and ready to leave. Then
he wouldn't have to tell her to go, because he was finding it
unduly difficult to get the words right.

Tripped over her once, did he? Didn't
sound like him. He wasn't in the least clumsy. The part about
failing to apologize did sound typical, though.

He'd have to make that up to her
somehow, before she left.

Three husbands dead, eh? He was right
then. Drab-drawers did have an interesting story of her
own.

Chapter Nine

"Writing his memoirs indeed," the cook
exclaimed. "Who would want to read that filth? I never took to
books and reading. Why would he put the evidence of his sins down
on paper?"

"He says he's writing it for his
children, Mrs. Blewett. He believes the truth would be a service to
them."

"Pah! That lot aren't waiting for any
service from Mr. Deverell other than a share of his handsome
fortune, mark my words. They're all greedy fledglings. Except for
Master Storm Deverell. He's a good lad, and the only one I've got
time for."

Olivia said nothing about
the making of that seed cake for Master Damon, which suggested the
cook's opinion of
him
was not so wholly bad as she made out. Indeed, Damon had
departed the house that morning with a large hamper filled with
Mrs. Blewett's baked goods— enough to feed not only him, but also
all the other boys at school. It had required both Damon and
Jameson to carry it.

"It's the master's fault for not
raising 'em with a firmer hand," Mrs. Blewett added. "He looks
around sometimes as if he doesn't know how he came by so many
children, as if they just followed him home like confused
ducklings. Throws money at 'em and hopes for the best."

Yes, she had already witnessed his
propensity to use money as a cure-all. "Perhaps he's writing the
memoirs for himself too. I suppose he wants to get things off his
chest. Make his confession, so to speak."

"Not dying, is he?"

"Not that I'm aware of." He certainly
looked healthy enough, she thought with a cross sigh. It made her
job much harder, while he had too much energy to dash about all
over the place and couldn't be pinned down at that desk.

"He's got
too much
life in 'im, if
you ask me. Flitting about all over the place from sun up to sun
down, as if his arse is afire." Mrs. Blewett laughed heartily at
her own crude remark and then again when she saw Olivia's
expression. It seemed as if laughter was never far from the cook's
lips, and when she dissolved completely into the jolly, raucous
noise her whole body trembled with the motion. "That wicked feller
will outlive us all, to be sure, no matter how many times they
shoot at him."

"Have you worked here long?" Olivia
inquired.

"I came here as cook the first time
his wife left him. Twenty years ago, it must be now." She shook her
head. "Twenty years at least. Time flies, as they say. I worked at
the farm over on the mainland, you see, and when Lady Charlotte
decided to run off back to London, she took the chef with her— some
fancy fellow from the continent. Mr. Deverell asked me to come and
fill in here and that's what I've done ever since. He doesn't care
for fussy cooking," she explained with pride. "Likes my plain,
hearty honest fare."

"The
first
time his wife left?" Clearly
she had come back again, since some of his children were born less
than twenty years ago.

"Oh, there were many such
times. The lady was gone more than she was home. Always came back
though, when she ran out of money. The screaming fights those two
had could be heard on the mainland if it was a still night. But no,
that was the first time she left
properly
— the first time she packed
more than one trunk and was gone for a lengthy spell."

"Is that when she damaged the portrait
in the hall? The one above the stairs?"

"Aye." The cook lowered her voice and
leaned closer. "His fine lady wife found out, you see, that the
master paid to send his first bastard child— young Master Storm— to
school and that he arranged a monthly stipend for the boy's mother
too. Lady Charlotte was furious, claimed he paid more attention to
the bastard than he did to his legitimate son, Ransom. The master
replied that young Storm was just as much his responsibility as her
own child."

"I see."

"She wanted to take her child with her
when she left, but the master refused to let her have him. Called
her an unfit mother. That's when she threw the crystal wine
decanter at his portrait."

"Ah."

"Storm Deverell now runs the home farm
on the mainland for his father. He was always a hard worker. Not
spoiled like the others. Has his head on straight. He ought to be
married by now and a father himself— there's many a local girl had
her eye on him— but he avoids all talk of matrimony and uses the
farm as his excuse. Says it takes up all his energy. Mind you, he
still has time to chase after a pretty face when he fancies it.
Quite a charmer he is. Trouble for the ladies, just like his
father."

Olivia, warming her hands by the fire,
thought that someone ought to speak up on behalf of the betrayed
wife in all this. "It must have been hard for Lady Charlotte, to
know of her husband's infidelity. For it to be so
public."

"Well, Storm was
born
before
the
marriage to Lady Charlotte. Mr. Deverell weren't much more than a
boy himself — only just fifteen or sixteen, so 'tis said—when he
fathered the lad by a gamekeeper's daughter out Truro way. Mr.
Deverell didn't know about the babe until years later, after he
were wed. His wife wanted the child and its mother out of her life,
but the master said that since she'd married him for his money, she
could take all that came along with him and not just the
luxuries."

The cook's story was cut off sharply
when Sims entered the kitchen. "I trust you have plenty of work to
keep you busy, Mrs. Blewett? If not, I'm sure more can be
arranged."

