The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

  Several times during the day, I considered declining Benedict Trevelyan’s request to join the family for dinner. It wasn’t my place to be a guest at their table, and I was uncomfortable with the completely impractical idea. I also worried it would only give the wrong impression of what I considered my station in life, but I had yet to meet the other members of the household, and my curiosity would give me no peace. Indeed, I fear my curiosity was greater than my sense of practicality—a surprising fact for me to realize. But that was the truth of it. I wanted to see all of the Trevelyans that I knew lived within the manor’s dark walls—Benedict Trevelyan’s mother, his sister, and his sister-in-law, the late Mrs. Trevelyan’s sister. I wanted to know which of the women had been in the turret window this morning. For despite the fact that Dobbs claimed the turret was sealed off, I knew I’d seen someone in it. And I refused to believe in ghosts.

  As I stepped into my new room, I immediately detected the scent of roses. It lingered gently in the air as if a bouquet of blooms lay nearby, or a lady with means enough to indulge her senses in such heavenly things had just passed through. Except for the rare occasions when I ventured to Holloway Park and collected the petals of wildflowers for a sachet, I’d known only the acridity of lye soap and the freshness of warm sunshine. The rose scent stopped me in my tracks.

  A shiver ran through me as my mind leapt back to this morning. The woman in the turret window, the blood-red roses below, and Dobbs’s intimation that I’d seen a ghost…

  No. Ghosts, if they existed at all, were transparent apparitions bent on instilling fear in the hearts of those unfortunate enough to encounter them. Ghosts did not stand like a flesh-and-blood woman. And ghosts most certainly did not gad about smelling like roses. Besides, I was entirely too practical to believe in such nonsense.

  Thus, having garnered my courage, I shut the door and searched my room thoroughly. I felt vindicated when I discovered a few of my belongings disturbed from the place where I had left them on the desk. And I breathed a sigh of relief to find my mother’s silver comb, her journals, and her gun all safe in the carpetbag on the top shelf of the armoire. Not that I feared having my things stolen; I just didn’t want to ever lose the few mementoes of her. The ewer for the washbasin had been filled and fresh towels placed for my use.

  I wrote the incident off as merely a maid’s curiosity and ignored the remaining doubt that asked if a maid would smell of roses. Quickly making use of the refreshing water and, to my joy, a small bar of lavender soap, I changed into my brown cotton dress and twisted my hair into a reserved bun. As I did, I remembered Benedict Trevelyan brushing his thumb over its silken texture and threading his fingers through it as he examined me for injury. I found myself studying my reflection in the washstand’s beveled mirror, worrying if the Trevelyans—especially Benedict Trevelyan— would find my appearance acceptable.

  “For heaven’s sakes.” I chastised myself for such foolishness and marched to the door. Surely I wasn’t a woman given to concerns of that nature.

  But before I could force myself to leave, I dashed back to my hat upon the dresser, filched the lace from its brim, and tucked the delicate scrap about the neck of my gown. As I left the room, I blamed exposure to the morning sun for the color fanning my cheeks.

  I hurried downstairs, thoroughly convincing myself that my interest in my appearance rested solely upon the fact that I now held a new position in life. It had nothing to do with the look in Benedict Trevelyan’s eyes this morning. That was only the wild imaginings of a spinster. In the entryway, I turned a blind eye to the stained glass windows, lest they should tempt me to linger, and I followed the sounds of voices until I discerned the words being spoken. Then I froze, too mortified even to breathe.

  “Really, Benedict, this penchant you have of catering to the unfortunate has gone too far this time,” a woman said, her voice nasal and cold. “A homely washerwoman is in charge of educating my grandsons? A woman no better than a beggar off the streets? Surely Maria must be mistaken.”

  “Am I to take it that you’d find a beautiful washerwoman acceptable then, Mother?”

  “Botheration. Do not start twisting my words around. What is the truth of the situation?”

  “You heard correctly, though I would hardly consider Maria an intelligent source of information,” he said, and my stomach cramped and roiled. I knew my station in life, but to hear it put so bluntly was disturbing. No better than a beggar off the streets.

