The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

  “What would you like, Ann?”

  Stephen Trevelyan’s question nearly had me stumbling down the stairs. I looked back at him, blinking with surprise, though it wasn’t the first time he’d referred to me by my first name. “Nothing. I am quite all right, thank you.”

  He nodded his head and turned away. I held Robert’s hand tighter as we left, thankful that his excited chatter filled the quiet void.

  Justin walked beside us, scuffing the ground with his shoes. I worried about him, and wondered what I could do to help ease the hurt I knew he held locked inside him, but at the moment I was more worried about Stephen Trevelyan’s friendliness toward me.

  Was he only being polite? I had no experience amid the Trevelyan’s social realm and wondered if Stephen Trevelyan’s overtures skirted on the edge of a familiarity I shouldn’t allow.

  In truth, I had never thought I’d ever be confronted with such a dilemma. During dinner every night, Stephen Trevelyan spoke to and treated me much the same way as he did the effervescent Constance and his morose mother. He didn’t seek me out apart from the meals; but on occasion, just as when he asked if he could bring me a confection, I felt more than a stranger in his regard. I’d expected there to be a greater distance in my relations with the Trevelyans, a difference as great as there was between my hands and Miss Ortega’s.

  By the time we reached the park, I had to push the question away unanswered, as the outing quickly spiraled into disaster. With Justin and Robert pandemonium struck like lighting from a clear blue sky. It was quite disconcerting. Though I knew I’d never be chasing Robert around with a broom, I could easily see how their nurse had ended up with oatmeal in her hair. Especially if she’d not been adept at avoiding the boys’ sudden dives into the emotions churning inside of them.

  “Let’s play Cowboys and Indians!” Robert ran up a hill, using his finger as a pistol.

  “I shot you,” Justin said, doing the same. “You are dead. Just like our mother.”

  “No, I am not. You can’t shoot me dead,”Robert shouted, running at Justin, fists raised to do damage. I dropped the picnic basket, ignored its end-over-end descent down the hill, and snatched Robert up before he and Justin could come to blows.

  “Master Justin, please retrieve our lunch basket. Hopefully, we will not have to throw all of Cook Thomas’s goodies away.” I set Robert on his feet and looked him sternly in the eye. “If you start a game, and especially if you start shooting first, then you cannot complain if someone shoots back. You may be playing now, but when you grow up and own a gun, you have to face the reality that shooting kills.”

  Justin came back with the basket, and I turned my stern gaze on him. “A man’s words are just as damaging as a weapon. Your brother is as hurt as you are that your mother died. Is it your intent to keep sticking a hot poker into his pain? Would you want someone to do that to you?”

  A welling of tears filled Justin’s brown eyes, and I saw him take a deep breath. Emotion clogged my throat. I wanted to pull him into my arms, but as rigid as he held himself, I knew Justin was far too hurt to accept comfort yet. I gentled my voice. “Did you know that all over this huge land we live in, even all over the world, there are girls and boys just like you? There are many girls and boys who have lost their mother. I lost my mother, too. But you two are lucky. You have a father and a family left. Some girls and boys don’t. I did not. Have you ever heard the story of Cynthia Parker and the Indians?”

  Justin and Robert shook their heads; I could see my words had reached them. It was a start to a long journey. “Let’s set up our picnic, and I will tell you little Cynthia Parker’s story.”

  We sat on the blanket, Robert and Justin wide-eyed about hearing a real Indian story. “I have to tell you that my story starts sad and ends sad. There are heartaches in life, painful things that happen and disappointments that steal away dreams. But we have to let those hurting things fall from our hands so that when we find special moments of happiness, we can hold on to them. The heartaches are like the thorny stems of roses, while happiness and love are the soft, beautiful flowers themselves. If your hands are full of the thorns, how can you hold the roses?”

  I let that question linger a short time; then I began the story. “About forty years ago in Texas, near the Navasota River there lived several families. The Parkers were one of those families. For many years we have been fighting Indians, and for many years they have been angry with us because they lived here first. This was their land, and now we call it our land. In Texas, the Comanche and Kiowa warriors were very angry over this. They attacked the village where the Parkers lived. Cynthia was nine years old, and her brother was six. The Indians did awful things to Cynthia’s family, killed most of them, and stole her and her brother.

