The Mistress of Trevelyan

by Jennifer St Giles

“Ever wonder what Marlowe’s own sins were that enabled him to write Dr. Faustus ?” Stephen asked. His words were slightly slurred, letting me know that the flash of silver in his hand was a flask.

  A bit surprised, I didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t really expect an answer.

  “I think about those lines often. Having but an hour to live, facing eternal damnation, wanting to stop time so that midnight might never come.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Stop time?”

  He saluted with the flask. “And be perpetually drunk? I think not. Death would be preferable to this.”

  “Then why do you drink?”

  “It is the only way to forget. They say she jumped at the midnight hour. Cesca. And all of her frail beauty lay ruined until she was found at dawn.”

  “Dear God,” I whispered. It was all I could do to keep from turning and running away just to escape the images of death he painted. It was also very clear that Stephen believed wholeheartedly that Francesca really did kill herself. Then why was he wallowing in guilt? Why was he so condemning of his brother? He judges without mercy. Don’t ever fail him, Ann.

  “That’s the moment I would stop time. Before that fateful midnight hour, before she damned us both. Damned us all. Cursed us to hell.”

  Anger streaked through me. I marched over, grabbed the flask from his hand, and tossed it into the fountain.“You do not drink to forget. You drink to dwell, so that you can wallow in self-pity instead of standing up like a man and facing your sins. Is it your wish for Robert or Justin to dash into the garden tomorrow, only to discover their beloved uncle lying on the ground, drunk?” The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I stamped my foot. “Get up this minute. You are going to your room. I will not leave you here for that to happen. Those boys have enough problems as it is.”

  To give Stephen credit, he did try to rise. He just wasn’t very successful at it. I took hold of his arm, and we managed to get him on his feet and walking toward the house.

  “Miss Ann,” he slurred. “You truly have no idea just how beautiful you are.”

  “What I am is an inch away from pushing you into the fountain to sober up. If I did not fear you would drown, I would do it anyway.”

  “The avenging angel. Drink to dwell. Too cowardly to face my sins. By damn, Miss Ann, I think you are on to something. Perhaps I will put it to verse.‘Ode to Miss Ann,’ or something such as that.”

  “You would better serve us both if you took the words to heart rather than to pen.”

  He stumbled, and I had to wrap my other arm around him to keep him upright. This was a most unseemly mess. If I’d thought about it, I should have found Dobbs to see to Stephen. In fact, I decided to do just that. “Stephen, do you think you could—”

  The door opened, and Benedict and Mr. Henderson stepped from the house. Over Stephen’s shoulders I could see their horrified expressions as they saw Stephen and me in each other’s arms.

  “Forgive our interruption,” Benedict said, his words puncturing the night like slashing daggers.

  I saw him turn, and I panicked, letting go of Stephen. “Mr. Trevelyan! Don’t you dare run away! This, uh, er, complexity is not what you think.”

  Stephen wavered, wobbled, and pitched to his side. Unfortunately, I happened to be standing in his way, and I went flying. I heard him hit the ground as I tried to catch my balance. I couldn’t. My nose was headed right for the cobblestones faster than I could get my hands out in front of me.

  I’m not sure how he managed it, but Benedict caught me around my waist, twisted, and broke the impact of my fall with his own body. I landed on top of him with a whoosh, and there I lay, unable to breathe. Not because I’d been harmed or had the air knocked from me, but because having my body all over his was, quite frankly, supremely pleasurable. I must have wiggled a little to fit closer, because I heard him gasp softly and tighten his grip on me. The passageway’s key nestling between my breasts made a deep impression.

  “I assume that you are unharmed, Miss Lovell.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Trevelyan,”I whispered.“I feel rather good at the moment.” I breathed enough to inhale the aroma of sandalwood and spice.

  “Indeed.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Is she unharmed, Ben?” Mr. Henderson called out.

  “Stephen’s bloodied his nose.”

  “Miss Lovell is fine. We will be right there, Alan.”

