The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

  “How now mad spirit!” Puck ruffled his feathers upon his perch, disturbed from his biscuit eating by his owner’s distressed tone.

  “Dear me! I completely forgot to tell you. I applied for the position of governess to Mr. Trevelyan’s children today, and I start work first thing tomorrow. Can you believe it?”

  “Nay, lass. Surely you jest.” He shook his head as if I’d given him grave news.

  My excitement dimmed. Mr. McGuire didn’t believe in me. Did he not think me capable? “No, truly I am now a governess. Do you fear I am unequal to the task?”

  “Never. You are smarter than any lass I’ve ever known. Any lad, too, now that I think about it. It is Benedict Trevelyan himself who worries me. What if he had a hand in the death of his wife?”

  I swallowed the twinge of unease that threatened to rise. Had not I had the same question myself?

  Was I being too hasty, too desperate to change my life? I thought of the mound of smelly laundry I’d spent twelve hours cleaning the day before.

  No, I decided. Employment to teach Benedict Trevelyan’s children would in no way place me in any danger.“His wife jumped from the tower and died last year. Rumor has it that she was mad. Do you know more than that?”

  Mr. McGuire sighed. “No, only the rumors. But if ye are going to be up on that hill, I’m going to make it my business to find out. Be careful, lass. Be very careful.”

  “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Puck squawked.

  Mr. McGuire and I both turned to look at the parrot, who now preened his feathers as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It wasn’t the first time that I wondered if Puck was more than he seemed.

  2

  I expected the day to dawn bright, to have the warm blessing of sunshine upon the first step of my new life. Instead, heavy layers of thick fog blanketed the morning air.

  On my way home from Mr. McGuire’s Bookstore the previous evening, I’d spent the money I’d been saving for food and purchased a pair of gray kid gloves to armor myself. I’d also arranged—with some trepidation, for I feared horses—for transportation so that I could bring my books with me. My clothes and personal belongings I could carry in my mother’s worn carpetbag. My books were another story—two cartons plus the encyclopedias.

  I’d wanted to hire a horse and carriage. In my mind, a carriage would serve as an adequate barrier from the beasts that pulled it, and I would avoid giving Dobbs any reason to elevate his nose higher. Unfortunately, my few coins had only afforded me a rag-tail horse and a dusty cart, in which I now stiffly rode, seated beside a man who looked and smelled as flavorful as plump red peppers. But I hardly spared him a glance; I irrationally kept my eye on the huge horse, expecting it to do something dreadful.

  After stopping at the bookstore to pick up the rest of the encyclopedias, for I’d only taken one volume home with me, we made our way to Trevelyan Hill. The manor house stood eerily in the morning mist, like a specter rising from unknown depths. Its three turrets—two smaller on the end of each wing and one larger in the center—lent a castle-like air to the manor, bringing to mind knights, and ladies, and dragons. Fascination and a sense of excitement gripped me, making me push my fear of horses to the back of my mind. My future lay in the dark house before me.

  “Madre de Dios!” my driver cried, drawing a cross over his chest with his finger as he brought the cart to a halt and stared at Trevelyan Hill.

  “We must hurry,” I said, urging him on. Not only did I pride myself on always being prompt, but I didn’t think the master of Trevelyan Hill tolerated tardiness.

  Emitting another curse, the driver spurred the horse onward. We clattered up the drive, covering the remaining distance with commendable purpose. The gray mist about us thickened, then swirled like pirouetting ghosts upon the dewy ground. Its damp air bathed me, filled my lungs, and hung heavily about my shoulders—an undeniable presence that encircled us completely. I was unsure if the clinging tendrils of fog welcomed me or were trying to warn me away.

  Either way, it mattered not. I’d set a new course for my life, and I would follow it through. The driver came to an abrupt stop. Relieved that I’d soon be far from the horse, I palmed the small coin I’d saved to tip the driver and waited for him to help me down.

  I was a good foot or so taller than the driver, and it felt a bit pretentious to await him like a dainty lady. But I did so anyway, firmly reminding myself that I was embarking upon a new life. Once assisted down, I quickly made my way up the steps to the demon door and knocked.

