True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  The shadow of miserable Great Aunt Jane Westcott loomed over her in warning, every time she thought of how she might end up if she sat back and let fate take its course.

  No, Olivia would make her own future, take her opportunities as they came, and stand on her own two feet. They were not large and they were invariably cold, due to circumstances already mentioned, but they were competent. Like the rest of her.

  "You see, I have an advantage over Mr. Deverell," she told the coachman.

  "What advantage could you 'ave over that feller, missy?" the old fellow muttered dolefully.

  "While I know all about Mr. Deverell's wicked ways," she smiled, folding her widow's veil back over her bonnet, "I'm sure nobody has warned him about mine."

  Even as she said it, she thought what a good thing it was that Sergeant O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police wasn't nearby to hear. That fellow already had some dreadful suspicions about her and he quite lacked a sense of humor.

  Oops, not Sergeant any longer, she corrected herself; he had recently been promoted to Inspector O'Grady, since the formation of the new detective division. He had taken pains to inform her of his advancement.

  But despite the title, as her stepbrother pointed out, he was still the same "ill-mannered vulture in cheaply tailored clothes."

  Poor Inspector O'Grady. She would miss their little chats.

  * * * *

  "We weren't expecting you today," the sour-faced butler objected, as if Olivia's windblown arrival was a great inconvenience.

  "But the arrangement was for me to come today, was it not?" she said with as much politesse as she could manage after dragging her trunk and hatbox across a wet, slippery causeway, then up a flight of no fewer than ten stone steps.

  "No one ever gets here as planned, madam. Not with these roads. They usually get held up at least a day, sometimes a week." His thick, grey-tipped brows lowered and drew close, forming a shape not unlike the wings of a hawk about to swoop down and seize its prey. "Often they never arrive at all. The master has been known to make wagers on whether or not an expected guest will get here in one piece. He finds it most amusing."

  There was a time when she would have appreciated the entertainment value of such a sport, it must be said, but Olivia had formed a distaste for gambling since her first husband's demise. "Well, I suppose one must fill the time however one can in such a place as this, but your master will lose if he bets against me. When I say I am going to be somewhere on a certain day, at a certain time, you can rest assured I'll be there in my best hat and coat."

  The butler cast a cold, disdainful eye over her damp and sandy bonnet, before his gaze slid downward to the saltwater stain around the hem of her coat.

  "The tide came in faster than I could drag my trunk along," she explained.

  As she first began climbing the steps to the house, Olivia had paused to wonder whether she truly needed any of the items in that trunk. The temptation to let it fall into the sea was all too powerful as her temper mounted and her arms grew tired. But she'd recovered her determination and managed eventually, with no help from anyone, to mount those steps and haul her luggage along behind her.

  Well, at least it wasn't raining, she thought.

  She used to love the rain— the sound and smell of it in the morning, and the birds singing afterward, but lately the rain seemed crueler, angrier. It was more of a nuisance than it used to be. Probably because she was getting older.

  "The master of the house did receive the messages I sent along my route, did he not?""Yes, madam, he did receive your messages."

  "Then he knew—"

  "He wondered why you thought he might care, madam."

  She stared.

  "You weren't any use to him until you got here," the butler added. "If you got here. So he really wasn't interested in your messages en route. The odds, he said, were against you."

  Olivia wanted to laugh suddenly. To fall to her knees and laugh hysterically until they took her away to Bedlam. Perhaps it was tiredness after her journey, but everything about this venture now seemed so ridiculous she didn't think she could go on. It was, however, only a moment of doubt— like that pause on the steps when she feared the weight of her trunk was too much. Somehow she composed herself.

  Do not let this get the better of you, my dear. Do not show that it matters. Whatever you are feeling now, it will pass. Worthy advice from her second husband, elderly Sir Allardyce Pemberton, a firm advocate of keeping up appearances— a fact to which his extensive and colorful wig collection could attest, before it was confiscated by the bailiffs, along with everything else he'd owned.

