Mistress of Mellyn

by Victoria Holt

  I went swiftly up the back stairs and to my apartment.

  It was a warm night and as I sat at my window I heard music coming from another of the open windows. I realized that Connan TreMellyn was entertaining guests.

  I pictured them in one of the rooms which I had not even seen. Why should you? I asked myself. You are only a governess. Connan TreMellyn, his gaunt body clothed elegantly, would be presiding at the card table or perhaps sitting with his guests listening to music.

  I recognized the music as from Mendelssohn’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and I felt a sudden longing to be down there among them; but I was astonished that this desire should be greater than any I had ever had to be present at Aunt Adelaide’s soirées or the dinner parties Phillida gave. I was overcome with curiosity and could not resist the temptation to ring the bell and summon Kitty or Daisy who always knew what was going on and were only too happy to impart that knowledge to anyone who was interested to hear it.

  It was Daisy who came. She looked excited.

  I said: “I want some hot water, Daisy. Could you please bring it for me?”

  “Why yes, miss,” she said.

  “There are guests here tonight, I understand.”

  “Oh yes, miss. Though it’s nothing to the parties we used to have. I reckon now the year’s up, the master will be entertaining more. That’s what Mrs. Polgrey says.”

  “It must have been very quiet during the last year.”

  “But only right and proper … after a death in the family.”

  “Of course. Who are the guests tonight?”

  “Oh, there’s Miss Celestine and Mr. Peter of course.”

  “I saw their carriage.” My voice sounded eager and I was ashamed. I was no better than any gossiping servant.

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you who else is here.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Thomas and Lady Treslyn.”

  She looked conspiratorial as though there was something very important about these two.

  “Oh?” I said encouragingly.

  “Though,” went on Daisy, “Mrs. Polgrey says that Sir Thomas bain’t fit to go gallivanting at parties, and should be abed.”

  “Why, is he ill?”

  “Well, he’ll never see seventy again and he’s got one of those bad hearts. Mrs. Polgrey says you can go off sudden with a heart like that, and don’t need no pushing neither. Not that—”

  She stopped and twinkled at me. I longed to ask her to continue, but felt it was beneath my dignity to do so. Disappointingly she seemed to pull herself up sharply.

  “She’s another kettle of fish.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Lady Treslyn of course. You ought to see her. She’s got a gown cut right down to here and the loveliest flowers on her shoulder. She’s a real beauty, and you can see she’s only waiting …”

  “I gather she is not of the same age as her husband.”

  Daisy giggled. “They say there’s nearly forty years’ difference in their ages, and she’d like to pretend it was fifty.”

  “You don’t seem to like her.”

  “Me? Well, if I don’t, some do!” That sent Daisy into hysterical laughter again, and as I looked at her ungainly form in her tight clothes and listened to her wheezy laughter, I was ashamed of myself for sharing the gossip of a servant, so I said: “I would like that hot water, Daisy.”

  Daisy subsided and went off to get it, leaving me with a clearer picture of what was happening in that drawing room.

  I was still thinking of them when I had washed my hands and unpinned my hair preparatory to retiring for the night.

  The musicians had been playing a Chopin waltz and it had seemed to spirit me away from my governess’s bedroom and tantalize me with pleasures outside my reach—a dainty beauty, a place in salons such as that somewhere in this house, wit, charm, the power to make the chosen man love me.

  I was startled at such thoughts. What had they to do with a governess such as I?

  I went to the window. The weather had been fine and warm for so long that I did not believe it could continue. The autumn mists would soon be with us and I had heard that they and the gales which blew from the southwest were, as Tapperty would say, “something special in these parts.”

  I could smell the sea and hear the gentle rhythm of the waves. The “voices” were starting up in Mellyn Cove.

  And then suddenly I saw a light in a dark part of the house and I felt the goose pimples rise on my flesh. I knew that window belonged to the room to which Alvean had taken me to choose my riding habit. It was Alice’s dressing room.

  The blind had been down. I had not noticed that before. Indeed I was sure it had not been like that earlier in the evening because, since I had known that that was Alice’s room, I had made a habit—which I regretted and of which I had tried to cure myself—of glancing at the window whenever I looked out of my own.

  The blind was of thin material, for behind it I distinctly saw the light. It was a faint light but there was no mistaking it. It moved before my astonished eyes.

  I stood at my window staring out and, as I did so, I saw a shadow on the blind. It was that of a woman.

  I heard a voice close to me saying: “It is Alice!” and I realized that I had spoken aloud.

  I’m dreaming, I told myself. I’m imagining this.

  Then again I saw the figure silhouetted against the blind.

  My hands which gripped the window sill were trembling as I watched that flickering light. I had an impulse to summon Daisy or Kitty, or go to Mrs. Polgrey.

  I restrained myself, imagining how foolish I should look. So I remained staring at the window.

  And after a while all was darkness.

  I stood at my window for a long time watching, but I saw nothing more.

  They were playing another Chopin waltz in the drawing room, and I stood until I was cold even on that warm September night.

  Then I went to bed but I could not sleep for a long time.