  Dobbs answered immediately; the downcurl of his lips only made the upturn of his nose more prominent.

  “Good morning.” I gave him a sunny smile designed to chaff his dour nature.

  He ignored my greeting. Before I could say more, a noise from the driveway drew my attention. Turning, my instructions for the driver to place my bag and my boxes of books inside died upon my lips. For the driver had dumped my things upon the cobblestones and was loudly beseeching the Lord to deliver him from the devil as he clamored back into the driver’s seat.

  “Wait,” I said, holding out the coin. The driver never looked back. He cracked a whip at the horse, which reared up as if Satan himself was hot on his tail, and took off. The cart bounced wildly into the mists, a rickety trap on the verge of splintering.

  Dobbs cleared his throat. The disdain on his stiff face was twofold that of yesterday. He eyed my belongings. “I doubt you will be needing that many clothes, Miss Lowit.”

  “Lovell, if you please,” I said, marching back down the steps, refusing to look at him.“But do not apologize. I realize the name is a bit taxing for some minds to recall.” I snatched up the bag containing my clothes, my mother’s silver brush and comb, and her pistol. She’d learned to shoot straight and taught me to as well, a necessity for a woman alone in the West. “I will take care of my clothes, thank you. Would you please send someone to collect my books?”

  When I turned back, Benedict Trevelyan stood next to Dobbs. “I do not find Lovell the least bit taxing. Do you, Dobbs?” His voice was as cool as the morning air, and his dark eyes just as obscure as the blanketing mist. I couldn’t tell if he was admonishing Dobbs or if he was amused.

  “Not taxing at all, sir,” Dobbs answered as he quickly moved down the stairs and took my bag from me. From the red flush staining his face and the antipathy sparking from his eyes, I wondered if he wouldn’t burst into flames right then and there despite the hovering moistness.

  “Thank you,” I said stiffly to Dobbs, determined to be polite. As I walked up the stairs to where Benedict Trevelyan stood, I felt the scrutiny of his dark gaze and suddenly found my attire lacking. I should have worn my brown dress, fixed my hair in another style, done something to alter my appearance from that of the day before. Though my brown dress was of lesser quality than my gray serge, it would have—

  My word! When had I ever been overly concerned with my appearance? Until yesterday, no instance came to mind, and I dismissed the unfamiliar and annoying thoughts, bandying about my brain for my usual pragmatism. Benedict Trevelyan interrupted before I found it.

  “I am pleased that you are on time, Miss Lovell,” he said.

  “I am always prompt,” I replied, bending my neck back to study his face. His size amazed me anew. Few men made me feel of womanly proportions, and he did so without effort. I tingled in the most disturbing places. My breath quickened, my blood sped, and I could only pray that my cheeks weren’t waving my own discomfiture like scarlet flags. I had expected that Benedict Trevelyan’s effect on my person would have lessened. It had multiplied.

  “Good. Be in my office at half past the hour,” he said, releasing me from the heavy grip of his perusal to look at Dobbs. “Please escort Miss Lovell to the Blue Room and instruct Cook Thomas to add another person for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dobbs replied.

  Benedict Trevelyan nodded succinctly, then turned on his heel and left.

  I let my gaze follow him an
d immediately wished I hadn’t. The cut of his shirt and pants were tailored perfectly to his long limbs and stretched taut over his muscles. I had seen many a man’s shirt and breeches in my years as a laundress, but had never viewed them with as much interest as I did now.

  Truly, I had to have taken leave of my senses. To notice such things was totally unacceptable. I shut my eyes.

  “If you will follow me, Miss Lovell.”

  Opening my eyes, I found Dobbs had joined me at the top of the stairs. If he thought it odd that I was standing with my eyes shut, he didn’t comment. I promptly assembled my thoughts with a crisp stiffening of my back. “My books. I can’t leave them upon the street unattended.”

  “They will be fine. I will send someone to get them shortly.”

  Frowning, I gazed back at my books, especially my new carton of Encyclopædia Britannica. I imagined a host of disasters. They could be stolen. A horse could trample over them. I could even see this prune of a butler making sure my things took a tumble down the steps before reaching my room.