  “Her brother went to one Indian tribe, she to another. Her whole life changed, but she did not hold on to the thorns of her pain. She lived with the Comanche Indians where a family adopted her. She learned the ways of the Indians. She understood that they were people, too. They had families and rules; they had hearts and knew pain. She also learned that many of the Indians suffered awful things from white people. Cynthia grew up among the Indians and learned to love their ways.

  “Then one day she fell in love with a young chief and married him. There were many roses in her life over the next fifteen years. She loved her husband deeply, and she loved her children, too. Then, fifteen years after she married, soldiers attacked her Indian village, killing many. Her husband, Chief Nocona, was killed. Her two sons escaped, but Cynthia and her baby daughter were taken captive. She tried several times to run back to her Indian family, but she was forced to live apart from them until she died. To this day, her first son, Quanah, is holding on to the thorns of losing his father and his mother. He is attacking and hurting people because of his anger and pain. I hope that someday he will let go of the thorns and find the roses. That is a very important lesson to learn in life. Now, we had better get to our science exploration before we run out of time for our picnic. How many different trees can you find?”

  Robert eagerly began picking out trees. Justin did so more slowly, staying distant; but the more we explored, the more Justin’s aloofness faded. He had a remarkable aptitude for remembering anything I told him and could quickly differentiate between the deciduous and evergreen trees. He soon could name oaks, maples, poplars, and birches based on the shapes of their leaves.

  “The next thing is to take our leaf collection and begin our science notebooks.”

  “My own science book?” Justin asked, interest sparking in his eyes.

  “Most definitely. Information isn’t any good unless it’s ordered.” Back at our picnic blanket, I handed Justin and Robert each a piece of my precious drawing paper and a sharpened pencil. Then placing an oak leaf before us, I showed them how to make a sketch of the leaf. Next to that, I drew a miniature oak tree, pointing out the differences in the crowns of oak trees and maples and birches.

  Justin came alive with a pencil in his hand, meticulously applying himself to the task. As the boys worked, I once again turned my hand to sketching the house on Trevelyan Hill. My skill as an artist had improved greatly over the years, and the drawing took on life as my pencil flew.

  But this time, unlike my childhood renderings, the house was darker, with a more sinister appeal. I even grew fanciful and drew a dragon hovering amid the dark clouds over the mansion. Thank goodness Robert, having grown tired of drawing leaves, interrupted my musing. I kept picturing the mysterious woman standing in the turret’s window and had almost drawn her there.

  I set my drawing tablet aside, and while Justin continued, absorbed in creating his science notebook, Robert and I lay on our backs looking for animals in the fluffy clouds dotting the blue summer sky. The warmth of the sun mixed with the breeze of the bay to provide a soft, cozy cocoon around us. Having spent so many days of my life laboring indoors, I reveled in the freedom of basking in the park, teaching about nature. Robert found three sheep.
I saw a kangaroo and a whale.

  “Do you see a tiger anywhere?” I asked, trying to get him to imagine more than just sheep.

  “This is fun, Miss Wovell. There’s another sheep.”

  Laughing, I reached over, tickling him. “Surely, there’s more than just sheep up there. Let your imagination fly like a bird.”

  “What’s magination, Miss Wovell?”

  “To think something is more than it is, Robert,” came Benedict Trevelyan’s voice. His reply seemed almost admonishing.

  My heart leapt to a gallop. I sat up so fast the horizon wavered before righting itself. “Mr. Trevelyan. You are home,” I said inanely as I straightened my rumpled clothes. To my dismay, I saw the hem of my dress and petticoat had caught beneath me, exposing my legs to an inch above my button boots. I hastily snatched it down.

  I couldn’t see his expression. The sun behind him was too bright, but he didn’t sound as if imagination was high on his list of approved academics.

