For six years, Trevor had worked his fingers to the bone in both parishes, trying to prove to his uncle that he was ready and worthy to receive the livings promised him. After meeting Mary, he asked his uncle when the livings would become available. Squire Wallace told him in a year at the most.
Four long years ago.
Finally, Reverend Stone would be retiring after this December, but it was not Trevor who would be taking both parishes. When he’d gone and confronted the squire, his uncle had magnanimously added that Trevor could continue to work as his cousin’s curate. Or, in other words, perform the duties of vicar in both parishes and be paid a small stipend.
“That is unfair, sir. I have worked for nine years for these positions. Perhaps you can give me one living and your son the other.”
“Squire to the likes of you, Nevvy,” his uncle had said. “You should be grateful that I deign to employ you at all as a curate. You’ve got bad blood in you. Common blood.”
These words referred to his dead mother, who had been the daughter of a farrier and not a gentlewoman. Trevor longed to yell at the unfairness of it all, but he’d merely left. Fifty pounds per annum was better than nothing, and he had no money of his own. Nothing to offer Mary or the children they might have had. He could not and would not blame his own progeny for his poverty.
Unable to cope with the suspense anymore, Trevor stood and opened the letter. But it was not from Mary but the Duke of Hampford. He dropped the letter and watched it float to the floor.
Chapter 3
To say that he was impressed by Hampford Castle would have been an understatement. Trevor stood in the courtyard, filled with reverence and awe. The historic structure was like stepping into the past. There were two gates and a large green area in the middle, which was currently covered in frost. But at the rate the snowflakes were falling, he did not doubt that it would all be a blanket of white in a few hours.
A footman met him at the door of the carriage with an umbrella. The Duke of Hampford’s staff were treating him like a proper guest and not merely an acquaintance of their governess. The footman led him to a pair of large wooden double doors and opened one for him. Standing inside, as ifthey were waiting for his arrival, were none other than Mary’s charges. He did not need to have seen a portrait of them to know exactly who they were. Mary had described them in great detail in her letters.
Lady Frederica was the tallest and a stately beauty. Lady Helen was willowy, with fair features and a fairy-like countenance. And Lady Rebecca, the youngest, was taller than Lady Helen and had the more robust figure of Frederica. They were all exceptionally lovely girls, but he felt a pang of disappointment that Mary was not there to meet him. Clearing his throat, he was sure that there was a good reason. Mary was a very practical and accomplished woman. Perhaps she had duties she needed to see to. He prayed that it was not because she had decided to break their long engagement. He knew that he should not hold her to her word, particularly when there was no end in sight. It would take a miracle for them to be able to marry. And even though he was an ordained clergyman of the Church of England, he did not believe in miracles. At least, not for the likes of him.
Despite being the daughters of a duke, all three of them curtsied to him as if he were an equal or a man of rank. He bowed in return, noticing how very fine their embroidered muslin dresses were and hoping that they would not see his frayed cuffs or darned trousers.
“Lady Frederica, Lady Helen, and Lady Rebecca.”
A middle-aged man wearing livery entered the room. He gave Trevor a sharp bow, and he assumed the man was a butler. “Mr. Wallace, allow me to take your coat and hat.” He did so and turned to the groom that had accompanied Trevor. “Jim, will you have Mr. Wallace’s trunk and effects sent to the blue room?”
The groom bowed. “Of course, Mr. Harper.”
“Lady Frederica,” the butler continued, “why don’t you take our guest to the parlor? I will have hot tea and cakes brought there. I am sure Mr. Wallace is hungry after traveling.”
“Excellent suggestion, Harper,” Lady Helen said, grabbing Lady Rebecca’s hand. “Just this way, Poor Trevor.”
The most stunning bird that he had ever seen in his life soared above him with bright blue feathers and a yellow breast. It had a long curved black beak and it spoke like a human.
“Poor Trevor. Poor Trevor,” the bird repeated, flying over their heads.
“Oh, do not listen to Mademoiselle Jaune,” Lady Rebecca said, shooing the bird away. “She likes to insult people.”
The bird repeated his name twice more and he stumbled slightly at the sound of it. Did Mary call him “Poor Trevor” to her charges? To a bird? Was it because of his pecuniary difficulties? Or did they all pity him? He felt the blood rush to his face and was sure itwas as red as a holly berry. He tucked his arms to his side as his stomach hardened.
Lady Frederica walked beside him, behind her two younger sisters. “Neither Helen nor Mademoiselle Jaune mean any impertinence, sir. It is only that we feel as if we know you through your letters to Miss Perkins.”
“Mary reads my letters to you?”
She gave a delicate laugh but no other response.
The room they entered had a roaring fire in the hearth and was sumptuously decorated with gilded furniture that seemed too fine to sit on. Trevor perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, wishing that Mary was here with him. He tugged at his simple cravat, glad that it was not his dog collar. He felt awkward enough without it. His toes curled in his boots.
A few minutes later, the butler brought in a tea tray, and Lady Frederica began to make the tea. She surprised Trevor again by serving him first and then simply leaving her sisters’ teacups on the tray for them to fetch.
Lady Helen took her cup. “We should give him a tour of the house. Where should we start?”
“The towers?” Lady Frederica suggested, a teasing smile on her lips. Trevor wondered what the joke was and hoped that he was not the butt of it.
“No, not the towers,” Lady Helen said, giving her elder sister a daggerlike glare. “We should go from the bottom up—the dungeons.”
Lady Rebecca clapped her hands together and beamed. “Oh yes! We should start in the dungeons. Harper, would you mind sending a scullery maid down to light a fire? It gets so cold down there in wintertime, and we should not wish for our guest to freeze.”