"Just having a friendly word with this
young lady."

"And now perhaps you can complete some
tasks more pressing."

Olivia hurriedly got up from her chair
by the fire. "Is there anything I can do? I am at rather a loose
end this morning, since Mr. Deverell took himself off to the
mainland."

"
You
?" The butler glowered down his
superior nose at her. "No, there is nothing you can do, but wait
for the master to return, and try not to get under our feet in the
meantime."

"Well then, since the fog has lifted
slightly, I'll venture outside, Mr. Sims, and get myself
acclimated. Mr. Jameson might have work for me there if I can find
him."

"I would not advise it. The fog still
lingers around parts of the island and you are unfamiliar with the
territory," he muttered. "The master would be most displeased if he
returns to find you damaged in some way, or lost over the edge. It
would be a great inconvenience."

She chuckled dourly. "Yes,
I would hate to
inconvenience
Mr. Deverell by getting swept out to sea. Well,
if he spends a lot of time away I shall have to ask him to leave me
tasks. I don't care to be idle."

Both cook and butler gave her odd
looks and exchanged an even odder one between them. "I fail to see
what he might give you to do when he is not here," Sims proclaimed
in a deeply disgusted tone. "You sole purpose is to amuse
him."

"
Amuse
him?"

The cook winked. "You
mean, she's to write the master's
memoirs
."

It occurred to Olivia that her role in
that house was being misinterpreted. "That is exactly what I am
here for," she exclaimed. "I am a secretary."

"Of course you are," Mrs. Blewett
rolled her pastry out with considerable force. "If that's what
they're calling it these days."

She spun around to confront Sims, who
surely knew the real reason for her employment there and was
probably just being his usual uncooperative self, but the butler
had already gone out again. The cook began to hum loudly as she
worked, bouncing and tapping her toes against the stone floor.
Olivia decided to sort this out with Deverell as soon as he
returned. Better let him deal with his own servants. It wasn't her
place.

Apparently she faced several
challenges in her new job already. One of her most trying missions
there would be keeping her slippery employer focused— rather like
corralling an escaped seed ox. Another would be persuading the
other staff of her chaste purpose in the house. From what she had
already seen of Deverell, he would likely take mischievous delight
in their mistaken assumptions.

Young Master Damon had warned her, "He
will tell you all manner of nonsense. That he was left by a mermaid
on the sand. That he can read the history of an object just by
holding it. That he once fought a dragon...the tales are endless.
The sort of thing only a child can believe. I'm sure you won't be
fooled by any of them, Mrs. Monday."

He was right, of course, she would not
be fooled. Even as a child she'd never enjoyed fairytales— only
those of a decidedly midnight pallor.

As she left the kitchen to explore the
house, Mrs. Blewett called out merrily, "Now don't go kissing
Jameson again. The poor fellow still hasn't recovered from last
night and the master won't want his handyman
indisposed."

Oh dear! She really must apologize to
poor Mr. Jameson, and explain herself when she saw him again
today.

Such a menace she was to men, and yet
she'd only ever tried to be useful.

* * * *

"Father," Storm greeted him with the
usual sunny smile. "I thought you'd be by today, checking on the
harvest."

The boy— yes, True still thought of
his eldest son as a "boy" in many ways— must have been up since
dawn. He looked tired, but happy. Evidence of how much his son
enjoyed working the land. Storm was not the sort to want town life,
fine clothes and Society parties. He lived plainly, had a good head
on his shoulders and a warm heart in his sturdy chest. How could a
father not be proud?

True's wife had despised his eldest
child and made no effort to hide it. From the moment she learned of
his existence she set out to destroy the poor boy. It was the only
thing, apart from her appearance, into which his wife ever put any
effort.

"I fail to understand why you must pay
for that bastard's education," she had exclaimed. "Let him and his
slattern mother manage their own affairs. I thought she was married
to a blacksmith now."

"She was, Charlotte, but he has passed
away. Since Storm is my child, he is my responsibility in any
case."

"To send him money is tantamount to
stealing from your legitimate child."

"If we are to discuss thievery, dear,
should we not raise the matter of your cousin Horace?" She had
begged him to hire Horace— a complete and utter wastrel— soon after
their marriage, but he'd been caught stealing money from the club
and had to be let go. "If Storm and his mother receive stipends
from the Deverell coffers at least it is with my knowledge and
consent. Unlike the unsanctioned allowance that managed to find its
way regularly into your cousin's pockets until it was discovered.
But then, your family has never been known for honesty has it,
Charlotte?"

"How dare you compare my cousin to
that slut and her bastard?"

"Quite. It was wrong of me. It is an
insult to my eldest son and his mother."

Charlotte had thus declared her
intention to leave. True didn't stop her, but when he asked what
she meant to do about her own baby, she was adamant that she didn't
want the boy with her. "Why would I want your offspring hanging on
me?" she'd exclaimed, her eyes overflowing with volcanic spite. "A
reminder of the worst mistake I ever made!"

"He is your child too, Charlotte,"
he'd reminded her.