  "But I am here now, aren't I? Despite the odds."

  The butler's eyebrows writhed and his lips reluctantly cracked apart. "Apparently. Madam. And in your best hat."

  She ignored his tone and prompted gently, "So Mr. Deverell might want to know I've arrived."

  "Now?" he drew back, looking horrified. "He won't want to see you yet. These days, he says, women upset his indigestion after sunset."

  Olivia suspected he was trying to frighten her off just like everybody else. Wearily she replied, "Yes, that is when we ladies are at our most dangerous. That, and when we haven't eaten for an extended period. As indeed, I have not."

  She waited, but no offer issued forth from those tight lips.

  "You do have a bed for me?" she added.

  "There's plenty of beds," he snapped. "But none aired."

  Having waited again to see if he might come up with a solution, she finally suggested, "Perhaps while I have something to eat, a bed could be warmed?"

  "Dinner was cleared an hour ago at least."

  "But there is food in the kitchen? Anything will do. I can cook for myself. I've had nothing all day and although it may not be ladylike to admit it, I'm fair famished."

  His lips parted in a tense murmur, as if he feared the words might cost him coin. "Yes. Madam."

  Removing her gloves, Olivia looked around at the dark paneling and the shifting shadows of the medieval hall.

  Suddenly she realized there was a man standing on the stairs. He'd been there listening all along? Her heartbeat scrambled for balance, like a cat on a rolling barrel. But when the butler raised his oil lamp to point her in the direction of the kitchen, she saw tongues of light lick not only at the tall, still figure, but at a large, gilt frame surrounding it.

  Her pulse slowed to a steadier pace. Good heavens, it was only a portrait. Life-size.

  As the glow of the butler's oil lamp arched over the picture, it revealed a large gash in the canvas and a dark, blood-red stain, obscuring more than two thirds of the man's face.

  "Is that Mr. Deverell?"

  "It is," the butler muttered, adding stiffly, "Handiwork of the former mistress of the house."

  "She was an artist?"

  He sniffed. "No, madam. I refer to the wine stain. And the hole."

  "Ah." Something heavy and sharp had gouged the canvas quite severely in the spot where his face should be. "Must have been very satisfying for the lady. I wonder why she didn't take aim at the real Mr. Deverell. She wouldn't be the first, would she?"

  The butler cast her another frown. "You'd be wise to keep such remarks and opinions to yourself in this house, madam."

  "Yes, I daresay." It was the case in every house in which she'd ever stayed, of course."The master has been greatly maligned by uninformed gossip."

  "I'm sure. You must excuse me. When I'm hungry and weary my tongue does tend to run on untended." She could also blame it on the excitement of her journey, for she was a long way from home now, a good distance from anything familiar.

  The butler's brows had twisted into a knot midway down his forehead and his nostrils flared so wide she heard wind rushing through them.

  Olivia blinked innocently. "I have no doubt Mr. Deverell is the most upright and benevolent of gentlemen. A victim of malicious rumor. A veritable saint."

  He eyed her warily in the lamp's glow.

&
nbsp; "I won't believe a word said against him," she added. "I too have suffered from vile rumors and unkind speculation, so you may rest assured your master has an ally in me. I only meant that his wife must have been relieved to dispel her pent up anxieties and frustrations on a portrait. We women suffer terrible hysteria at times and for little reason, as you must know. We are flighty, temperamental creatures, are we not? That is why they call us the weaker sex. It's fortunate we have men and corsets to keep us in our place or we might explode into little pieces." She smiled brightly. "Do lead the way to the kitchens, sir."

  As she followed the butler, Olivia thought again of the coachman's shocked expression and his concern for her body and soul while in the company of the reprobate Mr. Deverell.

  Frail bit of a woman, indeed. A quick snort of laughter shot out of her and ended up speared on the end of the butler's long nose, when he twisted his head around and glared over his shoulder.

  "Are you quite well?" he demanded.