  I felt the brush of Benedict’s lips against my temple as he untangled his legs from my skirts and helped me rise. His thumb rubbed across my palm, and he held on to my hand, supposedly to help me walk safely in the dark. Every unmentionable part of my feminine body sprang to life, demanding to be mentioned. My breasts ached, my feminine flesh grew damp, my lips parted in unreasoning expectation, and my toes even curled. And all of this happened in the space of three steps. Not even my gray serge dress would have been armor enough. I had the presence of mind to wonder what good a whole suit of real metal armor like the one in the foyer would do, if all I did was itch to get out of it.

  Mr. Henderson held Stephen, who had a dark-spotted handkerchief clutched to his nose.

  “He’s in his cups again,” Mr. Henderson said.

  “I am not surprised,” Benedict replied, sounding suddenly weary.“He’s been heading for it all week. For a while I really thought he was pulling himself together.”

  Stephen wavered and spoke, his voice muffled.“Not into my cups, just my flask, which the avenging angel threw into the fountain. She quite read me the riot act, you know. It was magnificent.”

  “I am sure.” Benedict lifted a questioning brow, and I shrugged.

  “Let’s get him to his room,” Mr. Henderson said. “Perhaps you can come back to Kansas City with me, Stephen. I could use some help on the ranch.”

  Benedict and Mr. Henderson hefted Stephen to his feet. Just before they entered the manor, Stephen looked up at the upper floors and quoted Dante: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

  Both Benedict and Mr. Henderson’s expressions were grim. I shivered. Surely Trevelyan Manor and hell weren’t one and the same. Once inside, I excused myself and hurried up to my room, exhaustion suddenly dogging my every step. Abandon all hope? I would not. I could not.

  The next morning I hurried into Mr. McGuire’s Bookstore with the gates of hell still heavy on my mind. I hoped to have the opportunity to speak to Dr. Levinworth.

  There were several customers in the shop when I entered, which thankfully gave me a few minutes to gather myself. The walk to town had fatigued me. After waving hello to Mr. McGuire, I went over to Puck. It was time that the bird and I had a talk.

  “This is Titania, your queen, speaking here,”I whispered. “If you are indeed a fairy trapped within a parrot’s body, then you need to give me some other indication of it than quoting Shakespeare. Perhaps you can bob your head or something such as that.”

  Puck did nothing, only stared at me with his beady bald eye.“What, a head-bobbing too much? Then why not prune your raggedy feathers? They are truly in sad shape.”

  Puck yawned and stretched a scaly foot.

  “Hmm. Do you think I owe you something more? As I am your queen, it is you who are to entertain me.”

  “He that dies pays all debts,” Puck squawked.

  I blinked and stared at him a bit fearfully. Surely Puck had to be a fairy trapped in feathers. I decided to spend my time looking through books until Mr. McGuire was free. Books didn’t talk back.

  Not more than a quarter hour later, the shop cleared out. Mr. McGuire motioned me over to his desk, which impossibly held a dozen more books than last time. Now that I’d a moment to look at him, my heart winced. He looked older than ever before, his skin more pale, his wispy hair sparser and disordered, and his watery blue eyes bloodshot.“Come, lass. Let me have a look at ye. I’ve been so very worried ever since I heard ye were ill. If you hadna come this morning, I was going to close shop and go see ye for myself.”


  I situated myself in a chair as he perched on his high stool. “How did you know I was ill? And if you say a little bird told you, I fear I’ll go mad. I already think Puck is the fabled fairy trapped in a parrot’s body like a genie in a lamp.” Mr. McGuire didn’t even smile at my jest.

  “Miss Ortega came by the shop last week and said you’d been very ill, but were recovering. Now tell me the truth of it.”

  “Constance was here?”

  “Aye, for a book on steamboats, I think. She’s a chatty lass, for sure. And a strange one. Now, were you truly ill? I couldna help but wonder if ye had been poisoned.”

  “Good Lord! No. Both Robert and I contracted scarlet fever. I was told the rash was quite evident.” I knew without a doubt that Robert and I had been truly sick. But Mr. McGuire’s question alarmed me. I’d never considered that anyone would or could poison me. I shivered as I realized how very vulnerable I was. I didn’t think someone wished me physical harm, but they could.

  “Lass?”

