True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (14 page)

"Do you think I don't know it? That I
don't know how bearing your son has ruined my looks? As if that is
not bad enough, now you force me to leave all my friends in London
and live in this dreadful place, isolated from Society for six
months of the year? And why? For you to be near that wretched
little bastard of yours and his whore of a mother."

"I thought it would do you good to
leave London for a while." There were many things and people in
Town that were bad for his wife, but she couldn't stay away from
them.

"So I could become even more dowdy and
unfashionable? No, you can keep that needy brat of yours. You deal
with its tantrums and that surly, pudding-faced nurse-maid. I'm
going back to my life!"

Charlotte had no maternal instincts.
Selfish to the bone, her thoughts were always for herself. She only
complained about his illegitimate son taking attention away from
her child, because she was thinking about the money. That's all her
children ever meant to her; they were conduits to True's fortune
and as such they would keep her in luxury for the rest of her life.
Or so she thought.

"If you leave the boy, Charlotte, you
can forget about coming back here again. You can forget about me
sending you any allowance. Go back to London and your friends and
we'll live separate lives. If you prefer their society so much, let
them take care of you. But you'll get nothing more from me. Not a
damn penny."

The wine decanter hit his portrait
soon after. It would have hit him had she possessed better aim in
her soused condition.

Storm was too young then to understand
the animosity caused by his existence. It didn't take long, though,
for his eyes to be opened. Growing up, the boy was victimized by
Charlotte's spiteful rancor more than once, but he bore it
stoically. Perhaps that annoyed her even more, True mused. Storm
didn't fly into rages like his father; his mild manners he clearly
got from his mother. If anything he avoided
confrontation.

Just as he avoided carrying post to
his father when he guessed it brought bad tidings.

True took the crumpled ball of
Charlotte's latest letter from his pocket. "Did you know about
this?" he demanded. "My daughter has always shared her troubles
with you rather than me. You must have known something was
afoot."

"Something? Like what, father?" Storm
couldn't lie to save his life. His eyes were very blue and in pain
anytime he thought he might disappoint. It made True think suddenly
of Mrs. Monday's eyes and the similar light within them— muted in
her case, but just like a pup ready to flinch.

"Raven, it seems, is to be married.
And I must be the last to know."

His son groaned, set down the
pitchfork and shrugged into a worn leather jerkin. "Raven wrote to
me that her mother had introduced her to some rich fellow in silk
breeches. But in all honesty father, I can't keep the names all
straight in my head. One in-bred aristocratic dandy sounds much the
same as another to me. Besides, I didn't think she took any of 'em
seriously. You know how Raven is, she likes to have her
fun."

Oh yes, he knew his daughter. Sadly.
Raven was more intent on rebellion, in many ways, than his sons.
Her mother made a great fuss of her because she was the only girl,
but it was all empty affection— all for show. And revenge against
him, of course.

His former wife had wanted a large,
extravagant "coming out" ball for Raven in London, but True would
have to pay the bill and he declared his daughter too immature, too
deeply under her mother's influence.

"What's the quote from
that book you like so much?" he'd said to Raven.
"
Until you can prove to me that you've
spent ten minutes of any day in a rational
manner
..."

It may not have been an exact quote,
but it was close.

After that his daughter fled up to
Edinburgh in a mighty sulk, anxious to be consoled by her mother.
Since then Charlotte had been parading their daughter about like a
piece of meat on a butcher's wagon, trying to catch the deepest
pockets in Scotland. Now, according to this letter, an engagement
had been settled upon. Without True's permission, or even
consultation.

Storm confessed. "I would have told
you before, father, if I thought anything would come of it. But I
never thought Raven would agree to anybody her mother picked.
Doesn't seem like her at all." The two men walked together into the
barn, and Storm poured two tankards of cider from a barrel that
stood just inside the door. "I thought she'd get beyond this stage
by now and be back here to make it up with you."

True laughed harshly. It spat out of
him before he could take his first swig. "That girl will never come
back for my forgiveness. She's stubborn— like all my sons— but with
the added trait of feminine irrationality. It's a wretched
combination. Worse still, she's been under her mother's influence
ever since I told her I would not pay for that damned ball this
past spring."

He'd refused because he knew
Charlotte's so-called friends would attend merely to gawk at his
daughter, as if she was a public curiosity. The vultures waited for
Raven Deverell to make one mistake— they looked for fault. But no,
her mother did not care about Raven being an exhibit. Charlotte
wanted a gaudy performance with herself in the midst of it. Now
she'd managed this engagement to some oily cretin. And True would
be expected to pay for the wedding, or else he would, once again,
be the enemy in his daughter's eyes. Apparently, he was the one who
thwarted all her chances for happiness. That was the accusation
Raven had shouted at him before she ran off to her
mother.

"Well, this engagement may not last,
father. These things often come to a natural end," Storm said
placidly. "Raven may be wild, but she's not a fool. She's probably
gone into this engagement just to get your attention
again."

True shook his head. He knew that this
was his former wife wielding influence over their daughter by
constantly rubbing on the fact that they were the only two women in
a family of men. And both supposedly injured by True.

If he did not give Raven his
permission to marry it would push her a further step closer to her
mother and away from him. It would be another tug of war, with no
victor except Charlotte.

"Don't you see the injustice though,
father?" his son teased gently now. "You want me wed and the sooner
the better, but you'd hang on to Raven until she was gray rather
than lose her to a husband."

"Girls are different," True replied
gloomily.