  I almost missed the rest of what Benedict said, but his deep voice reached through my embarrassment. “The supposed washerwoman is not only cognizant that Newton made scientific studies of the characteristics of light as well as the gravity of an apple, she also seems to be gifted at capturing and holding my sons’ attention. And I daresay the woman has a great deal more practical sense than to chase Robert around the kitchen with a broom. So all in all, until I see otherwise, my sons are better off under the tutelage of an intelligent and well-versed washerwoman than under the care of a blundering nurse. Miss Lovell is nowhere near a beggar off the streets. I consider the subject closed.”

  “He’s such a tyrant, don’t you agree?” a male voice whispered right next to my ear. I jumped with fright, nearly knocking the man over as my shoulder clipped his jaw.

  I’d been caught eavesdropping again. Mortified, I swung around to see a pair of bloodshot blue eyes blinking at me as Stephen Trevelyan rubbed his chin and worked his jaw. He didn’t seem to be the least put off about the accident. In fact, he was grinning and looking at me, quite frankly, with interest.

  Shocked, I patted my chest. “My word, you gave me a fright, Mr. Trevelyan.”

  “So sorry. You must be the new governess, Miss Lovell. I am Stephen Trevelyan. With Ben at the head of the family, there’s only room for one Mr. Trevelyan. So please call me Stephen. May I call you Ann?” He held out his hand, and after hesitating a moment, I shook it, trying to stifle my smile. The man was outrageously familiar, especially in light of his status and mine, yet I liked him.

  “I suppose,” I replied, a bit disconcerted. He did not release my hand, and what I noticed most about his touch is that it did not carry the penetrating impact Benedict Trevelyan’s did.

  “From the blistering old Ben gave me earlier, it seems that I owe you an apology. And now that I have met you, I feel sorely vexed at myself for falling into your arms and not remembering a jot of it.”

  “I see you two have met,” Benedict Trevelyan said. He stared at us from the doorway.

  Heat flushed my cheeks, and I pulled my hand from Stephen Trevelyan’s. “Yes, just now. Here in the corridor.” Though Benedict Trevelyan didn’t say anything, the disapproval in the grim set of his lips practically shouted at me. I took another step away from his brother. My feet moved even before my mind registered the implications of such a movement. I had nothing to feel guilty about, but my actions indicated otherwise.

  “Are Katherine and Constance down yet?” Stephen Trevelyan asked, his voice several degrees colder than when he’d spoken to me.

  “No, but Mother is. She’s eager to see you.”

  “Duty calls, Miss Ann. And please remember to call me Stephen. After all, I hear we became quite close this morning.” Winking at me, Stephen Trevelyan moved past and entered the room.

  I lifted my hand to my brow, brushing away the perspiration that suddenly beaded my skin. I felt strange, possibly even ill. Stephen Trevelyan’s familiarity was a bit disconcerting, but Benedict Trevelyan’s scrutiny was completely unnerving.“Perhaps I will go and—”

  “Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the garden for a few moments and tell me your impressions of my sons. I know Mother and Stephen will want to spend a few minutes alone. Constance is habitually a quarter of an hour late, and Katherine…” He shrugged.“Well, no one can predict what she will do. She is shy and may decide to delay meeting you for a time yet.”

  Very little news of Benedict Trevelyan’s sister, Katherine, had ever filtered dow
n to my ears, but I’d heard several things. One was that she had a debilitating illness; the other was that she was mad, but I had no intention of asking him about his family. I was practical enough to realize the boundaries of my station and would adhere to them, no matter how curious I was.

  The fresh air of the garden appealed to me as just what my nerves needed, even though I suspected that Trevelyan’s presence would immediately nullify any calming effect the evening breeze and fading light might provide.

  I should go back to my bedchamber, I thought. Not to hide as much as to settle myself back into what I considered my proper role as a governess. Truly, going from laundress to walking in the garden and eating dinner with the master of Trevelyan Hill was more than I felt ready to swallow. Though it was somewhat comforting that Benedict didn’t consider me to be a beggar off the streets, there was no way to hide the fact that I did not belong.

