The Mistress of Trevelyan (32 page)

"You miss her?" he said, surprising me with the intimacy of his tone. Apparently I hadn't stepped too far past the bounds of forgiveness by asking about Francesca.

I studied his eyes a moment, searching for what feelings lay within the darkness, wondering about the change in his manner. "Yes."

I brushed my fingers over the bright daisies I held. "Her special kind of love still lives in my heart. It is like a benevolent sun that never sets, always showering me with warmth."

"Miss Lovell, you have been richly blessed in life."

A slow smile curved my lips as truth dawned. "Yes, Mr. Trevelyan, you might say I have a rich inheritance. As soon as I have saved enough funds to do so, I am going to have a headstone engraved for her. I want it to read that her life was as finite as the earth, but her love reaches beyond the stars. Maybe those who happen upon her grave will know what a loving woman she was."

He caught my hand in his and brought my gloved fingers to his lips. "The moment anyone meets you, Miss Lovell, they cannot help but know," he said softly.

My eyes clung to the warmth in his, and my heart raced ahead, plunging headlong into my ever-deepening well of love for this man.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

The dinner hour approached, and I was in an unacceptable state. I stood in front of the armoire in my undergarments. For the very life of me I couldn't decide what to wear, and I had begun to think my fever had returned. In truth, it was thoughts of Benedict that plagued me. My mind had never been in such a muddle.

I'd vowed to wear my practicality like armor and had yet to don a bit of it. Completely frustrated with myself, I shut my eyes and reached blindly for a dress. I'd let Chance decree what I should wear. Decision made, I opened my eyes, beheld my old gray serge dress, and frowned. If anything, it was a full armor of practicality, and I had vowed...

I stared at its worn, dull lines. Then I glanced at the array of fancy dresses still hanging in my closet.

I decided Providence had shoved Chance out of the way and interfered with what I was destined to wear. Putting back the gray serge, I snatched out the cornflower blue with its white lace trim and dressed quickly before Providence could make another move. Pinching my cheeks after I tightened the pins confining my hair in a neat bun, I hurried to the nursery. Justin and Robert were ready for bed and playing with wooden horses on the floor, spinning around in
circles
. Maria was with them, sitting in the rocking chair, frowning at their antics. I knelt down next to them. "Are you two having a race?"

"No, we're not letting the bad witch catch us," Robert whispered. "It's Jus's secret that I promised never to tell, right?" Robert looked proudly at Justin.

Justin scowled, and I could see a fight brewing. "Then you're doing a good job, keeping his secret." I smiled at Justin. "Today was fun, and I wanted to thank you both for being such exemplary gentlemen. I am sure we will be able to plan another outing soon. Would you like that?"

Justin shrugged, but Robert shouted a loud "Yes!" and gave me a big hug. I hugged him back, then stood and kissed the top of Justin's head. "Who won your chess match with your father this afternoon?"

"My father, of course," he said, as if any other answer was inconceivable. "But I did capture three of his men." A slight smile curved his lips and lit his eyes. "He does not make it easy like Uncle Stephen does."

"Yes, I imagine your uncle Stephen wants everyone to feel good, whereas your father wants everyone to be good. Everybody needs a little of both, so you are lucky."

I said good night and nodded to Maria as I left, noticing that her frown had deepened. I needed to have a discussion with Benedict about her. It didn't matter that the elderly woman had been Francesca's nurse; her dour nature wasn't good for Robert and Justin.

Everyone was awaiting me in the parlor, even Constance. I was an unbearable half an hour late, which only added to the knots tightening in my stomach. I hadn't seen Stephen, Constance, Benedict's mother, or Mr. Henderson since the Sunday I had fallen ill. That was two weeks ago, and according to my hazy recollections, it had been a disturbing day. The weight of everyone's regard nearly knocked me off my feet, but Benedict's was the heaviest. He stood near the window, his dark gaze raking over me. I should have worn the gray serge. "Forgive my tardiness," I murmured.

Stephen, who stood closest to the door, approached to take my hand. "Nothing to forgive," he said. From the look of him, I expected to hear he'd been ill, too. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and his hand trembled. The mask of humor he used to face the world had become tattered.

"I doubt Cook Thomas would concur, Stephen," Mrs. Trevelyan said from the confines of her wheelchair, next to Benedict. "Well, Benedict, do not just stand there. Wheel me over to Miss Lovell." Had Benedict confronted his mother about her ability to walk?

I winced and glanced her way as he pushed her toward me. Expecting to be on the sharp end of her ax-like disposition, I stiffened my spine, determined I wouldn't let her behead me with her wit, but she surprised me. "I hear you were instrumental in my grandson's recovery."

"Not necessarily," I hedged, shooting Benedict a wary look, only to encounter his own surprised expression. If he hadn't told his mother about holding Robert and me all night, then who had? I blushed at what the household staff must be gossiping about.

"Nonsense," she said. "From the look of you, a light breeze would finish you off, so I offer my thanks before it does. Have they fed you nothing but broth? I suggest we eat dinner without any further delay, Benedict."

"For once we are in agreement, Mother," Benedict said. He shrugged at my questioning glance, telling me he'd been no more a part of his mother's confidences than I had.

Standing back to let Benedict wheel his mother into the dining room, I felt a light touch upon my arm. Katherine stood at my side, smiling as she signed something to me.

"She says that it is good to see you recovered," Stephen said, stepping up and putting his arm around his sister's shoulders. "I must agree with her. We would have visited, but the doctor ordered everyone to keep away while you and Robert were ill. Only two maids who had scarlet fever before stayed, and Benedict of course."

"I had not realized." So Benedict's presence when I'd been sick wasn't a figment of my imagination. Smiling at Katherine, I signed "Thank you" to her.