  I folded my arms and decided to hold my ground.“I will wait here until they are inside, thank you.”

  “Very well,” Dobbs said stiffly. I could tell he wanted to argue with me, and I was sure that only the lingering effects of Benedict Trevelyan’s presence prevented it. Dobbs disappeared inside, leaving the door open. I followed him to where I could watch my books and see the stained glass windows. Despite the mists hovering, light pushed through the glass, bringing color to life. Even dulled by the fog, the light’s magical beauty touched me much as I imagined the brush of angel wings might feel upon my soul.

  Within minutes Dobbs was back with two other men he didn’t name. They were less formal than Dobbs in their manner and their dress, one lean as pole and about my height, the other barrel-shaped and shorter. They had salty hair and ruddy complexions, and they both limped as if they had suffered a severe injury in the past; yet they lifted my cartons with little effort. I got the impression the men had spent many years on one of the majestic ships dotting the bay. Their rangy movements reminded me of Captain Balder, a robust sea salt who’d taught me about navigating a ship by the stars and many other wonders of the sea and other lands in his pursuit to marry my mother. He’d said that once a man had sea legs, he kept them for life.

  We were an odd procession: stiffly formal Dobbs carrying my bag, I in a dress that seemed so poor compared to the riches about me, and the seamen carrying my books. As we crossed the entry hall, moving up the stairway to the left, my hands felt strangely empty. I had never been on the receiving end of service, and it disconcerted me.

  When we reached the second level, the loveliness of the stained glass hall disappeared and the shadows increased. The third floor was darker still, for deep-toned paneling abounded, and only one window at the end lit the passageway. Fashioned from beveled glass, the window started about halfway up from the floor and climbed to a pointed arch. From my childhood drawings, I recalled that all of the windows on the third story followed this cathedral-like theme.

  The house smelled of beeswax and lemon, scents that I generally associated with warmth, yet a chilly draft brushed my face and stole beneath my skirts. I shivered, but not from the cold. Something else besides the morning cool seemed to hover in the air, a presence of ill will. I searched the shadows ahead, saw nothing out of the ordinary, but remembered my driver’s fear as he stared at Trevelyan Manor. I’d thought him silly at the time; now I was tempted to draw a cross over my chest as well.

  Thick carpets lining the hallway muffled our steps, and no one spoke. Only the sounds of our breathing and the growing sense that someone watched me disturbed the quiet. When I heard the soft click of a hastily shut door, I knew my instincts had been right. Someone had observed our progression and had chosen to remain hidden.

  If Dobbs noticed, he didn’t comment or hesitate in his determined march. Oddly enough, as he stopped at a doorway, turning to face me, I found his dourness comforting compared to the invisible malevolence behind me.

  “Your room adjoins the schoolroom through that door, which connects to the nursery where both Master Robert and Master Justin sleep. Their nurse, Maria, is in the room beyond that.” With a stiff gesture that matched his supercilious tone, he motioned me into the room.

  I froze on the threshold, flabbergasted at the luxury before me. The room was large, adorned in dainty shades of blue relieved only by white, violet-sprigged wallpaper and the dark lines of rich wood. A massive canopied bed drew my gaze first; its diaphanous silk curtains—the color of a summer sky—hung softly about the bed and were drawn to the side by thick, braided ropes of deep sapphire. The plump mattress begged for one to lie down and made me quite impracticably wonder if I could close the silk curtains and dream the impossible, that such a room was truly mine, that I was a lady to the manor born. I immediately snuffed out such impossibilities. I’d improved my employment situation, but I knew my place. This room would never do. Still I looked about, wanting to absorb it all.

  Along the outside wall, offering a mist-shrouded view of San Francisco, were four arched windows with cushioned seats. To my left, a small couch, chair, and table huddled intimately together to make a private sitting area. Then came a closed door that I assumed led to the schoolroom and nursery, as Dobbs had stated. On my right a large armoire, a mirrored washstand, and a desk with chair completed the furnishings.

  “Surely there is some mistake,” I said to Dobbs.

  “This does not meet with your approval, Miss Lovell?”