  “Yes, it would appear that I am indeed home. Are you by chance studying the weather, Miss Lovell?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “We are having a picnic,” said Robert. I winced at how trivial it sounded.

  “We are making science books,” said Justin.

  “I drawed leaves,” said Robert.“Wanta see?”

  For some reason, I found myself tensing, wondering if Benedict Trevelyan would see the value in our work today.

  “I believe I will take a look at your pictures.”

  Robert scrambled up. I leaned to my side, intending to rise, but with the sun blinding me, I hadn’t realized Benedict Trevelyan’s intention to sit. He came down as I moved upward, and his shoulder brushed intimately across my breasts.

  “Oh, my,” I gasped. Heated, unbelievably pleasurable sensations tingled through me, setting fire to my cheeks. His scent, made headier by the warmth of the day, washed over me. I shamefully drew a deep breath, fearfully realizing how much I’d missed the secret excitement his presence stirred to life inside me. How much I’d missed his smell and his dark appeal.

  I remained on my knees, completely overtaken with what had happened, as if I’d been frozen in place. My gaze fixed itself to the manly curve of his chin, the slight indentation dividing it, and the hint of supple softness where his blood pulsed on his neck.

  He lifted his hand and reached out for me, but a breath away from the curve of my neck, he stopped. He was so close that I could feel the heat of his palm warm my skin.

  “Miss Lovell—” His voice was barely a whisper. “Unless you are inviting certain attentions, I suggest you either stand up or sit back down.”

  Blinking, I shot my gaze to his and found his dark eyes gleaming, as rich and deep as the demon door glistening in the sun. His hand fisted as if fighting the urge to touch me… or kiss me? My knees wobbled.

  I quickly sank back to the blanket before I fell. Standing was completely out of the question, but my mortification was so great that even sitting upon the blanket seemed intolerable. I focused my gaze upon the hilly horizon of Holloway Park and forced myself to breathe, oddly praying for a band of Indians to attack and drag me away, thus saving me from facing my unseemly behavior.

  “See,” Robert said, rushing up with his pictures and his leaf collection. I then realized that what had passed between me and Benedict Trevelyan had only taken a moment. But that moment had stretched in time and had gone to thoughts and things I had best forget ever existed. For I had no doubt that the intensity I read in his gaze had been desire. Desire I’d never seen before, nor felt, but had read about.

  Books had taken me places where I never thought I would go. Perhaps, given my reaction to Benedict Trevelyan’s nearness, it would have been better if I had remained illiterate.

  “We learnded oaks, maples, poppars, and urches. Right, Miss Wovell?” Robert said, forcing me to collect my wits.

  “Poplars and birches,” I corrected. Only then did I notice that Justin had yet to greet his father. Still working on his drawing, he sat on the far corner of the blanket.

  Benedict Trevelyan’s gaze rested on Justin’s head briefly, and I thought I saw pain slash through his eyes before he examined Robert’s pictures. “Miss Lovell has kept you very busy.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from telling Benedict Trevelyan that Robert had worked hard. “Master Justin, would you like to show your father how well your science book is developing?”

  Justin looked up then, and I thought he was about to say no when his father said,“Yes, Justin, let me see what has you so involved that you have rudely neglected to greet me.”

  Wincing, I felt my heart squeeze as I looked into Justin’s shadowed eyes. His father had been right to address Justin’s attitude, which surprised me because I’d sensed respect and fear of his father before, but not resentment. I wondered what was amiss.

  Justin slowly rose and held his pictures out to his father, who took them and, with a lifted brow, studied them.

  “You have a talent, it seems. Your aunt Katherine would be proud.” Benedict Trevelyan set the drawings on his knee and looked at Justin.“So, son, why the silence?”

  Justin scuffed his feet.

  “I will have an answer, or you will have a consequence,” he added quietly.

  “You went away,” Justin said under his breath.“Someday you will go away and not come back.”

  Benedict Trevelyan sighed and handed Justin back his pictures.“We have had this discussion before. I have a business to run, and being away sometimes is unavoidable. You need to stop imagining that I will not be coming back. It is senseless. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Justin kept his gaze on his shoes.