  And at last, when I did sleep, I dreamed that a woman came into my room; she was wearing a riding habit with blue collar and cuffs, trimmed with braid and ball fringe. She said to me: “I was not on that train, Miss Leigh. You wonder where I was. It is for you to find me.”

  Through my dreams I heard the whispering of the waves in the caves below; and the first thing I did on rising next morning—which I did as soon as the dawn appeared in the sky—was to go to my window and look across at the room which—little more than a year ago—had belonged to Alice.

  The blinds were drawn up. I could clearly see the rich blue velvet curtains.

  FOUR

  It was about a week later that I first saw Linda Treslyn. It was a few minutes past six o’clock. Alvean and I had put away our books and had gone down to the stables to look at Buttercup, who we thought had strained a tendon that afternoon.

  The farrier had seen her and given her a poultice. Alvean was really upset, and this pleased me because I was always delighted to discover her softer feelings.

  “Don’t ‘ee fret, Miss Alvean,” Joe Tapperty told her. “Buttercup’ ll be as right as two dogs on a bright and frosty morning afore the week’s out; you see! Jim Bond, he be the best horse doctor between here and Land’s End, I do tell ’ee.”

  She was cheered and I told her that she should take Black Prince in Buttercup’s place tomorrow.

  She was excited about this, for she knew Black Prince would test her mettle, and I was glad to see that her pleasure was only faintly tinged with apprehension.

  As we came out of the stables I looked at my watch.

  “Would you care for half an hour’s stroll through the gardens?” I asked. “We have half an hour to spare.”

  To my surprise she said she would, and we set off.

  The plateau on which Mount Mellyn stood was a piece of land a mile or so wide. The slope to the sea was steep but there were several zigzag paths which made the going easier. The gardeners spent a great deal of time on this
garden, which was indeed beautiful with the flowering shrubs which grew so profusely in this part. At various points arbors had been set up, constructed of trellis work around which roses climbed. They were beautiful even as late as this and their perfume hung on the air.

  One could sit in these arbors and gaze out to sea; and from these gardens the south side of the house was a vision of grandeur, rising nobly, a pile of gray granite there on the top of the cliff like a mighty fortress. It was inevitable that the house should have a defiant air, as though it represented a challenge, not only to the sea but to the world.

  We made our way down those sweet-smelling paths and were level with the arbor before we noticed that two people were there.

  Alvean gave a little gasp and, following her gaze, I saw them. They were sitting side by side and close. She was very dark and one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen; her features were strongly marked and she wore a gauzy scarf over her hair, and in this gauze sequins glistened. I thought that she looked like someone out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Titania perhaps, although I had always imagined her fair. She had that quality of beauty which attracts the eyes as a needle is attracted by a magnet. You have to look whether you want to or not; you have to admire. Her dress was pale mauve of some clinging material such as chiffon and it was caught at the throat with a big diamond brooch.

  Connan spoke first. “Why,” he said, “it is my daughter with her governess. So, Miss Leigh, you and Alvean are taking the air.”

  “It is such a pleasant evening,” I said, and I made to take Alvean’s hand, but she eluded me in her most ungracious manner.

  “May I sit with you and Lady Treslyn, Papa?” she asked.

  “You are taking a walk with Miss Leigh,” he said. “Do you not think that you should continue to do so?”

  “Yes,” I answered for her. “Come along, Alvean.”

  Connan had turned to his companion: “We are very fortunate to have found Miss Leigh. She is … admirable!”

  “The perfect governess this time, I hope for your sake, Connan,” said Lady Treslyn.

  I felt awkward, as though I were in the position of a horse standing there while they discussed my points. I was sure he was aware of my discomfiture and rather amused by it. There were times when I believed he was a very unpleasant person.

  I said, and my voice sounded very chilly: “I think it is time we turned back. We were merely taking an airing before Alvean retires for the night. Come, Alvean,” I added. And I seized her arm so firmly that I drew her away.

  “But,” protested Alvean, “I want to stay. I want to talk to you, Papa.”

  “But you can see I am engaged. Some other time, my child.”

  “No,” she said, “it is important … now.”

  “It cannot be all that important. Let us discuss it tomorrow.”

  “No … no … Now!” Alvean’s voice had a hysterical note in it; I had never before known her defy him so utterly.

  Lady Treslyn murmured: “I see Alvean is a very determined person.”

  Connan TreMellyn said coolly: “Miss Leigh will deal with this matter.”

  “Of course. The perfect governess …” There was a note of mockery in Lady Treslyn’s voice, and it goaded me to such an extent that I seized Alvean’s arm roughly and almost dragged her back the way we had come.

  She was half-sobbing, but she did not speak until we were in the house.

  Then she said: “I hate her. You know, don’t you, Miss Leigh, that she wants to be my new mamma.”

  I said nothing then. I thought it dangerous to do so because I always felt that it was so easy to be overheard. It was only when we reached her room and I had followed her in and shut the door that I said: “That was an extraordinary remark to make. How could she wish to be your mamma when she has a husband of her own?”

  “He will soon die.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Everybody says they are only waiting.”