  I swallowed twice before I could speak.“Quite the opposite. This, this is too much. I could not possibly—”

  “This is what Mr. Trevelyan requested.”

  The finality in Dobbs’s voice made it very clear that Benedict Trevelyan’s requests took precedence over everything and were never bent to the will of others. After having met the man twice, I could very well see why. So why had he hired me?

  “Dinner is at eight sharp. Everyone meets in the formal parlor. I will send a maid to help you unpack your things and direct you to Mr. Trevelyan’s office.”

  “Please do not send a maid. That will not be necessary at all. I am certain I can find my way back,” I said, stepping aside. The thought of a maid seeing my meager possessions unsettled me as much as the opulence around me. The two seamen set down my books and left.

  After another look about, I made up my mind that I wouldn’t unpack until I had a room more suitable to my position. I just couldn’t see myself living in such grand accommodations. Then Dobbs’s other words sank in. “What do you mean, everyone meets in the formal parlor?”

  “It is where the family and their guests gather before dinner.”

  “But won’t I be eating with the other household servants?”

  “Mr. Trevelyan has requested otherwise.”

  “Surely there is some mistake.”

  Dobbs lifted his nose. “Mr. Trevelyan doesn’t make mistakes. I assure you, the request for you to dine with the family is most likely due to the fact that his tutor dined with the family, but then Mr. Wainscott was an Englishman of notable ancestry, if impoverished. Is there anything else?”

  “No,” I said, omitting the thank you I might have added. Though he’d left it unsaid, Dobbs clearly implied that I wasn’t in the same class as Mr. Wainscott. I wish I could have disabused Dobbs of that, but I couldn’t. I was even lower than an ordinary laundress, for I’d been born out of wedlock.

  “Very well. And, miss, a word of caution. Please refrain from gossiping about the Trevelyan family with others. I expect you to keep your intrusion into the Trevelyans’ private life to a minimum. Unless invited otherwise, stay in your quarters, the schoolroom, the dining room, and the library should you need material for teaching purposes.”

  Had I really thought his dourness preferable to my silent watcher?

  “I will endeavor to be circumspect, Mr. Dobbs. By the same token, I would appreciate it if you could manage not to gawk whe
n you look at me.”

  His jaw dropped, and purple suffused his face. Before he could say anything else, I busied myself with my bag a moment, then looked at him. “My time is limited. Is there anything else that needs to be said?”

  “You have said quite enough already, Miss Lowsit.” Turning on his heel, he marched out.

  Relieved to be alone, I stood just inside the room for some minutes, trying to grasp my situation, and I must admit that I gawked at the riches surrounding me. It took a muffled click from the door across the way to snap me from my thoughts.

  I spun. Sticking my head out the door and glancing down the hall, I saw nothing. No one moved, and all appeared quiet, yet I shivered as a chill raced down my spine. Someone had continued to watch me. Who? Why? The children maybe?

  Closing the door with a snap, I noted a large key in the lock and made as much noise as I could as I locked the door. I wanted to send a clear message to my watcher. I wanted that person to know I was aware of his or her presence and I would in no way tolerate the concealed scrutiny.

  Then, dismissing the incident, I turned to the room and set my mind upon a more pressing matter. What was I to do about my room? I found myself almost afraid to walk on the thick carpets strewn about the gleaming wood floor. They were so rich it seemed a crime to step upon them. The furniture—fit for a queen—was the finest I’d ever seen, and, I surmised, had to be old as well. Somewhere I remembered hearing that the Benedict Trevelyan’s father had spared no expense in building and furnishing the manor, had, in fact, toured all of Europe to find the kingly treasures.

  Once I’d spoken to Benedict Trevelyan about the matter, I had no doubt I would be moved to a more suitable room, and I decided to explore the luxury about me with the spare time I had. I dashed to a lofty window to see what it would be like to look out at the world from a position such as this. I sat at the desk and imagined writing in my diary about a day spent as a queen. Then I moved to the cloudy bed, letting my fingertips brush the silks, satins, and velvets ensconced there. But for rare occasions, I’d only known the feel of rough cotton or wool.