Mr. Henderson, with Constance at his side, joined us. "It is indeed good to see you, Miss Lovell. May I have the pleasure of sitting next to you at dinner?" Mr. Henderson held out his arm to me.

"Of course." Doing anything else would have been rude. Still, an uncomfortable knot tightened in my stomach, which worsened with the knowing look Constance sent me over her shoulder. From the moment Benedict stepped through the threshold of the demon-carved door, he'd captured some part of me. In truth, even before then. I could still remember the deep timbre of his voice, reaching inside of me, sparking a fire that grew hotter with our every encounter. Yet even if Benedict's presence hadn't already filled me, I'd find it difficult to entertain a romantic notion for a man of Mr. Henderson's stature. Being next to a man who stood half a head shorter than me magnified my ungainly proportions to a painful point. It was almost as bad as being compared to Constance's petiteness.

I wondered if Providence was punishing my dress rebellion when I ended up being seated between Mr. Henderson and Constance, with Benedict at one end, Mrs. Trevelyan at the other, and Stephen and Katherine across.

Constance was the first to speak after the oyster stew was served. "Miss Chapman stopped by today. You remember her, don't you, Stephen?"

For some reason Stephen paled. "Yes."

"I believe her brother was a regular acquaintance of yours before you went East. I even thought you had called on Miss Chapman for a while, too."

Stephen cleared his throat. "I haven't seen Henry or Miss Chapman since my return."

"Well, Miss Chapman was beside herself with glee. Apparently Henry has written a play that's become a major success. All the critics are raving about it"

"That is interesting. I may have to look him up."

"She invited me to attend a performance tomorrow, but I declined I just do not think I would be able to watch it. He's set the play during the war, about which everyone is extremely sensitive. But that is not as disturbing as the plot. Two brothers fall in love with the same woman, and in the end she kills herself over it."

Dropped spoons clattered into bowls, and a dead silence followed.

Stephen stood, tossing his napkin onto the table. "If you will excuse me. I am feeling rather unwell."

He left quickly. Katherine, ignorant of Constance's revelation, watched Stephen a moment. She signed something to Benedict. He replied in the same manner, and she left the table too.

"I have never known you to show such lack of decorum," Benedict said, his voice tight with anger.

"Well," Constance said, "perhaps I should not have mentioned the play, but I thought it best. You see, since Henry and Stephen were known to each other, there are now more rumors about . . . my sister, and she would have—" She tossed her napkin on the table and stood. A welling of tears sat in her eyes. "I for one am finding it most difficult to never be able to speak of the sister I loved. It is as if every memory of her has to be killed so that the rest of you can live." Constance left the room in a rush.

My lungs were shouting for air before I gathered myself enough to breathe. What could one possibly say in the wake of Constance's storm? I had to view it as such. She could have spoken to Stephen and Benedict in private, but she had chosen to air her grievances in public, and I couldn't help but wonder why. I also wondered what Benedict would do now.

He picked up his spoon. "I suggest we continue with our meal. Not only does Miss Lovell need sustenance, but Cook Thomas will have a fit if we don't. Alan, what came of your meeting today?"

As they launched into a business discussion, I glanced at Mrs. Trevelyan. She'd remained strangely silent during the emotional uproar, and I wondered why.

"I do not suppose we ever escape from the dead, do we, Miss Lovell?" She spoke low, so only I could hear. "It would seem that they live on, no matter what. As do we."

I blinked and scrambled for a reply. "True," I said haltingly. "Anyone who touches your life is never really gone."

"Unfortunately, the evil ones that pass have more presence than the good."

I shook my head, ignoring the shiver running down my spine. "No. I think the truly good in people leaves a deeper impression than evil. But given the frailties of the human heart, very few truly good are known."

"Very well said, Miss Lovell," Benedict said, startling me. I hadn't realized he'd finished his conversation. The moment our gazes connected, I lowered mine, not trusting in my ability to hide what I felt. "Do you agree, Alan?"

"No, I find that I do not agree. You spoke eloquently enough, Miss Lovell. But the truth of it is that evil has had the upper hand since Cain slew Abel. A man cannot help but become what he despises. Not deliberately so, but slowly, through a series of choices he has no idea are going to lead to that end. It is fate."

I swallowed my automatic denial. The truth of Mr. Henderson's words could be seen in Benedict's stark expression. Was it possible to become what you despised? How could one make choices and not know where they'd lead? I blinked suddenly and looked down at the cornflower blue dress I'd chosen to wear instead of the gray serge and the reasons behind my choice. Vanity? A wish to attract Benedict's attention? To what end? I didn't want to face the questions my actions proposed.

Thankfully, Mr. Henderson changed the subject, and the rest of the dinner conversation passed in relative frivolity after the heaviness with which the meal had begun. When we'd finished, the men excused themselves to Benedict's study, and Mrs. Trevelyan and I went to our rooms.

Halfway to my room, I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air before retiring and directed my steps to the gardens. The moment I was out of the house, a gentle breeze from the bay wrapped around me like a lover's hand, teasing my senses, enticing me farther into the shadows of the night. Moonlight, beacons of magic in the dark, kissed the blooming roses and cast the streaming waters of the angel fountain in silver. I wandered over to her, mentally tossing all of my worries upon her winged shoulders, and shut my eyes to breathe deeply of the scents filling the air—roses and honeysuckle laced with a dash of salt.

The tension knotting my neck and shoulders eased. Opening my eyes, I stretched my hands out to the stars, wishing they weren't so far away.

The scrape of a boot startled me, and I swung around. Stephen sat on the ground, his back resting against the base of the fountain.

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

And then thou must be damn'd perpetually,

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

That time may cease, and midnight never come.

"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.