than reprimand the boy, muttered, "I'll send you
back with some money to recompense the fellow. Enough so he can
cease his whining and buy himself a half-dozen blasted
curricles."
After that, they spoke of horses and
the sport of racing, soon completely losing Olivia in that
jargon.
She slyly perused his son's face and
marked all the similarities between the two men. Both were dark in
coloring— apart from the very slight advance of silver visible at
the father's temples. Both had sharp features that gave them a very
distinctive profile. Theirs were the sort of faces one saw at
museum exhibits— tough, merciless, awe-inspiring Roman Generals
carved for posterity in marble. They were both loud, and had a
habit of speaking before the other had finished a sentence. She
suspected that neither really listened to the other, each too
determined to get their own point across.
Damon is the younger of my
two sons by a mistress, Emma Gibson.
What must it be like, she wondered, to
grow up knowing one was illegitimate? Not only that, but to be
raised in such a family where one's father — who was occasionally
shot at—made a fortune from gambling, and where a scandalous
divorce was procured at great cost, played out in all the papers.
It could not have felt very stable and secure for the boy. Olivia
knew, from her own experiences, that everyone needed stability,
every soul searched for that elusive somewhere to
belong.
"Why did you take this post, Mrs.
Monday?" the young man abruptly demanded.
She hastily dragged her mind back to
the present. "It was recommended to me by a gentleman who worked
with my father. In a solicitor's office."
"It is unusual for a woman of your
class to take employment, is it not? What happened to your
husband?"
It would be futile, no doubt, to wait
for his father's intervention. Deverell had already made some
attempt himself to dig out her reasons for being there, so he would
hardly prevent his son's bold interrogation. Olivia set her coffee
cup down. "My last husband died over a year ago. Once I was out of
full mourning I did not wish to continue being a burden on my
relatives and when this opportunity arose, I took it."
"Your last husband? There was more
than one?"
Inside Olivia a small groan erupted
and was quenched. "Yes. I have been married three
times."
"And all are dead?"
Still his father made no attempt to
halt the questioning. In fact, he looked at her with even keener
curiosity than his son.
"Yes."
"Were they very old?"
"Not particularly. The deaths were all
accidental."
"Forgive me, Mrs. Monday,
but you do not act in the manner expected of a grieving widow,"
Inspector O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police had remarked
when he found her cleaning mashed potato from the hall
tiles.
"I was not aware I had an
expectation to fulfill. Do tell me how I am supposed to act and I
shall, of course, try to comply." And she scrubbed harder at those
tiles, grinding her teeth.
"I have not seen you shed
a tear, madam."
"If you knew me,
Inspector, you would know I'm not the kind of woman to melt in a
paroxysm of tears unless I'm chopping onions."
Her father had never cried. It was not
the done thing in her family. One simply took the blows and carried
on.
"Crikey," young Damon exclaimed,
finally pausing his greedy consumption of ham.
She picked up her coffee again,
ignoring the sickness that suddenly twisted inside at the memory of
William Monday's puffy, ashen face staring up from the murky green
water of the lake into which he'd fallen when the old wooden
footbridge broke under him. The Coroner's theory was that the weeds
became tangled around his vestments and dragged his body under. At
such an early hour no one else had been passing, no one heard his
cries for help.
Inspector O'Grady of the London
Metropolitan Police— as he always introduced himself, no matter how
many times he paid a visit—could not believe it happened that way,
and neither could Lord Frost, the local magistrate,
back with some money to recompense the fellow. Enough so he can
cease his whining and buy himself a half-dozen blasted
curricles."
After that, they spoke of horses and
the sport of racing, soon completely losing Olivia in that
jargon.
She slyly perused his son's face and
marked all the similarities between the two men. Both were dark in
coloring— apart from the very slight advance of silver visible at
the father's temples. Both had sharp features that gave them a very
distinctive profile. Theirs were the sort of faces one saw at
museum exhibits— tough, merciless, awe-inspiring Roman Generals
carved for posterity in marble. They were both loud, and had a
habit of speaking before the other had finished a sentence. She
suspected that neither really listened to the other, each too
determined to get their own point across.
Damon is the younger of my
two sons by a mistress, Emma Gibson.
What must it be like, she wondered, to
grow up knowing one was illegitimate? Not only that, but to be
raised in such a family where one's father — who was occasionally
shot at—made a fortune from gambling, and where a scandalous
divorce was procured at great cost, played out in all the papers.
It could not have felt very stable and secure for the boy. Olivia
knew, from her own experiences, that everyone needed stability,
every soul searched for that elusive somewhere to
belong.
"Why did you take this post, Mrs.
Monday?" the young man abruptly demanded.
She hastily dragged her mind back to
the present. "It was recommended to me by a gentleman who worked
with my father. In a solicitor's office."
"It is unusual for a woman of your
class to take employment, is it not? What happened to your
husband?"
It would be futile, no doubt, to wait
for his father's intervention. Deverell had already made some
attempt himself to dig out her reasons for being there, so he would
hardly prevent his son's bold interrogation. Olivia set her coffee
cup down. "My last husband died over a year ago. Once I was out of
full mourning I did not wish to continue being a burden on my
relatives and when this opportunity arose, I took it."
"Your last husband? There was more
than one?"
Inside Olivia a small groan erupted
and was quenched. "Yes. I have been married three
times."
"And all are dead?"
Still his father made no attempt to
halt the questioning. In fact, he looked at her with even keener
curiosity than his son.
"Yes."
"Were they very old?"
"Not particularly. The deaths were all
accidental."
"Forgive me, Mrs. Monday,
but you do not act in the manner expected of a grieving widow,"
Inspector O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police had remarked
when he found her cleaning mashed potato from the hall
tiles.
"I was not aware I had an
expectation to fulfill. Do tell me how I am supposed to act and I
shall, of course, try to comply." And she scrubbed harder at those
tiles, grinding her teeth.
"I have not seen you shed
a tear, madam."
"If you knew me,
Inspector, you would know I'm not the kind of woman to melt in a
paroxysm of tears unless I'm chopping onions."
Her father had never cried. It was not
the done thing in her family. One simply took the blows and carried
on.
"Crikey," young Damon exclaimed,
finally pausing his greedy consumption of ham.
She picked up her coffee again,
ignoring the sickness that suddenly twisted inside at the memory of
William Monday's puffy, ashen face staring up from the murky green
water of the lake into which he'd fallen when the old wooden
footbridge broke under him. The Coroner's theory was that the weeds
became tangled around his vestments and dragged his body under. At
such an early hour no one else had been passing, no one heard his
cries for help.
Inspector O'Grady of the London
Metropolitan Police— as he always introduced himself, no matter how
many times he paid a visit—could not believe it happened that way,
and neither could Lord Frost, the local magistrate,
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