My Captive Duchess (The Reeves of Reeves Hall #1)

Chapter 4

Jane

A t last, we have arrived. My pulse beats rapidly at my temple as we trundle over the cobbled stone path that leads towards Penhale Manor. I press my nose to the carriage window, straining to catch my first sight of what is to be my new home. Chloe, remains fast asleep on my lap. Across from me, I sense Betsy’s worried regard.

In the murky shadows, I glimpse a rectangular-shaped, two-storied structure with twin chimney stacks on either side. Soon, we come to a stop, and without any further ado, I gently ease Chloe off my lap, open the carriage door and hop down. It is then that I take my first proper look at the house, and my heart sinks. The building itself is of good size and characterful in appearance with grey-coloured brickwork and tall, mullioned windows. However, even a cursory glance reveals that the house has been sadly neglected.

Several windowpanes are cracked, with one missing altogether. Great clumps of ivy cover the whole east side of the building, obscuring some of the windows. As I raise my gaze to the top of the building, I spy a few gaps in the tiles on the roof. Has water leaked into the house? If this is the state it is in on the exterior, what condition will it be in on the inside? There is only one way to find out. With a determined step, I hurry to the door and ring the bell.

As I wait for a response, the coachman begins to bring down our trunks. Betsy remains in the carriage with a still sleeping Chloe, but I feel her worried glance follow me. After what seems an eternity, I ring the bell again, but there is still no answer. The house is evidently deserted. I huff in frustration. Mr Oakley has informed me that there resides at Penhale Manor a housekeeper named Mrs Treen and a groundsman named Pedrick. He has written to inform them of my arrival. They should be expecting me, but there is no sign of either of them. I turn the handle on the door, hoping against hope that it will open, but the door is firmly locked.

I turn and walk back to the carriage, a heaviness in my chest. Night is about to fall, and it is imperative that we find shelter very soon. I have no knowledge as to how much further the village of Penhale lies, nor if there is a respectable inn there at which we may stay. There is nothing for it. We shall have to brave it at Penhale Manor. But first, we must get inside.

I study the house once more, my eyes going to the broken windowpane. It is on a ground floor window on the far side of the house. An idea takes shape in my mind. “Evans,” I call to the coachman. “Do you see that broken glass over there?”

He looks to where I am pointing and replies, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Would you be able to reach inside to unlock the latch on the window and lift it open enough to climb inside?”

He considers it for a moment, then nods. “I will try.”

Quickly, he goes to the window in question and reaches his arm through the gap, looking for the latch. Then with a loud creak, he lifts the sash window up a few inches. The resulting aperture is small, certainly not large enough for his bulky frame to fit through. My spirits take another dive.

There is only one other possibility. I look down at myself. I have often been teased for being a small slip of a thing. Many have been the times I have dreamed of growing an extra inch, or filling out a little more at the hips, all to no avail. For once though, my diminutive frame may present an advantage. I hurry towards the coachman and speak with as much authority as I can muster. “Evans, you will have to lift me up high so I can get inside.”

He looks at me doubtfully, unused to the idea of a gentlewoman clambering through a window. It is not, admittedly, something that I have ever done before either. This entire situation is new to me, but I have never shirked from facing up to any predicament. One must do what one must. I peer through the window at the dark room within, trying not to think about what I may encounter inside. I make out a ghostly-looking shroud to one side, and my heart quickens. Then I remind myself that it is only a dust sheet protecting the furniture. This is not the time to panic. Chloe needs a bed tonight, and we need to get inside. Before I lose courage, I chivvy him, sharpening my tone, “Quick. There is no time to be lost.”

I see the moment he makes his decision. With a huffed breath, he kneels on the ground and interlaces his fingers for me. Carefully, I set one foot on the inside of his hands and hoist myself up, gripping the window sill to propel myself forward through the gap. Head first, I tumble inside, feeling a painful burn on my thighs as I slide over the sill. A moment later, my head hits the wooden floor with a thump. For several instants, I lay in a heap on the floor, too dazed to move. Then, I force myself to my feet.

The room is dim, only a very faint light streaming in through the open window. I stand for a moment, trying to get my bearings and to fight the rising fear in my breast. Glancing to my right, I catch sight once more of the white shrouded furniture that has the look of a ghostly apparition despite all the rational words I tell myself. Slowly, my eyes begin to accustom themselves to the gloom. I take a deep breath. With a nervous flutter in my heart, I step towards the door, but a sudden creak underfoot has me pause. Standing still, I take another deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. This is not the time to panic. Chloe needs a warm, safe bed for the night.

I start again and reach the door, feeling my way to the knob and turning it. The door opens with a creak into a darkened hallway. There is no light at all now, only an impenetrable black. I step blindly forward in the direction of where I think the main door might be, but I cannot help a whimper of pain as my toe stubs into the clawed foot of a side table. The pounding of my heart is loud in my ear as I force myself to resume my journey. I take small steps, a few inches forward at a time. Finally, I enter a large open space which I feel sure must be the main hallway. In the shadows, I perceive the front door.

I go to it quickly and pull at the iron bolt that forms a bar, the thick end of which is burrowed into a slot in the adjacent wall. Evans is on the other side, helping to pull the door wide open. He goes then to retrieve our trunks while I search for a taper to light. I am in luck! On a side table stands a large candlestick, and inside a drawer, I find a tinderbox. I manage to pry it open and with shaking hands, strike the steel to the flint a few times until it sparks, setting alight the tinder cloth inside the box. I am thankful then that my many years living as little more than a servant in my aunt’s household have taught me well. I do not think either of my cousins would know what to do were they faced with a similar situation, so coddled is their life. Emboldened by my success, I quickly light the candlestick, then search for more candles to light.