  "Me? I am riddled with good health. It's the men around me who don't fare so well."

  "Chin up, m'dear," she heard her first husband Freddy exclaim in his booming voice. "Always walk with your head high and don't you look down. Don't ever look down."

  That was how he had walked too, with his chest thrust out, a merry smile on his face for everyone he met. And if, as often happened, he stepped in horse dung because he didn't look where he was going, he'd shout, "Muck means luck, Mrs. Ollerenshaw! See, we're coming into a bit of fortune soon, mark my words."

  They never did, of course. No matter how much horse manure he gladly stepped in.

  But his irrepressible high spirits had not had enough time— during that brief, twelve-day marriage— to wear out their welcome on her nerves, and since Olivia had never seen Captain Freddy Ollerenshaw downcast, she followed his example, keeping her own insignificant chin well raised.

  Chapter Four

  "The secretary has arrived, sir," Sims intoned with somber apology.

  The deep emphasis placed on "secretary" had not escaped True's notice every time it was uttered, but he had no intention of rising to the inquisitive butler's bait. He made it a rule never to explain himself, nor did he feel it necessary to defend his actions.

  Besides, if Sims suspected this woman came to Roscarrock for some other, more pleasurable purpose, the butler ought to realize by now — having seen her with his own two eyes— that this was not the case.

  "She's here already?" True shoved a mess of papers aside to look at his ledger and check the date— something he never could find these days.

  "It is the thirty first, sir."

  "Then she's bloody prompt."

  "Indeed, sir."

  "What did she do, fly here with her own little wings?" he marveled with a low chuckle.

  Sims looked sorrowful. "The lady assures me she is always punctual, sir. And I suspect she is, in the same way that indigestion is prompt after bad oysters."

  "You took a dislike to her already?"

  "I'm not entirely certain what I took. I shall let you see for yourself, sir."

  He leaned back in his chair. "I'm intrigued. Where did you put her?"

  "Currently she is in the kitchen, and I will prepare a bed in the old nanny's room if that is acceptable, sir. She'll be out of the way there. Unless... of course... you would prefer a room in your wing? Perhaps, for your purposes, that might be more suitable?"

  True smirked, quietly amused by his butler's continuing curiosity about the new arrival's role there. "I'm sure the arrangements you've made will be adequate, Sims. I wouldn't want to put you to any further trouble." He held out his empty brandy glass for a refill, and the butler turned away to reach for the decanter.

  But when the old fellow's white-gloved hand picked up the sherry instead of the brandy, True knew his faithful Sims was definitely in a perturbed state of mind. Muttering something low to himself, shaking his grey head, the butler replaced the sherry and hurriedly took up the correct decanter, making the stopper rattle, crystal chinking against crystal and setting True's teeth on edge.

  Sims didn't generally do a lot of hurrying and he didn't make mistakes.

  The quiet, still evening suddenly took on a new air. The spirits of the house were playful tonight, as they hadn't been for a while. Stirred up, one might call it.

  "What's she like then?" True demanded of the butler, his interest piqued.

  Sims considered for a moment and then said, "Small, but...sturdy."

  "Is that the best you can do?"

  The butler poured both the brandy and his words with equal caution. "The woman is much as promised in Mr. Chalke's letter. Mostly."

  "Excellent." True had specified that she be plain and have a neat hand.

  "She asked to see you, sir, but I told her you would not want her until the morning." Sims had half turned toward the door, but now he hesitated, hovering.

  "What else?" True demanded. "Something wrong?"

  "I must say, she seems a trifle...opinionated."

  "Opinionated?" That certainly wasn't one of his requirements. She'd better not be trouble. He didn't want any distractions while he worked on his memoirs, as he'd explained when he wrote to his solicitor in London, asking him to find a secretary. Of course, he could have hired a man and removed any chance of such distraction. Abraham Chalke, however, had highly recommended this woman— the daughter of an old friend— and sworn to her absolute trustworthiness. At first, True wasn't certain about the idea of a parson's widow. She may be too prudish for the story he had to tell, but Chalke had insisted she was the best he could get, and the only one willing to leave their life behind for six months.