  I shook my head. “No, we weren’t poisoned. We were both sick, but Robert was worse.” Emotion clogged my throat.“I consider it a miracle that he recovered.”

  “So that’s the way of it, lass. You’ve already given your heart to the wee lads.” Mr. McGuire let out a deep sigh. “I was afraid this would happen. And now, if I were to ask ye to leave there for your own safety, ye wouldna hear of it, would you?”

  I picked a spot of lint from my dress. I saw the remain-at-your-own-peril-note as not life-threatening, but I didn’t think Mr. McGuire would consider it so. “Why would you think I am in danger? I am just a governess.” My heart winced at my bald-faced lie. But I couldn’t tell Mr. McGuire the intimacies that had sprung up between Benedict and me.

  “There’s a murderer among those upon Trevelyan Hill. You mark my words. Dr. Levinworth told me last week that Francesca Trevelyan intimated to him that she feared for her mortal soul.”

  I recalled what Stephen had said last night, but before I could speak, Mr. McGuire continued.

  “As Dr. Levinworth tells it, she feared eternal damnation to the point of desperation,” he whispered low. “Now I ask ye, lass. Would a Catholic woman with such fears commit suicide?”

  “No.” But Stephen, a man who claimed to love her, thought that she had. Was he lying?

  The shop door opened, bells clanged, and Puck bristled his feathers. “Blow, blow thou winter wind,” Puck squawked.

  The spectacled and studious looking man who walked in the door smiled sadly. “ ‘Thou are not so unkind as man’s ingratitude.’ Shame on you, Puck. Half a quote is no quote at all.” The man’s features matched the somberness of his gray suit, which was a shade darker than his hair.

  “At last ye both shall meet. Dr. Levinworth, Miss Ann Lovell. Perhaps you can convince her of the danger at Trevelyan Manor.”

  Dr. Levinworth held out his hand, and I stood to greet him. “Forgive the forwardness of this, Miss Lovell, but I must add my concerns to Mr. McGuire’s. He speaks of you often. It is nice to finally meet you. I am just sorry that it is over such a tragic affair.”

  I nodded. “Mr. McGuire informed me that you treated Francesca for several years.”

  Dr. Levinworth sighed. “I have always held my patient’s confidences, but the circumstances of Francesca’s death, as well as Mr. McGuire’s real concern for you, force me to speak. Francesca was often ill, usually from nervous afflictions more than anything else, but never more troubled than during the months before her death. She was in a rather—” He paused and glanced toward Mr. McGuire.

  “I told the lass,” Mr. McGuire said.

  Dr. Levinworth nodded.“She was in a difficult situation, being with child and her husband having been gone for some time.”

  I cleared my throat.“Did she, um, fear Mr. Trevelyan?”

  “She lived in terror of the man.”

  Shocked, I stepped away from the doctor and paced to the bookshelf. “You speak as if Mr. Trevelyan is a violent, horrible man. I find that hard to believe.”

  “A poor choice of words on my part, Miss Lovell. There is no delicate way to put this. Francesca was a very petite woman, even smaller than her sister. Mr. Trevelyan is a very large man. The first time I was called to treat her was just days after their wedding. She’d fainted the moment the priest pronounced them man and wife and took to her bed for a week. Laudanum was the only thing that calmed her nervous state.”

  Francesca truly had to have been unreasonably high-strung. I’d witnessed Benedict’s gentleness and care, had even been on the receiving end of it, though I was nothing but a governess not even of his class. I couldn’t imagine he’d be any less thoughtful to his bride.

  “Why ever did she marry him if she feared his size so greatly?” I asked.

  “An arranged marriage to save both families’ shipping businesses. Francesca had vowed to her father that she would bear an heir.”

  I wondered how many lives had been ruined for money’s sake.“Who do you think killed her, Doctor?”

  Dr. Levinworth drew a deep breath. Though I could tell he found it difficult to speak, his gaze never wavered. He clearly believed in what he said.“Her husband, Miss Lovell. He does not strike me as a man who would tolerate being cuckolded.”

