The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

  I shivered, seeing in my mind the gruesome image of a drugged Francesca being thrown from the tower window, unable to stop her brutal death. I was familiar with laudanum. My mother had needed it the last few days of her life, and I knew the drug to be powerful enough to have rendered any man or woman helpless. My stomach heaved at the wickedness of such an act, and my heart immediately denied that Benedict Trevelyan could be so cruel.

  “I fear there’s yet more.” Mr. McGuire cleared his throat, a blush creeping across his wrinkled, spotted cheeks.“ ’Tis a bit unseemly for me to mention such a thing, but ye must know. She was with child when she died, she was.”

  “Oh, no!” I cried, my heart hurting for what Benedict Trevelyan must have felt in losing not only his wife but an unborn child as well.

  “Frailty, thy name is woman,” Puck squawked. I glared at the infernal bird, wondering what imp inhabited his feathered spine. His quips were too uncanny to ignore; nevertheless, ignore them I did.“That’s so tragic.”

  “Aye, the lass was three months along, according to Dr. Levinworth. It was this fact Benedict Trevelyan paid the officials to hide.”

  “But why? I don’t understand what—”

  “Benedict Trevelyan had only returned home a week before she died. He’d been gone six months.”

  McGuire’s words rang like a death knell in my mind as I hurried back to Trevelyan Hill. All the brightness of my day of freedom had been stolen. Even the prospect of wearing one of my new dresses to dinner held no joy.

  The air was heavy in my lungs, almost too thick to breathe, forcing me to gasp for air as I rushed up the hill to the manor at a painful pace. Whether I was fleeing from what I’d learned or hurrying to find proof that Mr. McGuire’s implications were false, I knew not. I just wanted to get to Trevelyan Manor as quickly as possible.

  Dark emotions ran deep within Benedict Trevelyan. I’d already seen glimpses of them, had already felt them rearing to the surface at unexpected moments, though I’d only known him a short time. He was a man capable of passion. He was a large man, a man of great strength, and more damning than anything else, he was a man of stern rigidity. What would such a man do when faced with an unfaithful wife who carried another man’s child?

  I drew closer to the house on Trevelyan Hill, not in the least surprised to see billowing clouds of fog cover its towers, roof, and upper windows, obscuring its stained glass windows as if to wipe any redeeming quality from its facade. I stopped in the street, thinking to catch my breath, but I believe it was more to give myself time before I faced the demon door and those who lived within the manor.

  I heard the pounding hooves of a horse only moments before a dark specter charged from the mists, sending the fog in an uproar. Fingers of it whirled around me, brushing over my skin and making me shiver. Though a handful of feet separated me from the horse on the street, I still jumped back and cried out with fright. I again cursed my fear of horses, a completely impractical fear for a woman living in the West. Especially big, dark, hulking horses like the one Benedict Trevelyan rode so effortlessly, a man with iron hands who wore velvet gloves. He was in complete command and yet so gentle.

  He must have seen me or heard me cry out, because he brought the horse to an abrupt, pawing stop and dismounted. I didn’t take my gaze off of the beast as I stood there, frozen in place, paralyzed.

  “Miss Lovell, I was just going to look for—”

  The horse pranced to the side, nearing me, and the scream that was locked within my throat loosened with a fervor.

  Benedict Trevelyan grabbed my arm. “Good God, woman! What in the devil is wrong with you?”

  “The horse,” I managed to gasp.

  “What is wrong with it?” He glanced at the beast.

  “Damnation, Miss Lovell, if you see something bloody amiss with my horse, speak up.”

  I swallowed and finally could move enough to step back. “It is big.” Pulling my gaze from the threat of the beast, I looked at Benedict Trevelyan, and for an unguarded moment, I saw what I could only describe as pain slash across his face, as if I’d taken a sword and struck him. Then what I’d seen disappeared so quickly behind a cold mask, I wondered if I had imagined it.

  “Some things God made large. I thought you of all people would understand that.” His reference to my height was unmistakable, and I wondered why he’d taken offense. It was as if I’d spoken of him, not his horse. The measuring stare he leveled on me clearly said that I’d shrunk considerably in his eyes. Apparently fear had no place in his life. His finding me lacking bothered me greatly. I wanted him to understand.