  Yet complying with his demand that I give him my impressions of his sons was part of my job, and I could not deny his request.“The garden is fine,” I said.

  He motioned for me to precede him across the entryway and out the rear door to the garden.“This way, then.”

  As I passed him, the awareness of his presence behind me penetrated every nuance of my being—his size, his heat, the surety of his step. Even the power of his gaze upon me affected me. He was a large man, and never in my life had I felt more of a woman than I did in his company.

  Unfortunately, the garden by day with his sons was not the same garden by evening with the man himself. The shadows beyond the angel fountain were darker, the breeze from the bay more invigorating, and the scent of the flowers sweeter.

  I slowed my step, not wanting to trespass into the more intimate shadows near the edges of the garden. He adjusted his step to mine; the gentlemanly consideration only made me more aware of him beside me, and I had to force myself to focus on my purpose in being in the garden with him. “What about your sons do you wish to know?”

  “As I said. Your impression of them, but first I must mention that Dobbs said—”

  My back stiffened. “I apologized to him for that. I will not let it happen again.”

  He caught my elbow, forcing me to stop and face him. His eyes were too black, as if they held too many secrets to ever lighten with a smile. The sharp angles of his features that I’d taken so close a note of the day before imprinted themselves again into my mind, only deeper and subtly different this time. The Roman nose and conquering chin were the same, but in the dimmer light his lips appeared softer, as did his manner.

  A ruffling breeze from the bay played with his raven hair and lent him an air of rakish vulnerability that I didn’t want to see, for it made him even more attractive. His fingers upon my arm were warm, so very warm through the fabric of my dress that I knew they’d burn were he to touch my skin directly. A wonderfully pleasurable burn, I thought, remembering the feel of his hands upon my person from this morning. I shut my eyes.

  “I’m curious, Miss Lovell. What exactly are you apologizing for?” He released my arm, but the heat of his touch lingered. The urge to touch him, to see if I affected him the way he affected me, washed over me.

  My eyes popped open, and I clenched the skirt of my dress with my hands. What had I been apologizing for? The children. I had to clear my throat to find my voice. “Yes, well, for the children running up to the school room for their lessons. Mr. Dobbs has already called me to the carpet for their boisterous manner.”

  Benedict Trevelyan’s lips twitched, but just as before, the hint of humor never reached his eyes.“As I was about to say, Dobbs informed me that both Justin and Robert were calmer today than they have been in quite some time.”

  Blinking, I registered that Dobbs had actually uttered something decent about my care of the children.“I am sure the calmness was due to the fact that they had new things to learn and think about today. Both Master Justin and Master Robert are bright children who very much want approval, but I sense they have unresolved hurts that cause them to lash out with their emotions. They need direction, encouragement, understanding, and the sense that they are loved. Once those needs are met, I believe some of their unruliness will subside.”

  “Only some?” He lifted his brow, emphasizing he’d hoped for more.

  I couldn’t tell if he spoke in jest or not. “As well as being practical, Mr. Trevelyan, I am also realistic. Master Justin and Master Robert are lively boys. They are children, and a certain amount of enthusiasm and rambunctiousness are inevitable.” His gaze focused on my mouth as I spoke, and my throat became dry.

  “ Inevitable has never been a favored word of mine,” he said softly, almost as if he spoke only to himself. Then he lifted his gaze to mine, and I tensed as a strange feeling of expectation filled me. “I thought I had more control over circumstances and life for inevitable to ever be a part of them. But perhaps I am… mistaken.”

  From the deepness of his voice and the intensity in his eyes, I thought he spoke of something other than the children, and my breath caught on the notion that the inevitable had something to do with me. I found myself subtly leaning toward him, as if a strong magnet drew me. The thought of being kissed by this man sent my mind and blood racing. He looked at my lips again. Did he want to kiss me?

  My lips parted before my sensibilities could stand up and shout their disapproval. When they did, I realized that everything I felt was surely a figment of my imagination, and I was making an utter fool out of myself. I scrambled for something to say as I fought the overwhelming urge to run and hide.