  I dug my teeth into my tongue. Couldn’t Benedict Trevelyan see how badly his son was hurting? How badly Justin needed reassurance, not a dressing-down?

  Benedict Trevelyan stood, surprising me with the suddenness of his movements. “Miss Lovell, after you’ve finished with this outing, please meet me in my study.”

  Standing also, I met his gaze. “I will be there,” I said tightly.

  “I have no doubt of that, Miss Lovell.”

  Robert came up to his father and pulled on his coat. In Robert’s hand was my sketch of Trevelyan Manor and its hovering dragon. I suddenly found myself praying for a miracle.“Miss Wovell says you forgotted how to have fun.”

  “Indeed?” Benedict Trevelyan’s brows lifted. He didn’t sound pleased.

  “Will you stay and learn to have fun with us?”

  My word! Could this get any worse? I refused to stand there like a ninny while my life went up in flames. Maybe if I didn’t draw attention to my sketchbook, it would go unnoticed. I had to force myself not to snatch it away from Robert and to turn my attention to our picnic.

  Unpacking the basket, I placed the cheese, meat pies, and apples upon the blanket, spying a large chunk of chocolate cake, which I left in the basket until later. Everything smelled and looked heavenly. At least my last meal would be a tasty one. I’d have to thank Cook Thomas.

  “It would seem you have an amazing talent for art as well, Miss Lovell,” Benedict Trevelyan said.

  I looked up to see him studying my sketch. My life seemed to be developing a penchant for marching from one disaster right into another.

  “And an amazing imagination as well,” he added, handing the sketch out to me.

  I grasped my tablet between my numb fingers. “Thank you,” I murmured, focusing my eyes on the middle of his chest. He wore a dark suit with a matching vest over a white ruffled shirt and a neatly knotted ascot. The cut and quality of his clothes had a distinct European richness to them without being flamboyant.

  I’d seen all manner of men upon the streets of San Francisco, from the pretentious frills of a dandy to the deadly roughness of a gunslinger. Benedict towered above them all in his elegant simplicity. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he was more dangerous than any gunfighter whose spurs marked the West.

  He
left then, but his presence lingered, dimming the brightness of the day as a cloud dims the sun. I looked to Justin, remembering his reluctance to take pleasure in the day as if fearful it would be stolen away, and thought he’d been right after all.

  I didn’t look forward to my meeting with Benedict Trevelyan for I feared I’d not be able to hold my tongue. Actually, I knew I wouldn’t, and that didn’t portend well for my employment. So I set about making the picnic as much fun as I could muster, even as my stomach churned. My heart had wrapped around little Robert and Justin. I felt that more than just my future was now at stake.

  6

  Though I approached Benedict Trevelyan’s study armed with the two weeks worth of work that Justin and Robert had penned, I didn’t expect it would sway the tide of his disapproval of my teaching methods. I found myself wishing that it was today Stephen Trevelyan had appeared in a drunken stupor and argued with his brother. Even being embarrassingly pinned beneath Stephen Trevelyan seemed preferable to the rocks churning around in my stomach.

  I feared that part of my nervousness had nothing to do with my concerns for Justin and Robert or the status of my own employment. It stemmed from that heated moment of desire between the master of Trevelyan Hill and myself.

  The notion that a man such as Benedict Trevelyan had, even for a brief beat of time, found me desirable intrigued me. Perhaps being christened Titania after the Queen of the Fairies had some effect upon me after all, because I in no way had the least inclination to run like the fair maidens fleeing from the demons upon the carved entry doors to the manor. Though fleeing would have been a response in keeping with the propriety I thought essential to my well-being, I found myself intensely curious, wishing to study this new revelation of attraction to a man as I would delve into a book about science. A magical queen wouldn’t flee, would she?

  Through the open door, Benedict Trevelyan’s study looked just as gloomy and oppressive as it had before. Were I to choose a place within Trevelyan Manor for myself, it would be in the foyer, where the myriad rays of colored light from the stained glass windows would dance throughout the day, coloring every shadow with beauty.