  He turned away, adjusting the horse’s reins, and I thought he was about to remount. Without thinking of how forward it would be, I placed my hand on his arm. Even through the material of my glove and his clothes, I could feel the heat of his body, feel the supple movement and strength of his muscles as he moved. I gasped, but didn’t let go.

  He froze, slowly focusing his gaze on my hand touching him, then met my gaze directly. Disdain no longer lurked in his dark eyes. A hunger had replaced it. Suddenly, I was thrust back to last night and the stark moment we had stared at each other in my bedroom.

  I snatched my hand back. Fire flooded my cheeks as embarrassment and desire ran rampant inside me. I hurried to explain, glancing warily at the horse. “It’s so powerful. When I was little, waiting for my mother at the doorway of the baker’s, I saw a boy kicked and trampled by a horse. He died. It was awful.”

  Embarrassing me more, tears welled in my eyes. I looked away, my gaze settling on Trevelyan Manor; but instead of seeing in my mind’s eye the dying boy, I saw Francesca Trevelyan, a broken and lifeless sacrifice at the house’s foundation.

  I fisted my hand, remembering the warm, strong feel of Benedict Trevelyan. I in no way felt as if I’d touched a murderer. Yet how could I know for sure? What darkness lurked within the shadows of his eyes?

  “The only way to conquer your fears are to face them,”he said softly, drawing my attention. He held out the horse’s reins to me.

  I shook my head, backing up. The image of Francesca turned to an image of myself beneath a horse’s hooves.“No. I could not possibly ride that beast.”

  His laugh was strained, but I was thankful to find his manner a great deal less condemning than before.“I am not suggesting you ride Fjorgyn, only that you walk her a step or two.”

  “Fjorgyn?” I remarked. Desperately looking for a way to stall the inevitable, I searched my mind for where I’d heard the unusual name before, rolling the horse’s name off my tongue again, until it came to me.“The mother of Thor, the god of thunder. According to Norse legend, Fjorgyn, the goddess of the earth, was one of Odin’s wives.”

  He raised his brows. “This time, Miss Lovell, you must tell me how you happened upon so obscure a fact. Most hear of Thor, or Odin, or Loki, and some know of Odin’s wife Frigg because she is the namesake for Friday, but Fjorgyn?”

  “I owe my knowledge of Odin and his wives to cursed stubbornness.”

  Amusement curved his lips. “Well, you cannot leave the story there. You will have to tell me more while I escort you up the drive.” He gestured me forward and then fell into step beside me. He didn’t comment on the wide berth I’d given his horse to step by him, and I was glad to see that he let the reins completely out, allowing the horse to follow at a distance.

  Walking in the mists, I was more aware of him beside me than of the horse behind me. It was as if I was in a dream. The disturbing things I’d learned from Mr. McGuire didn’t seem real. Death and murder weren’t a part of this moment or even remotely connected to the man half-smiling at me. His riding coat was a deep, rich brown and topped a ruffled shirt, fawn breeches, and black boots. A lock of his dark hair had fallen to his forehead, adding to his rakish appeal, making him look younger and freer. Something inside me ached to know this man.

  I found myself pretending. I was someone different—a woman who inspired passion. He wasn’t my employer, but a m
an taken by me. And we were somewhere else, a place where he held my hand, and we strolled through the park with no more care upon our shoulders than observing the weather.

  He had an effect on me that made other things fall into insignificance. I hardly noticed the fog closing in or the damp chill in the air. And I in no way connected him to murder.

  “Miss Lovell, your story?”

  Prompted, I snatched myself back to reality. “There is not much to the story. I may have mentioned Captain Balder to you. Whenever he was in port, he would come to have his clothes laundered, and my mother bartered lessons for me with her labor. He got clean clothes, and I learned about navigating by the stars, foreign lands, and how to swim.”

  “So he taught you about the gods of the Vikings?”

  “Not directly. You see, every time he came to see us, he asked my mother to marry him. She would refuse, and then he would tell her she was cursed with stubbornness.”

  “I do not understand how that corresponds to Norse legends,” he said, his brow furrowing.