  I spoke in a rush. “Cook Thomas mentioned you captained a ship, Mr. Trevelyan. Do you miss it? I have been told there is nothing like seeing the stars with only the ocean on the horizon.” Turning abruptly, I looked at the night sky, pretending to study the stars a moment, even though my nervous state made them nothing but a blur.

  “Do I hear a note of envy, Miss Lovell?”

  “Perhaps,” I said, forcing a calming breath to moderate the tone of my voice. “I have wondered many times what the stars are like on the underside of the world.”

  He stepped closer to me, lifted his hand, and pointed without hesitation, immediately knowing where he stood in the universe. “Instead of the North Star to guide like we have here, they have the Southern Cross. Its five stars would lie in this direction. And over here, Sagittarius aims his arrow at Scorpius’s deadly tail, which is marked by a bright red star known as Antares.”

  Almost seeing the constellations of which he spoke, I leaned his way, and my arm brushed his side. I felt the heat of his hand press against my back, urging me nearer. His voice deepened again, as if he were sharing something very special. “And Centaurus, the half-man half-horse creature of myth, lurks over here, waiting for unsuspecting prey to wander into his arms.”

  “There you are, Benedict.” A woman’s sultry voice, flavored with a Spanish accent, startled me, stealing away the vision of stars. I stepped back from Mr. Trevelyan’s nearness, turning to see who approached.

  A dark-haired woman, dressed in a rich, soft pink gown, approached us. Her walk matched her voice— intriguing and effervescent. She was beautiful in a delicate and exotic way, petite with ivory skin and curly black hair that she’d swept into an elaborate style and held in place by gleaming Spanish combs. She waved her hands as she spoke, and I couldn’t help but notice how creamy white and delicate they were. They were beautiful hands. Not like mine. I tucked mine into the folds of my dress. “Stephen suggested you might have ventured into the garden, but I did not believe him. I asked myself, does Benedict ever walk in the garden during the evening? I answer no. He tells me he is always too busy for such a trivial thing. Yet here you are.”

  “Discussing my sons’ unruliness with their new governess,” he said slightly forcefully, as if he were rushing to stem the bubbling of the woman’s words. He took a step back from me, too.

  I didn’t think I’d ever met so small a woman, or one who expressed herself in so physic
al a way.

  “Constance, this is the governess, Miss Ann Lovell. Miss Lovell, this is Miss Ortega, my sister-in-law. She has been helping care for Justin and Robert.”

  “This is a surprise, Benedict. You did not mention you had found someone to teach the children, though Maria and I were managing them well enough. Welcome, Miss Lovell,” she said, extending her hand to me.

  “Thank you, Miss Ortega,” I said, taking her hand. I didn’t like the tone she used when she’d spoken of Justin and Robert. She sounded as if they were tiresome pests.

  She had a butterfly shake, barely there and barely felt before she turned to Benedict Trevelyan. “Dinner is served, and we must hurry, yes? Cook Thomas is threatening to go back to sea.”

  “As usual,” he said, extending his arm.“Ladies first.”

  Given no choice, I was forced to walk in front of him again. Only this time, with Miss Ortega at my side, I was acutely aware of my ungainly height next to her petite proportions, and I cringed at the thought that he would be making the same comparison. My brown cotton dress and its borrowed lace, so painfully plain next to Miss Ortega’s beautiful muslin gown, had to be an eyesore.

  Though I’d resigned myself to my lot in life long ago, I now realized that by escaping the bleak life of a laundress, I’d put myself in a position to continually expose my deficiencies.

  Every choice had consequences.

  As I entered the dining room, I deducted from the cold stare directed my way that the middle-aged woman was Benedict Trevelyan’s mother, and I wondered what other consequences I would face in choosing to pass through the demon-carved doors of Trevelyan Manor. For if looks were capable of killing, I’d be dead upon the spot.

  Mrs. Trevelyan sat in a wheelchair pushed up to the table. Her hair was piled in an elaborate style, its darkness a stark contrast to her pale skin. A sprig of white lace about her neck relieved the severity of her black silk gown, but that one bright accessory was overshadowed by her baleful expression and the grim set of her lips. Her husband had died two years before, yet she was still in mourning. Her hands were lily-white, too.