  The solicitor had also mentioned Mrs. Monday's difficult financial circumstances, and True was glad the fee would go to somebody who really needed it. Remembering his own humble start in life, he liked to give a hand up whenever he could, to those deserving and in difficulties.

  "She boldly expressed her approval of the former wife's retaliation against your portrait in the hall, sir," Sims complained. "The woman also appeared annoyed that you would not see her at once. As if she was entitled to an audience on demand. But I set her straight and she will soon learn her place."

  "Very good. Thank you, Sims."

  True had not bathed or changed since his ride along the beach at sunset and he was in no fit state to greet a female guest. He hadn't even shaved that day. A properly raised lady would be appalled by the sight of his scruffy cheek, untucked shirt and grimy riding breeches.

  But when the butler left the library, True was seized by a sudden idea. Perhaps it was the fault of Sims' strange behavior and those mischievous spirits he felt in the air, but he was very eager to get a look at the new woman in his house, this "opinionated" parson's widow from the tame, leafy lanes of peaceful Chiswick.

  Time for a bit of fun. It was overdue, actually.

  He removed his corduroy riding jacket, rolled up his sleeves, ruffled his hair into an even worse state, and went in search of his new employee.

  The old dear would be shocked regularly anyway, he mused, once he began dictating his colorful life story. True wasn't about to begin being bashful and polite. May as well toss her in at the deep end and start as he meant to go on. If she sank, he'd bundle her off back to Chiswick tomorrow. If she swam, then he'd know she was right for the post.

  * * * *

  Olivia had put together a small plate of cold food for herself and sat at the kitchen table alone to eat by the light of the fire and a solitary oil lamp.

  "Jameson, the handyman, will be in shortly, as soon as he's carried your trunk up to the room," the butler had muttered. "Be advised that he only takes orders from myself or Mr. Deverell directly. He's not here to do your bidding. And you'll have to unpack your own trunk. There are no maids about the place. Don't expect to be pampered. Until recently Mr. Deverell spent most of his time in London, so this house has never been fully staffed."

  "Worry not, for I have no such expectation
. I've never been pampered in my life and at my age I sincerely doubt anyone is going to start for me. Thank goodness."

  He'd left her alone then, after another stern glance and a stiff jerk of his head.

  The only sign of a cook was the food left in the pantry, but perhaps they only came to the island during daylight hours and did not care to be stuck here when the tide was in. Understandably. She could guess this house was not a place one stayed in for long, unless one had a great desire for isolation. Or the need to hide away like a hunted criminal, as Inspector O'Grady would no doubt point out. She frowned at her plate, as he crept into her thoughts again. That odious fellow was like a bulldog with a juicy bone and if he expected Olivia to sit around waiting while he tried to build a case against her, he was very much mistaken.

  Assessing her surroundings with a quick eye, it occurred to her that there was no evidence of children about the place, although Deverell was the father of six— seven, if the rumors involving paternity of the mute boy he'd adopted several years ago were ever confirmed. She'd heard that his former wife now resided in Edinburgh, although the lady had enjoyed a separate life away from her husband for a long time before they were finally divorced.

  It was a terrible scandal, of course. Slow and expensive to achieve, divorce was seldom attempted. Women had no choice in the matter; they had no legal identity separate from their husbands, and so if any suit was brought it had to be initiated by the man. Olivia had some knowledge of the complications involved, since her father was once a principal partner in the law firm of Chalke, Westcott and Chalke. She had taken great interest in her father's work and helped him with correspondence when his eyes were very bad and his hand trembled too much to hold a pen. With Olivia at his side, he had worked up to the very day he died. Therefore she knew a vast deal about the law, including the difficulties of divorce, which was a costly enterprise— and not merely in the financial sense. It also ruined the reputation of everyone it touched.