Under their glow, I am finally able to take a good look about me. The hallway is covered in fine dust, and there is a musty smell in the air, but the room is dry. In spite of my previous misgivings, I feel a small burgeoning of hope. Dust can be swept. Rooms can be aired. Matters are not so very bad.

The hallway is rectangular in shape, the floor covered in large slabs of polished grey stone. On my left, I spy a fireplace, above which hangs an ornate gilt mirror. I give it a cursory glance, for my attention is on the wide staircase that lies before me. It is time to explore the rooms upstairs and find suitable bedchambers. I take another deep breath and head towards it, holding the candlestick in my hand. Something scuttles in the shadows, a mouse no doubt. My heart jumps, but I force myself to keep going.

Up the stairs I go. On the landing at the top, I pause and look around. On either side of the staircase are six sets of doors. I go to the first one and open it. I find a bedchamber, furnished with a sturdy four-poster bed. My exploration of the other doors yields three further sleeping rooms, a washroom and an upstairs parlour. There is a small side staircase that leads to the eaves, where no doubt the servants’ rooms are located. The larger of the four rooms is obviously the master and mistress’s bedchamber. The air is stale in there, and the bed linen though clean, has a musty smell to it. It will have to do. Putting the candlestick down on the dressing table, I go to the window, and with some effort, manage to open it so I can air the room. As I turn back, I catch sight of cobwebs on the ceiling, but for now, I let them be. My daughter and I need a bed for the night.

With a determination borne from need, I pull the bedcovers and shake the dust out of them. I pound the pillows and mattress, airing them as best I can. Before I head back down to Betsy and Chloe, I light a fire in the hearth but keep the window open for now, to chase out the mustiness. I take a last look around. This will have to do, I tell myself firmly.

I go back down the stairs on legs that are steadier than before. Nothing has more strength than dire necessity , as the saying goes. I see that Evans has placed our various trunks and bandboxes in the hallway. Betsy sits on a chair with Chloe asleep in her lap. She looks about her in evident dismay. A quick glance outside tells me Evans has taken the carriage and horses to the stable and is busy settling them down. I turn back to my maid. “Follow me, Betsy,” I say, injecting authority into my voice.

Eyes wide in her round face, she does as I ask, holding Chloe in her arms. In silence, I lead her to the bedchamber I prepared, and together, we get Chloe ready for bed, removing her shoes and dress. She stirs but does not come fully awake. Betsy finds the chamber pot, and together, we help Chloe do her business before settling her under the covers. I go to shut the window, though leave a sliver open, just to ensure some fresh air in the room.

Over the next hour, Betsy and I work away with gritted resolve, sweeping, airing and unpacking the most necessary of our belongings. I send her to look for fresh water, and after some time, she returns with a filled jug, which I direct her to leave for me in the bedchamber. Night has now fallen, and there is not much more we can do until morning. I am about to retire to bed when I hear a commotion outside.

I hurry down to the front entrance and find a grizzled looking man of uncertain years talking loudly with Evans. My coachman turns to me. “Your Grace, this is Pedrick, the groundsman,” he says. “I found him asleep in the kitchen. I believe he is a trifle bosky,” he adds severely.

I turn my gaze to the groundsman, who is swaying a little with inebriation. “Pedrick,” I address him sternly. “Where is Mrs Treen and why has the house not been made ready for us? We sent word of our arrival over a week ago.”

Pedrick scratches his head, clearly befuddled. “I got a letter, aye, but I carn’t read. Mrs Treen be the one for that.”

“And where is she?” I demand.

“Gone to meet her maker, Your Grace, last winter it be.”

I sigh in frustration. The situation is becoming clear. With the housekeeper gone and a drunkard groundsman, it is no wonder the house has fallen into disrepair. It will not be a simple matter to redress the situation, but I do not think I have the strength to think about it now. I am bone weary and in need of sleep. Curtly, I tell him, “Pedrick, help Evans put up for the night. Tomorrow, bright and early, we shall talk.” And with that, I make my way back inside, bolting the door securely.

A short time later, I get into bed, shifting Chloe aside to make room for me. I say a silent prayer and close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but though I am weary, it is not quite so easy to lose myself in slumber. Thoughts jumble in my head. Worry and grief tumble painfully in my chest. It has been almost two months since I lost Giles. I miss the quiet reassurance of his presence and how he would run a gentle hand over my hair late at night before we settled into bed. Over and above my sorrow and my worries about the future, I have one nagging thought. I am alone now. There is nobody but myself on whom I can rely. How I wish I could fall into eternal sleep and never have to wake up to the overwhelming burden of this solitude.

Unbidden comes a vision of the man I met this evening at Reeves Hall. His face was handsome, the features strong and regular. All this handsomeness had been belied, though, by the piercing menace of his stare. A shiver runs through me as I remember. How am I to manage with a terrifying man for a neighbour, a drunkard groundsman and a run-down house in need of expensive repairs? It is too much. A tear then two slide down my cheeks. I cry silently, not wanting to disturb Chloe.

It is a long, long time before I finally fall into a fitful sleep.