True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (21 page)

"When did you last speak
to your husband, madam?"
Sergeant O'Grady
— as he was called before his promotion—had asked.

She let her mind return to that rainy
morning, the last time she saw William alive, when she had watched
him take his umbrella from the stand by the door and put on his
hat. The same as he did every day.

But on that morning...

"Do be careful, William," she'd said,
getting a sudden precognition of something amiss that day. It was
April the seventh, 1841, half past seven on Wednesday morning. She
knew the time, of course, because she had looked at the long case
clock in the passage. Habit.

Her husband was probably puzzled by
the tension in her voice. "I am going to the church, my dear. As I
do every day."

"Yes, I know. But do take care. A
chill just came over me."

"A chill? Then you had best go and
stand by the fire."

"I meant that I had a terrible sense
of foreboding. As if someone walked over my grave."

"You know I do not approve of such
expressions, Olivia. I thought we were in agreement on that
score."

She had merely bowed her head in
silent acceptance and gripped her hands behind her back.

"Now, I shall return for luncheon at
precisely the hour of noon," he had added. "Please be sure the
potatoes are properly boiled this time, my dear. They gave me the
most terrible indigestion on Monday." At the memory of that
discomfort his face crumpled wearily, the lines sagging and folding
in like the pleats of a heavy curtain.

"Yes, William." Olivia was deeply
contrite about the almost-raw potatoes she had accidentally served
him a few days before, after an unexpected visit from Christopher
had distracted her from the duty of cooking lunch.

As William passed out into the grey
daylight, she'd thought about rushing down the passage and pressing
a kiss to his cheek, but she knew he would think that quite
unnecessary.

When noon came the potatoes were
crumbling apart, as they were overdone. To make them edible, Olivia
had mashed them up with butter. She was just carrying them through
to the dining room, when the verger came to tell her the terrible
news. Her first thought was that at least William would not know
how she'd failed again to cook the potatoes correctly— she could
not bear to be caught in the frown of his disappointment. Then, as
the realization of what had happened sank in fully, she lost her
grip on the tureen of unhappy potatoes, letting them fall to the
flagged stone floor of the passage.

Once she got around to cleaning up the
mess later, the potato had hardened and stuck to the stone. She
almost wore out her knees scrubbing it clean again. No one had
offered to clean it for her, although they all came to pay their
dutiful visits to the new widow and, in so doing, had to step over
the mess.

In that moment she had
thought to herself,
No one would miss me
if I wasn't here
. She was just as
invisible to the people left in her life as that dried, mashed
potato.

"Why did you feel something would
happen to your husband that day, madam?" O'Grady had asked,
frowning.

She could give no answer. Perhaps it
was because she had lost two other husbands before William? Was she
beginning to recognize a pattern of signs? That much tragedy must
leave some sort of mark on a person, she supposed.

"Is that blood on your gown,
madam?"

"Yes." Olivia had looked down at the
little red splatter on her muslin. "I cut my finger while peeling
the potatoes."

The sergeant had then asked her about
the pigs they kept. "The neighbors tell me you are quite adept at
the slaughtering, Mrs. Monday."

"Well, someone has to do it," she
replied sharply, her defenses quickly raised. Didn't mean she
enjoyed it. In fact, it brought her out in a cold sweat whenever
she knew the time approached, but once again William refused to pay
for that service too. She might have added that she was also the
person who chopped down trees, dug gardens and chased away bill
collectors, because her husband was not capable. But the sergeant
didn't want to hear about that.

In any case, she was a person who went
on with life, not letting anything distract her from the tasks that
must be done— the routine of existence.

Routine was very important. Had
William not needed to remind her about the potatoes on that weeping
April morning, he might have left the house a few moments earlier
and dodged the fateful moment when a rotted section of the
footbridge gave way.

Sullen, she sat on a flat rock to
unlace her boot and shake out the intrusive pebble. Deverell,
meanwhile, must have swum to the island with speed, for she heard
him already splashing at the base of the steps, then grunting as he
heaved his body out of the water. She looked around desperately.
Had he brought no clothes out with him? There must be something
laid nearby on the rocks. But no. There were no garments discarded.
He would surely not approach her naked? Surely not. Not even
him.

She heard heavy breathing as he began
his ascent. Of course, she realized in horror, he must think she'd
dashed back into the house. He would not expect to find her sitting
there with one boot off. Lingering. He might think she did it
deliberately.

"Mr. Deverell," she called out, "I
have sprained my ankle. Please do not come any closer until I am
out of your way."

There was a low curse and then his
face emerged between two, permanently wind-bent branches. "You rise
early today, Olivia. I wasn't expecting you about for another few
hours at least."

Was
it early? She had no idea, although the tide was not yet out,
which should have given her a clue she realized. Water dripped from
his black hair and his eyelashes. This morning his eyes were
startling, the color of the moon on a clear night, and full of
mischief. She dare not look too long. "How am I supposed to know
the time when you have no clocks in the house?" she demanded
crossly. "I am quite at a loss!" And she was too. But in many other
ways, in addition to timekeeping.

"Perhaps you might lend me your
bonnet?" he suggested.

"My bonnet?"

"To help preserve my modesty. Or some
of it. If you would be so kind."

Ah. She untied her ribbons and held
the straw hat out to him with as steady a hand as she could manage,
carefully averting her gaze.

