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

Chapter 6

Jane

I am shaking as I watch Brook Reeves stride out of my drawing room. The air around me still holds a remnant of his scent—a curious spicy aroma that invades my senses and heightens my tremors. His presence was powerful, intimidating and not a little terrifying. I feel my heart hammering in my chest as I take in deep breaths to try to regain my composure.

That is next to an impossible task, for no sooner have I recovered from my reaction to his overwhelming presence than I am beset by anger. How dare that man try to chase me from my home! Two days I have spent, from the break of dawn to the darkness of night, trying with Betsy to make the house liveable. I summoned Pedrick, the first morning of our arrival, and had stern words for him. Then I bade him clear the ivy from the house and the weeds from the garden. I sent Evans to the village to find another housemaid and fetch a carpenter for the most urgent repairs. Throughout these two days, one thought has been constant in my mind. This is my home now; I have no other place to go.

And this arrogant Mr Reeves thinks to drive me from it? His offer was generous. For an instant—a very short instant—I was tempted. But no. I have not come all this way and put in all this effort, only to give up. Penhale Manor is not for sale. As for this invitation to dine at Reeves Hall next Thursday—I have no wish to break bread with that ogre of a man , especially, as I assume, he lives alone. But if he has a wife, or family, they will undoubtedly be objectionable too. Besides which, I am still in mourning. I had almost forgotten this in my anger.

On this last thought, I stride over to my bureau and take out a sheet of paper. I then dip my quill in the pot of ink and begin composing a letter which reads as follows.

Mr Reeves, esquire, Reeves Hall

Dear Sir,

I thank you for the invitation to dine at Reeves Hall this coming Thursday. However, I must decline, since I am in my period of mourning.

I pause, thinking back angrily to his words. Your Grace, you will be well served to accept my offer . The arrogance of that man! Perhaps unwisely, I dip the quill in more ink and add the following:

Besides, your ungracious behaviour has me conclude that it would be best not to continue our acquaintance.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Cavendish, Dowager Duchess of Coleford

I summon Evans and hand him the missive, asking him to deliver it as expeditiously as possible, after which I resume my work around the house. Chloe is being seen to by the young maid that arrived from the village this morning, a girl named Mary, though my daughter is proving to be quite a challenging charge. With the resilience of youth, Chloe has settled into her new home and taken great joy in running about the house to explore its many rooms; and escaping her young minder. I shake my head in amusement as I hear my daughter’s shrieks outside the door and Mary’s pleas to “Come back here!” What a hoyden I am raising.

I turn my attention back to my task. I have one more trunk of books to unpack, then I shall rejoin my daughter for our luncheon—a simple affair of soup and bread, for we have yet to fill the kitchen larder. As I kneel by the trunk and carefully take out each book, dusting it with a cloth before placing it on the book case in the drawing room, I catch myself humming a familiar old tune, one by the name of Black-eyed Susan . I stop just as soon as I realise what I am doing, sitting back on my heels in dismay. Could it be that already, the pall of grief is fading away? I summon an image in my mind of Giles. Good, kind, gentle Giles. He was my saviour, my gallant rescuer from menial poverty, and I did love him so. I smile as I think of him.

Earlier this morning, when Mr Reeves expressed his condolences for my loss, I had felt my eyes fill with unbidden tears at the reminder of my bereavement. I had valiantly held those tears back, for I had no wish to cry in front of that man. So it is strange that now, as I busy myself with the business of settling into my new home, I feel a sense of hopeful cheer—enough to have me humming. What could possibly have changed in the few hours since then?

I do not have far to ponder this question. It is to do with that man—Brook Reeves. My encounter with him has lit a fire in my belly. It has awoken a streak of contrariness in my character, one that has appeared a time or two before. When my family implored me to distance myself from the Duke of Coleford and reject his improbable advances, I ignored them all. Truth be told, they partly spurred me to encourage Giles’s suit, for I had not at first paid him much heed. After all, I thought his frequent visits to our house were in order to court one or other of my cousins, certainly not me, the poor relation.