"That is certainly what I've found,"
Storm sputtered into his cider. "It's not hard to spot the
differences. And I'm grateful for 'em. As, I believe, you are too,
father. At least, in the past you have been, although it's a while
since I've heard of you keeping female company up at Roscarrock.
You ought to have a woman up there to keep you in a better
mood."

Reminded of his new employee, True
looked thoughtfully at his son. "Come over and dine with me
soon."

"The harvest will keep me busy,
father. But I'll come over when I can."

"Good. I'll look forward to seeing
you. Oh..." he cast a quick eye over Storm's tattered clothing,
"..and neaten yourself up a bit."

"What the devil for? Not entertaining
royalty are you, father?" Storm laughed, blue eyes shining. He got
those eyes from his mother, True thought, remembering sweet Louisa
the gamekeeper's daughter who once, so long ago, initiated him into
the pleasures of "tupping" as she called it, on a warm haystack.
Smiling Lusty Lou. Gone a few years now, but not
forgotten.

"Just...dress tidy, son. I've let
things slide a bit of late. Ought to make an effort once in a while
at dinner, or I'll get out of practice, shan't I?"

Storm looked quizzical, but shrugged
again and poured them both another tankard of cider.

* * * *

When Deverell still had not returned
by early evening, Olivia decided to wash her hair. This was a
sizeable undertaking, because her hair was very long and thick, and
took hours to dry, but surely there was time. It seemed unlikely
her employer would return for dinner— Mrs. Blewett informed her
that the master often stayed overnight at the farm if they were
busy with harvest—so she heated some water by the kitchen fire and
carried it into the scullery, to wash her hair in private. After
that, Olivia planned to sit by the hearth in her room and read a
book.

However, while waiting for her hair to
dry, her thoughts returned constantly to the master of the house.
She finally gave up trying to read when her eyes had tracked five
times over the same sentence, and then she closed her book and
stared into the sputtering flames.

It occurred to her now that the man
she saw riding along the beach from her carriage window yesterday
was, in fact, True Deverell. How strong and powerful he had looked,
wild and free, but also in control. Olivia could only imagine the
state her hair and clothes would be in if she rode like
that.

Deverell, of course, had no one
waiting at home to disapprove. He did as he pleased without
deference to a single soul.

From everything she knew about him
before she arrived at Roscarrock, she was prepared to find a man
who was irritating, frustrating, arrogant and not very pleasant. In
truth, he was a little of all those things, but so much more
beyond. She couldn't quite get him straight in her mind.

Without his energy the house
felt...empty. The skeleton staff waited for his return, of course.
But even the walls and floorboards seemed to sigh with impatience
to feel him there again. Olivia was not accustomed to men with a
great deal of vitality. Well, not since Freddy, whose energy was
mostly misdirected and came in sudden spurts between long periods
of sleep. Rather like the damp fireworks display she once saw over
the river in Chiswick.

What Deverell had, she supposed, some
would call "charisma".

A sudden shiver stroked her skin, like
the swift brush of a goose feather quill. Must be a draft from
somewhere, although the fire was crackling cheerily, the flames
sturdy and tall.

With a brisk huff she reopened her
book and made a sixth attempt to start the next Chapter, but her
mind simply could not concentrate. True Deverell crept back into
her thoughts. In fact, he galloped across her page on his horse,
splashing through the printed letters and knocking them
asunder.

She should not think of him in any
terms beyond the professional. He was her employer. He was also
deliberately naughty, very aware of all that he did, and quite
bereft of good manners. Not to mention the divorced father of seven
children—not all of them legitimate— and owner of the most
notorious gaming den in London.

Despite all that, the one thing
bothering her most about him was that he had the gall to accuse her
of being afraid of steam engines. As if she was ever afraid of
anything! The railway was simply a passing caprice for men like
him, who always had to be in a hurry to get anywhere and thought
that because something was new and fashionable it must be better.
She was quite sure rail travel was a trend that would never catch
on.

A loud rap at her door dragged Olivia
abruptly out of her thoughts.

"Yes? What is it?"

Sims shouted crossly through the wood
panels, "Mr. Deverell desires your presence at once. In his
library."

She scrambled to her feet. "But I...my
hair is wet."

"I'm sure he won't care,
madam."

Whatever time was
it
? She'd heard nothing to suggest the
master of the house had returned. It was black as pitch
outside.

Blood rushed through her veins so fast
it made her dizzy. She stopped, drew a deep breath and steadied
herself.

Chin up, Mrs.
Ollerenshaw!

As long as one was in control of one's
emotions and nerves, one was in control of life.

If she pretended everything was quite
normal, it would be.

Charisma. Pah! William Monday
certainly would not approve of charisma. Neither would Great Aunt
Jane.

Chapter Ten

True waited by the fire in his
library. Hoping to clear his head of all but sensible ideas, he'd
taken a ride along the sands before coming back to the island. He
wasn't sure yet whether it had worked— whether the sunset exercise
had helped make his decision about sending her home, or letting her
stay.

When she entered the room he turned to
look at her, and in that moment he knew his answer. "Mrs. Monday. I
hope I did not disturb you?"

"Disturb me?" She swallowed, one hand
to the throat of her ugly grey gown. "Of course not."

"Good." He nodded. "I have decided to
begin my memoirs now."

There went his chance to send her
away. It was done. She was staying.

"Oh." He could almost hear
her mind exclaiming,
At this
hour
? She blinked, tried to resettle her
expression. Alas for her, he'd caught the split second when she let
down her blank guard.