  I couldn’t help but grin at the memory washing over me. “Captain Balder, also named after another son of Odin, had a wife in every port. What was good enough for his Norse ancestors was good enough for him. If Odin could have five wives or more, so could he. I learned about the Viking gods by listening to him give examples of what great sons polygamy produced. I do not think Captain Balder ever realized that he sunk his own ship by doing so. My mother went to the bookstore, read about the Norse gods, and decided the whole lot of them were immoral barbarians that she was better off without.”

  His laugh started low at first, then rumbled out loud and deep, surprising me, for I didn’t think I’d said anything particularly funny. Still I joined him, embracing the memory. It surprised me to hear him laugh. I’d not expected moments of lightness from him. Here in the mists, it was almost as if he was a different person than the master of Trevelyan Hill in his dark study.

  We laughed briefly, and the humor touched me, easing some of the burden that had settled on my heart at Mr. McGuire’s. I wondered if I would ever have the courage to ask Benedict Trevelyan about his wife. For I didn’t want to know the truth of things as we walked through the fog; I wanted to hide within it and pretend that the very manor before us didn’t exist, that the tragic death of its mistress had never happened.

  As we neared the steps, he stopped. “Tomorrow, Miss Lovell,” he said, “meet me in the stables at six-thirty in the morning, and I will introduce you to another of Odin’s wives.”

  I swallowed and may have nodded, but whatever I did must have indicated that I would meet him.

  “Good,” he said, mounting his horse. “And one more thing, Miss Lovell. I would not mention the intruder incident last night to anyone else. It is only something that will upset my mother and my sister. And you did say that it was possible you dreamed the problem, correct?”

  This time, I did nod. Satisfied, he cantered off into the mist, and I wondered what my association with him was going to cost me.

  “Miss Lovell, you have caused quite a disturbance,” Dobbs said the moment I stepped inside.

  “I have?” I replied, snapping off my gloves as if I’d done so all of my life. That one act seemed to symbolize how drastically my life had changed, and I loved it. If Dobbs hadn’t stood there glowering at me, I would have put them on and snapped them off again. Satisfaction and a sense of achievement flooded through me as I laid my gloves over my arm and gave Dobbs my attention.“Please explain.”

  “Mr. Trevelyan has been in a quandary ever since the heavy fog began moving in. You left this morning without speaking to anyone. None knew where to even begin looking for you. This left me in an intolerable position. The master has raced off to search for you. And now I will be put to the task of sending a footman after him. This kind of behavior is most unseemly, and I will not tol—”

  “I have already spoken to Mr. Trevelyan, Mr. Dobbs. He is quite aware of my return. Is there anything else?”

  Dobbs blinked. His mouth fell open, then clenched shut.

  I turned to leave, determined to avoid his dour lecture. I didn’t want anything to dispel the lingering mists from my mind—mists that I knew cloaked what I should be thinking, given what I’d learned today.

  “There is the matter of Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  I froze mid-step, my nerves jangling. Why would Dobbs speak to me of Francesca Trevelyan? Had Mr. McGuire spoken my name to Dr. Levinworth, and he in turn mentioned my name …That didn’t make sense. I shook my head, almost stumbling over my own feet as I turned his way. “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Trevelyan has been demanding to see you since this morning. I will notify Nurse Maria of your arrival, and she can escort you to her.”

  Of course. Dobbs spoke of Benedict Trevelyan’s mother, not his deceased wife. I nearly shuddered with relief and chastised myself for jumping to that conclusion.

  “Tell Nurse Maria that I will be in my room.” Turning, I hurried up the stairs. I wanted time to freshen up before facing Mrs. Trevelyan. Instinct told me that I’d need every ounce of my confidence to visit with a woman who only spoke to me when politeness demanded it of her.

  In my room, piled like a mountain of blessings, were the packages from Mrs. Talbot’s store. I set myself into a whirlwind of activity, and by the time I heard Maria’s knock on the door, I’d managed a refreshing scrub and slipped into one of the simplest of my new dresses. Remembering Mrs. Talbot’s remark that the lavender pinstripe suited my coloring well, I put it on. I did so, not because I imagined Mrs. Trevelyan might say anything positive about my appearance, but because I’d shortly be seeing Benedict Trevelyan across the dinner table. Not even the thought of Constance’s chatter could dampen the confident excitement my new dress inspired.

