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
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
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