He took it.

"When I woke the sun seemed high," she
explained. "Had I known you were out here—"

"No need for excuses, Olivia. Your
curiosity about my naked body is perfectly understandable. You're
not the first to sprain something trying to catch sight of my
superb masculinity."

"I was not—" She heard his low chuckle
and realized he was mocking her. Again. "You really ought to have a
clock in the house."

"But I like keeping visitors in
confusion and myself in a state of timelessness."

"Of course you do," she
muttered.

He feigned comical concern, "Are you
ill? You're perspiring in a very unladylike manner."

She took a handkerchief from her coat
pocket and fanned her face, looking away from the difficult male.
"It is warmer today and I think I've had too much
exercise."

"You were moving somewhat
speedily upward
and
backward. I'm not surprised you twisted an ankle."

"I'll be quite alright. Please go on
into the house." She closed her eyes tightly, expecting to hear
more rustling.

But suddenly Olivia was swept off her
perch and caught up in a strong pair of arms.

She opened her eyes. "What are you
doing, sir?"

"You can't walk on that ankle, can
you, woman?"

"I can manage!"

"And it will swell up like an
unsightly balloon. I have to look at these ankles of yours and I
command that you keep them shapely."

"You shouldn't be looking at my
ankles," she grumbled. "Put me down on my own two feet."

"Tsk tsk. What sort of gentleman would
I be to make you limp back to the house in pain?"

"I didn't think it mattered to you,
sir."

"Your ankle? Why would the fate of
your sad little ankles not matter?"

"I referred to being a gentleman. Last
night you warned me that you could make no promises about your
behavior."

"Ah. I can't honestly say
it
does
matter to
me. But I know it matters to you. So I shall
try
to be good."

Olivia had nothing to say to that. The
idea of anything that mattered to her being important to a man like
him— or to anyone—was very odd. And if this was his version of
trying to be "good" she feared there was no hope, but to say so
would be discouraging.

He carried her through the untamed,
rocky garden, and she tried to forget the fact that he was naked
with only her bonnet tied around his groin.

"Did you sleep well,
Olivia?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"I did not. I spent a wakeful night
after you left me so abruptly."

"I'm sorry. That is unfortunate, sir."
She watched a bead of seawater make its steady course down the side
of his neck. "I slept very comfortably."

"I don't suppose you thought about
me," he pressed.

"No. Good heavens, why ever would
I?"

He scowled, gripping her tighter to
his chest.

"I do hope my bonnet doesn't slip,"
she muttered. "Are the ribbons holding it up sufficiently?" She
dare not look for herself, but she knew they were not terribly long
ribbons and badly frayed.

"Ribbons aren't necessary to hold it
up," he replied stiffly. "Not at this moment."

"Oh."

"And unless you want us to go off into
the realms of the improper conversation again, I suggest you leave
it at that, Olivia."

She turned her face so that he
wouldn't see her smile. He shouldn't call her by that name. But it
was too fine a day to worry about any of that.

She didn't think she would ever be
able to put on her bonnet again without remembering this strange
moment. Including his boast about not needing the ribbons tied to
hold it up.

Crikey
, as his son Damon would say.

Olivia's gaze skipped across his damp,
wide shoulders and she saw a scar where someone had stitched his
skin together over a wound. No doubt there would be other scars, if
she looked further. Quite a few people had taken aim at him,
according to the rumors, and she had begun to understand why. He
was the most infuriating man she'd ever known and firing a bullet
at him might be the only way to keep him still.

"I expected to find your trunk packed
and waiting in my hall this morning, Mrs. Monday, after my terrible
faux pas last night."

Aha! So he
had
meant to chase her
off.

"Mr. Deverell, I am not afraid of you,
or what you might do to me, any more than I am afraid of steam
engines. I have been telling you that I am fearless since the first
night. Hopefully you can believe it now and stop testing
me."

He laughed and she felt it rumbling
through his chest. "I suppose I'm just a lot of inconvenient, rude
noise and vulgar puffs of steam, eh?"

"Precisely."

"You really didn't think of me last
night?"

Aha, he threw that question at her
again on the sly, probably hoping to catch her off guard. "I did
not," she lied swiftly and pertly.

"How did the kindly parson
tell his wife that he wanted—"

"Well, what would you
say?"

"I would say...Come to bed
with me, Olivia."

She had fallen asleep with those words
playing through her mind, tickling her on the inside. Of course,
she had asked what would he say to his own wife, not what would he
say to her. Deliberately and mischievously he had
misinterpreted.

"I ought to drop you over the edge of
this island," he grumbled. "Why am I carrying you without even the
promise of a thank you?"

"Something about trying to be a
gentleman. Not that I believed a word of it."

They rounded a corner of the stone
wall and abruptly collided with a man coming from the other
direction. The jolt caused Olivia to grab hold of his shoulders on
instinct. Deverell almost dropped her, but in the next moment had
gripped her even tighter against his bare chest.

"Storm!"

"Father." Sun shone down on a head of
tarnished gold hair. A pair of deep blue eyes in a tanned face
closed in on Olivia with a great deal of surprise and amusement. "I
hope I'm not disturbing anything. Looks as if you have your hands
full."

Chapter Sixteen

"I heard a rumor," his son exclaimed,
grinning broadly. "Had to see for myself, didn't I?"