  It didn’t escape my notice that Benedict’s mother had waited until my day off to call for me. I also resented that I couldn’t stay in my room and drown myself in my new things—an indulgence I’d never been able to luxuriate in.

  Maria led the way, acting as if I was a heretic about to meet the Inquisition. And perhaps I was; the glaring looks Mrs. Trevelyan had sent my way since the beginning of my employment had all but burned me at the stake.

  Mrs. Trevelyan’s room was on the first floor, situated in the opposite wing from mine and impossibly more oppressive than Benedict Trevelyan’s study. The moment I stepped into her rooms, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. The temperature had to rival that of a desert at high noon. I immediately broke into a sweat.

  Covering the windows hung red velvet curtains, so tightly drawn that not even a sliver of sunlight stole into the room. The furniture, hulking masses of black wood, filled the outer rim of the room. The softness of the carpet beneath my feet might have dispelled some of the gloom, but its dark red hues offered no relief from the depressing tones.

  I’d always been a lover of scents, with roses being one of my favorites. But the cloying aroma here was too sweet, sickly sweet, and caused my head to ache. In the center of the room stood a single red and gold brocade wing chair, which Maria motioned me to before leaving. As I sat, I noted an altar with dozens of burning candles, set up to the right of a hearth. The blazing fire offered no comfort.

  My Inquisition notion didn’t seem too fanciful. A minute or so passed before Marie wheeled Mrs. Trevelyan in, dressed as usual in black, with her customarily dour expression in place. She had her wheelchair parked directly in front of me.

  Rather than greeting me in any way, she continued to work on an embroidered tapestry for several minutes, her fingers adeptly weaving a threaded gold needle through the cloth. I’d never seen a gold needle before, and I wondered if she had them custom-made. My mother had taught me how to embroider, but I’d never spent my spare time doing so. Any time I could avoid having material in my hands, I did so.

  She glowered at my lavender dress and cream-colored boots. “Well, I see you have finagled new clothes out of my son already.”

&nbs
p; The cordial greeting sitting on the tip of my tongue jumped back down my throat. I had to swallow before speaking. “Your son was generous enough to insist I be properly attired to escort his sons about town. However, whatever monies were spent on my behalf I consider to be a loan only, which will be paid back over the course of my employment.”

  She leaned forward in her chair and lowered her voice. “You will not be here that long. I have already seen one woman nearly destroy my family, and I am not about to let an upstart laundress come in and do the same.”

  Her frankness and antipathy I had expected, but it was the pure hate emanating from her that slapped me in the face. “I assure you, my intent is to see to Master Justin and Master Robert’s education and well-being. I have a job to perform in this household, and that is my sole purpose here.”Anything else was completely preposterous, only mad musings for the darkness at midnight—not a topic for a chat over tea.

  “Heed my words, Miss Lovell. You have already sown the seeds that could destroy what little remains of my family. I will see you burn in hell beside his first wife if those seeds begin to sprout. Now tell me, what exactly are you teaching my grandsons?”

  I blinked. The woman had just threatened to terminate my employment, threatened to see me in hell, and now wanted to discuss her grandsons? Even though I realized she fiercely loved her family, it did not excuse her rudeness. I’d heard she’d been in declining health since the loss of her husband, the family’s patriarch, two years ago. Yet I could conjure up very little sympathy for her plight, nowhere near enough to excuse her actions. In my opinion, the woman was making herself ill, the way she sequestered herself in this inferno-like dungeon of a room.

  Gripping the arms of the chair, I considered marching angrily from her rooms and telling Benedict Trevelyan that his mother was a lunatic. To sit here and meekly let her bully me about was intolerable.

  I rose, deciding I wasn’t going to carry any tales, but I’d stand my ground when it came to respect. “If you have an interest in what your grandsons are learning, I suggest you join our lessons or spend a little time with them directly. I do not take kindly to being threatened. So should you wish to have a cordial conversation with me in the future, I suggest you keep that in mind. Good day to you.” I marched from the room, thinking that if Benedict’s mother wasn’t wheelchair bound, she could very well have murdered Francesca. I was shaking from the encounter, but I felt as if I’d made another step in establishing a life for myself beyond the lot of a laundress.