The Mister

She pushes these thoughts aside as she stares down at the keys. How long has it been since she last played? Weeks? Months? A sudden, acute feeling of anguish steals the air from her lungs, making her gasp, and tears form in her eyes.

No. Not here. She will not break down here. She clutches the piano in an effort to fight off her heartache and her homesickness, realizing it’s been more than a month since she last played. So much has happened since then.

She shudders and takes a deep breath, forcing a feeling of calm. She stretches her fingers and strokes the keys.

White. Black.

The mere touch soothes her. She wants to savor this precious moment and lose herself in her music. Gently, she pushes down the keys, sounding an E-minor chord. The sound rings clear and strong, a bold and verdant green, the color of the Mister’s eyes, and Alessia’s heart fills with hope. The Steinway is tuned to perfection. She launches into her warm-up piece, “Le Coucou”; the keys move with ease and a smooth, fluid action. Her fingers fly across the keyboard vivace, and the stress, fear, and sorrow of the last few weeks fade and finally mute as she loses herself in the colors of the music.

* * *

One of the Trevelyan London homes is on Cheyne Walk, a brisk stroll from my flat. Built in 1771 by Robert Adam, Trevelyan House had been Kit’s home since our father died. For me it holds many childhood memories—some happy, some less so—and now it’s mine to do with as I wish. Well, it’s held in trust for me. Faced once more with my new reality, I shake my head and pull the collar of my coat up to fight the biting cold, cold that seems to emanate not from outside but from within me.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this house?

It’s been two days since I saw Caroline, and I know she’s furious with me, but I will have to face her sooner or later. Standing on the doorstep, I contemplate whether or not to use my key. I’ve always had a key to the house, but to burst in unannounced feels like an intrusion.

Taking a deep breath, I knock twice. After a few moments, the front door opens and Blake, the family’s butler since before I was born, answers the door.

“Lord Trevethick,” he says, bowing his balding head and holding open the door.

“Is that really necessary, Blake?” I ask as I stride into the entrance hall. Blake remains mute as he takes my coat. “How’s Mrs. Blake?”

“She’s well, my lord. Greatly saddened by recent events, though.”

“As are we all. Is Caroline at home?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe Lady Trevethick is in the drawing room.”

“Thank you. I’ll see myself up.”

“Of course. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. Oh, and, Blake, as I said last week, ‘sir’ will suffice.”

Blake pauses, then gives me a nod. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

I want to roll my eyes. I was the Honourable Maxim Trevelyan and referred to as “Master Maxim” here. “Lord” applied only to my father, then my brother. It will take me some time to get accustomed to my new title.

I bound up the wide staircase and along the landing into the drawing room. It’s empty except for the overstuffed sofas and elegant Queen Anne furniture that has been in the family for generations. The drawing room opens onto a conservatory that has a spectacular view of the Thames, Cadogan Pier, and Albert Bridge. There I find Caroline, nestled in an armchair, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, and staring out the windows. She clutches a small blue handkerchief.

“Hi,” I say as I stride in. Caroline turns a tearstained face toward me, her eyes red and puffy.

Shit.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she snaps.

“Caro,” I begin, ready to placate her.

“Don’t Caro me, you wanker,” she snarls as she stands up, fists clenched.

Shit. She is really angry.

“What have I done now?”

“You know what you’ve done. Why haven’t you answered my calls? It’s been two days!”

“I’ve had a lot to think about, and I’ve been busy.”

“You? Busy? Maxim, you wouldn’t know busy if you tripped and stuck your dick in it.”

I blanch and then laugh at the image.

Caroline relaxes a little. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m angry with you.” Her lips form a pout.

“You have a way with words.” I open my arms, and she walks into my embrace.

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks as she hugs me back, her anger dissipating.

“It’s a lot to take on board,” I whisper as I hold her. “I needed time to think.”

“Alone?”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to lie. Monday night I was with, um…Heather, and last night it was…What was her name? Dawn.

Caroline sniffs and steps out of my arms. “I thought as much. I know you too well, Maxim. What was she like?”

I shrug as an image of Heather’s lips around my cock comes to mind.

Caroline sighs. “You’re such a whore,” she says with her usual disdain.

How can I deny it?

Caroline of all people knows about my nocturnal pursuits. She has a collection of choice epithets to describe me and regularly berates me for my promiscuity.

Yet she still went to bed with me.

“You’re whoring your way through your grief while I had to endure dinner with Daddy and the Stepsow alone. It was awful,” she quips. “And last night I was lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” I answer, because I can’t think of what else to say.

“You saw the lawyers?” She changes the subject, giving me a direct look.

I nod, and I have to acknowledge that this is another reason I’ve been avoiding her.

“Oh, no,” she whimpers. “You look so grave. I’ve got nothing, have I?” Her eyes are wide with fear and grief.

I place my hands on her shoulders and break it to her gently. “Everything is in trust for me as heir.”

Caroline lets out a sob and covers her mouth as tears fill her eyes. “Damn him,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work something out,” I murmur, and hold her once more.

“I loved him,” she says, her voice small and quiet, like a child’s.

“I know. We both did.” Though I know she also loved Kit’s title and his wealth.

“You’re not going to evict me?”

I take the handkerchief from her hand and wipe each of her eyes. “No, of course not. You’re my brother’s widow and my best friend.”

“But that’s all?” She gives me a wa

tery but bitter smile, and I kiss her forehead in lieu of answering her question.

“Your coffee, sir,” Blake says from the entrance to the conservatory.

Immediately I drop my arms and step away from Caroline. Blake enters, his face expressionless, and he’s holding a tray laden with cups, milk, a silver coffeepot, and my favorite biscuits—plain chocolate digestives.

“Thank you, Blake,” I respond, trying to ignore the slow flush I feel creeping up my neck.

Brazen this out.

Blake places the tray on the table beside the sofa. “Will that be all, sir?”

“For now, thank you.” My tone is sharper than I intended.

Blake exits the room, and Caroline pours the coffee. My shoulders slump with relief at Blake’s departure. And I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my head: Not in front of the staff.

I’m still holding Caroline’s damp handkerchief. I stare at it and frown, recalling a fragment from a dream I had last night—or was it this morning? A young woman, an angel? Possibly the Virgin Mary or a nun in blue standing in my bedroom doorway watching over me as I slept.

What the hell does that mean?

I’m not religious.

“What?” asks Caroline.

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I murmur, taking the cup of coffee she offers and giving her back her handkerchief.