  19

  Sunday evening brought a thickening fog upon Trevelyan Hill that only seemed to worsen every night during the next week. It was as if during the midnight hours, the fog mirrored the growing tension within the manor, and within me, too. My ever-growing awareness of the key that would lead me to Benedict’s arms seemed to cast a fog over my vision of practicality. The key dangled between my breasts, and with every beat of my heart I ached to use it, especially during the echoing hours of the night.

  It was Thursday morning. Last night we had celebrated Justin’s birthday, and I had spent yet another sleepless night in worry. The sun had finally beaten back last night’s fog, but it wasn’t helping clear the fog in my mind at all. The boys were getting a riding lesson on Cesca, and since I’d be having one later in the afternoon, I chose to avoid the stables. The less I thought about my first ride on a horse outside of the training ring, the better.

  Mr. Simons was expected shortly for our sign language lesson, and I decided to spend the spare moments I had in the garden with my drawing pad. But instead of bright blooms and the angelic fountain, my pencil raced across the page, drawing the worried lines of Justin’s face, as I thought about his birthday.

  My hopes for his party had come to fruition, but Justin’s response left me aching for him. Justin had smiled, thanked everyone politely, and appreciated his gifts—a saddle from his father, a chess set from Stephen, toy trains from his grandmother, an easel and paints from Katherine, a nice cap from Constance, a cowboy rope and hat from Mr. Henderson, and a James Audubon book and sketch pad from me and Robert. Cook Thomas had prepared a chocolate and cream cake, and the decorations Robert and I had spent the day making had given the parlor a festive air. Even Dobbs seemed to get into the mood of the party. After peeking into the parlor several times as Robert and I decorated, he finally marched in and declared we didn’t know how to properly outfit the room, and then set about rearranging our efforts. Unfortunately, I had to admit to myself he had a better eye for decorating than I did, but I swore on my life never to tell him that. Not even in my deathbed confessions.

  Yet I had the distinct impression that through it all, Justin was on the outside of the room looking in, as if none of us could really reach him or touch him. And I realized with a sickening dread that if Justin had fallen ill with the scarlet fever, neither I nor Benedict would have been able to reach his inner heart to will him to live. I sincerely believed he would have given himself over to the cold hands of death just to escape the pain he felt.

  I was also worried about my conversation with Dr. Levinworth. He had no doubt that Benedict was guilty, but I had every doubt, and I wondered how I could prove him innocent.

  A hand on my shoulder startled
me. I looked up to see Katherine. It was unusual to see her in the garden this early, for she painted until late into the night and slept during the morning hours. Her ethereal beauty was even more breathtaking in the harsh glare of the sun. Blue-black highlights gleamed in her hair. Her amber eyes were made more golden by the rays of the sun, her skin more ivory, her lips more red, her delicateness more frail.

  “Good morning,” I signed, greeting her.

  She took out a notepad and wrote, “I saw you sitting here from my window. You looked sad, and I thought I would come see you. May I see what you are drawing?”

  I hesitated a moment, then handed her Justin’s picture. She studied it intensely. I took the pad and wrote, “I am worried about him.”

  She nodded and wrote, “He, like those in my pictures, is a prisoner of pain.”

  I wrote back, “I must find a way to help him heal.”

  She sighed, then wrote, “For some there is no hope.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” I wrote her. “Why do you imprison yourself?” Then I paused, wondering if I was trespassing too far, then plunged ahead. “Why did you not marry Mr. Simons?”

  Tears filled her eyes as she read my questions. “It is a matter of honor,” she wrote back.

  “How can a matter of honor forbid your and Mr. Simons’s happiness?” I wrote quickly.

  “How can I seek my own happiness when all those I love are trapped in pain? Besides, you have seen how little I can help Justin. What kind of mother would I make? I cannot even hear the cries of a baby.”

  “But there are ways to overcome those problems. You can hire someone to be your ears. Are you not causing more pain by not giving your love and Simon’s love a chance? Love brings hope to all. Your happiness could bring happiness to others.”

  She shook her head, telling me she didn’t believe me. She went to hand me my sketchbook and accidentally dropped it. We both reached for it, but she picked it up first. The picture it fell open to was the one I’d drawn of Benedict after he’d kissed me in the stables. The one of him steering a ship through a storm, with the miniature of him kissing me in the upper corner.