The Mistress of Trevelyan (16 page)

"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."

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.

In the third-floor hallway, I passed Maria, who looked at me in utter surprise. I assumed it was because she'd expected my meeting with Mrs. Trevelyan to have lasted longer. That was until I reached my room and found the new things from Mrs. Talbot's dumped in a nasty pile on the floor. Nothing looked as if it had been destroyed, just thrown down as if it all were of little worth. This time I had no doubt as to whom had been in my room and why.

Apparently Mrs. Trevelyan didn't need to be able to walk. Not when she had servants to carry out her ill will.

I stood there with my hands clenched as I fought back tears. The jumbled mess was only clothes, and not even dirty ones at that. I'd been cleaning up worse piles most of my life, and I shouldn't view this one as being any different. But I did. These were my new things. I found I wasn't as practical as I thought myself to be, for I barely restrained myself from going to Maria's room and returning the favor.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

During the night, I hoped for rain. None appeared, no matter how many times I peered out of the window. I cursed my unfailing good constitution, for I failed to develop an ailment, no matter how hard I prayed for one. I searched my mind for any legitimate excuse to keep me from the stables but found none worthy enough. I then resorted to wishing lightning would strike.

It didn't.

Sunday morning dawned brightly, promising a healthy dose of sunshine. I didn't even have the luxury of using my lessons with Justin and Robert as an excuse to avoid the stables, for I had half of the day free. Still, I dallied, spending an inordinate amount of time deciding what to wear before finally settling on a gown of deep blue with tiny black pinstripes. I thought the color complemented my gray eyes and brown hair. I fussed with my hair. I dusted my room, twice. Then I sat back down and waited for something, anything, to happen until my conscience wouldn't allow me to delay any longer.

Much to my consternation, no accidents befell me as I walked to the stables. And worse yet, any reason I could think of to avoid the horses did nothing but draw another condemning look from Benedict Trevelyan in my mind's eye. It daunted me that even when he wasn't about, I could shut my eyes and see him all too clearly.

As I neared the entrance to the stables, he seemed so real in my mind that I could hear his deep voice speaking as if wooing a lover.

"You are greedy for affection this morning, aren't you? You love being stroked, love the feel of my hand upon your neck." I closed my eyes. My hand instantly went to my throat and touched the spot where I imagined I could feel him.

"There. Hold right there. Doesn't that feel good?"

The sound of an answering whinny brought my eyes wide open. I stepped into the shadowed recesses of the stable, where I found Benedict Trevelyan in front of a stall, caressing a horse bigger and blacker than the one he'd ridden yesterday.

A layer of fresh hay covered the floor. I could smell the sunshine sweetness of it among the strong odors of animal and leather. Dust motes danced in the streams of light threading their way through the stable, giving an overall ambience of warmth—definitely not the dank lair of a beast. Above each or the stalls were names branded into the wood—Odin, Frigg, Fjorgyn, Balder, Hodr, Rind, Indu, Bragi, Loki, Vali, Freyja, Sigyn, Narvi, and more, all from Viking legend—and I found myself rather interested. It would seem the master of Trevelyan Hill had a penchant for the unusual, something the oppressive staidness of his study didn't reveal.

"Good morning, Miss Lovell. I see your punctuality does not apply to appointments with horses."

My eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, and I saw that he—dressed more simply than the day before in riding pants and a shirt—regarded me with dry amusement. Considering the effect his casual dress and relaxed air had upon my sensibilities, it was a wonder I could speak. "I, um, mistakenly thought it would rain. Did you not hear the thunder?" Surely he had to hear it. My heart was roaring.

He only lifted an eyebrow in the face of my blatant lie. "Indeed. Thunder? Perhaps you heard Thor being set free in the pasture. He tends to make a lot of noise. But there's no harm done. I have plenty of time this morning, and Gunnlod is a patient girl." He brushed the horse's mane.

I blinked with disbelief when the horse seemingly nodded its head up and down as if she'd understood what he'd said. I had to have imagined it. "She is named for another wife of Odin's? The giantess?"

"Correct. She's big, but she's gentle. When you are ready to ride, she will be perfect for you."

Shaking my head, I stepped back. "I do not think that I will be ready for that for at least"—I looked at the horse— "ten years."

He laughed. "I will give you ten days, but let's not borrow tomorrow's trouble. Come say hello to Gunnlod, and then I will take you to see her colt."

Reluctantly, I took two steps closer, stopping a few feet away.

"Bragi would be the colt?" I asked, following Odin's family tree, hoping that Benedict Trevelyan would forget about introducing me to the horse if I kept him talking.

"Right again," he said, then surprised me by reaching out and taking my hand, pulling me beside him. "Come along, Miss Lovell. Gunnlod does bite, but only apples and at Odin when he's in her way." To prove his point, he held out an apple.

I had no time to think about the warmth of his skin against mine or the comfort his touch imbued on my nerves, for Gunnlod's giant head pushed farther from her stall to merely inches from where I stood. To my surprise, she gently extracted the apple from Benedict Trevelyan's hand, leaving all of his fingers intact. I laughed as she crunched, eating the whole fruit in seconds. She seemed— harmless? No, just less of an ogre than I imagined.

"Your turn" he said holding out an apple to me.

"No, Mr. Trevelyan. I must say, you do that so well, I would just as soon watch you—"

He plopped the apple in my hand. "Miss Lovell, surely a woman who had the wherewithal to apply for a teaching position with no credentials can muster up the courage to feed a gentle horse an apple."

I looked at the apple, then at him. I blinked several times, searching for anything to distract him. "Mr. Trevelyan, if you have any complaints about the proficiency or methodology of my performance as a teacher, please do tell—"

"Miss Lovell, as of this moment I have none. Unfortunately, I am not as patient as Gunnlod and would greatly appreciate it if you would cease delaying."

He knew what I was up to. I drew a righteous breath, set to deny his charge. Then I met his amused gaze and exhaled in defeat. "Very well. If you have no wish to discuss—"

"Miss Lovell."

I sighed. Holding my hand flat, with the apple on my palm, I extended my arm as far as I could. I thought my heart would leap from my chest as the horse swung her head my way. She parted her lips, revealing her huge teeth as she opened her mouth. My hand shook, my body shivered, and my breath caught in my throat, nearly strangling me.

Then suddenly I felt myself encased in steady warmth as Benedict Trevelyan stepped in behind me and slid his hand beneath mine. "Easy now. If you jerk your hand away, you will frighten her."

Frighten her! What about me? I barely felt the horse nab the apple from my hand as my fear fell beneath the onslaught of new sensations Benedict Trevelyan brought.  Just inches from my ear, the deepness of his voice and the heat of his breath reached inside me and set me afire. It was as if my body were a hearth and my unmentionables the dry kindling waiting for his spark. I was aware of every brush of his body through the fabric of my dress. I was aware of every breath he took and of every breath I couldn't seem to draw. And everything that happened the other night flooded my mind I remembered in every detail the contours of his chest beneath my fingertips, the heat of his maleness pressed to my softness, and the intensity of his gaze as he had stared at me in my nightgown.