  I was shocked that she should have heard such gossip and I thought: I will speak to Mrs. Polgrey about this. They must be careful what they say in front of Alvean. Is it those girls, Daisy and Kitty … or perhaps Joe Tapperty or his wife?

  “She’s always here,” went on Alvean. “I won’t let her take my mother’s place. I won’t let anybody.”

  “You are becoming quite hysterical about improbabilities, and I must insist that you never allow me to hear you say such things again. It is degrading to your papa.”

  That made her thoughtful. How she loves him! I thought. Poor little Alvean, poor lonely child!

  A little while before, I had been sorry for myself as I stood in that beautiful garden and was forced to be quizzed by the beautiful woman in the arbor. I had said to myself: “It is not fair. Why should one person have so much, and others nothing? Should I be beautiful in chiffon and diamonds? Perhaps not as Lady Treslyn was, but I am sure they would be more becoming than cotton and merino and a turquoise brooch which had belonged to my grandmother.”

  Now I forgot to be sorry for myself, and my pity was all for Alvean.

  I had seen Alvean to bed and had returned to my room, conscious of a certain depression. I kept thinking of Connan TreMellyn out there in the arbor with Lady Treslyn, asking myself if he were still there and what they talked about. Each other! I supposed. Of course Alvean and I had interrupted a flirtation. I felt shocked that he should indulge in such an undignified intrigue, for it seemed wholly undignified to me, since the lady had a husband to whom she owed her allegiance.

  I went to the window and I was glad that it did not give me a view of the south gardens and the sea. I leaned my elbows on the sill and looked out at the scented evening. It was not quite dark yet, but the sun had disappeared and the twilight was on us. My eyes turned to the window where I had seen the shadow on the blind.

  The blinds were drawn up and I could see the blue curtains clearly. I stared at them, fixedly. I don’t know what I expected. Was it to see a face appear at the window, a beckoning hand? There were times when I could laugh at myself for my fancies, but the twilight hour was not one of them.

  Then I saw the curtains move, and I knew that someone was in that room.

  I was in an extraordinary mood that evening. It had something to do with meeting Connan TreMellyn and Lady Treslyn together in the arbor, but I had not sufficiently analyzed my feelings at this date to understand it. I felt our recent encounter to have been humiliating, but I was ready to risk another which might be more so. Alice’s room was not in my part of the house but I was completely at liberty to walk in the gardens if I wished to. If I were caught I should look rather foolish. But I was reckless. I did not care. Thoughts of Alice obsessed me. There were times when I felt such a burning desire to discover what mystery lay behind her death that I was prepared to go to any lengths.

  So I slipped out of my room. I left my wing of the house and went along the gallery to Alice’s dressing room. I knocked lightly on the door and, with my heart beating like a sledge hammer, I swiftly opened it.

  For a second I saw no one. Then I detected a movement by the curtains. Someone was hiding behind them.

  “Who is it?” I asked, and my voice successfully hid the trepidation I was feeling.

  There was no answer, but whoever was behind those curtains was very eager not to be discovered.

  I strode across the room, drew aside the curtains, and saw Gilly cowering there.

  The lids of her blank blue eyes fluttered in a terrified way. I put out a hand to seize her and she shrank from me toward the window.

  “It’s all right, Gilly,” I said gently. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She continued to stare at me, and I went on: “Tell me, what are you doing here?”

  Still she said nothing. She had begun to stare about the room as though she were asking someone for help, and for a moment I had the uncanny feeling that she saw something—or someone—I could not see.

  “Gilly,” I said, “you know you should not
be in this room, do you not?” She drew farther away from me, and I repeated what I had said.

  Then she nodded and immediately afterward shook her head.

  “I am going to take you back to my room, Gilly. Then we’ll have a little talk.”

  I put my arm about her; she was trembling. I drew her to the door but she came very reluctantly, and at the threshold of the room she looked back over her shoulder; then she cried out suddenly: “Madam … come back, madam. Come … now!”

  I led her firmly from the room and shut the door behind us, then almost had to drag her along to my bedroom.

  Once there I firmly shut my door and stood with my back against it. Her lips were trembling.

  “Gilly,” I said, “I do want you to understand that I won’t hurt you. I want to be your friend.” The blank look persisted and taking a shot in the dark I went on: “I want to be your friend as Mrs. TreMellyn was.”

  That startled her and the blank look disappeared for a moment. I had stumbled on another discovery. Alice had been kind to this poor child.

  “You went there to look for Mrs. TreMellyn, did you not?”

  She nodded.

  She looked so pathetic that I was moved to a demonstration of feeling unusual with me. I knelt down and put my arms about her; now our faces were level.

  “You can’t find her, Gilly. She is dead. It is no use looking for her in this house.”

  Gilly nodded and I was not sure what she implied—whether she agreed with me that it was no use, or whether she believed that she could find Mrs. TreMellyn in the house.

  “So,” I went on, “we must try to forget her, mustn’t we, Gilly?”

  The pale lids fell over the eyes to hide them from me.

  “We’ll be friends,” I said. “I want us to be. If we were friends, you wouldn’t be lonely, would you?”