And just as those many admonishments had stoked a stubborn wilfulness in me to resist, so too have Mr Reeves’s entreaties for me to sell Penhale Manor awoken a determination in me not to do so. A sensible moment’s reflection would have me conclude that a sum of ￡3,500 is not one to be sneered at. It would allow me to purchase a suitable house in a village or town, perhaps back in my home county of Somerset, and leave a tidy amount to spare which I could put away for Chloe’s dowry. And yet I know that I will not sell. It is that contrariness again. But I am glad of it, for it strips away my grief and gives me a bold sense of purpose. Moreover, I think I might enjoy the challenge of restoring this house to its former glory.

I resume my task, taking the next book out of the trunk, and start humming again, this time with the lyrics to the song.

All in the downs the fleet was moor’d, The streamers waving in the wind, when black-ey’d Susan came on board: Oh! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me ye jovial sailors, tell me true, if my sweet William sails among the crew!

I am interrupted mid-song by Betsy’s arrival, bearing a letter for me. I take it from her and hurriedly break the seal. It is a note from Mr Reeves, terse and lacking the usual preambles.

Duchess,

Nonsense. I will come fetch you myself Thursday at 7.

br

Well, if that isn’t the outside of enough! He expects me at this dinner does he? “We shall have to see about that!” I exclaim to a much startled Betsy.

My opportunity presents itself on Sunday, as I attend church service at the quaint little church in Penhale village. It is my first foray into the village, which is small, consisting of the church, a row of shops on the main street and a handful of modest stone cottages. All eyes are upon me as I enter the hall and look for a suitable pew to perch on. I hear the buzz of whispering voices, no doubt discussing the appearance of a stranger in their midst. I lift my chin haughtily, for I am no stranger to whisperings about me. The early days of my marriage to Giles were education enough into the gossiping ways of the world, and I soon learned not to mind them, or at least make a semblance of not minding them.

With Chloe’s hand clasped in mine, we walk down the central aisle. I nod a regal smile here and there, but my eyes are fixed on a pew mid-way down, which blessedly seems to be unoccupied. I am about to take a seat when a harsh voice calls out to me, “Over here.” I look up and catch sight of none other than Mr Brook Reeves. He beckons me over, and after a moment of hesitation, I guide my steps towards him. My usual stubbornness, it seems, has deserted me.

“Mr Reeves,” I say in greeting as I reach him, performing a stiff little curtsy. I am immediately surrounded by his spicy scent, something about it setting my pulse racing.

“Sit here, Duchess,” he barks, making space for me beside him. I have little choice but to obey, sinking down on to the wooden pew that is covered in a long, purple cushion. I settle Chloe in my lap, and she turns her curious gaze upon the man beside me.

“I am Chloe,” she says simply.

“I am Brook,” he responds, just as simply.

“You are big,” she says earnestly.

He nods his head in agreement. “And you are small,” he says in reply.

I hear a snicker of laughter and turn to the man sitting on the other side of me. He smiles and bows his head. “Your Grace,” he says. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Harry Reeves.” He makes a gesture with his hand towards the two people sitting on his right. “And this is my sister, Laura Reeves, and my younger brother Simon.”

I nod to them in acknowledgement. There is no need for them to tell me that they are brothers and sister to Brook Reeves, for the resemblance is there for all to see. Harry Reeves is equally tall as Brook, but of a leaner build. His hair and eyes are of the same rich brown, but his features are sharper. One would hesitate to call him handsome if not for the kindliness of his expression, which gives him a friendly, open demeanour, nothing like the scowling intensity of his older brother’s countenance.

“I was so pleased to hear that you will be attending our dinner party,” Harry now says with a shy smile. “You will have to forgive us though, for we are a trifle rusty with regards to entertaining. We live a quiet life you see.”

I smile, immediately put at my ease. “I am used to a quiet life myself,” I assure him, then remember that I am not planning to attend. “However, you will have to excuse me from your dinner party on this occasion, for I am still in my period of mourning.”

His face falls. “Oh, of course,” he mumbles. “That is quite understandable.”

“Nonsense,” a now-familiar voice growls at my side. “You are coming, Duchess. No arguing about it.”

I open my mouth to retort, but just then, the organ begins to play the first chords of a hymn as everyone rises to their feet. Throughout the ensuing church service, I am disconcertingly aware of Brook Reeves’s towering presence beside me in the crowded pew—the warmth of his large body, pressed much too close to mine, his scent, the frequent glances he sends my way. I try my very best to pretend I am unaffected by his proximity, putting on that cold, haughty look that I wear like armour.

Chloe is heavy on my lap. Soon, she grows restless and fidgety. “Settle down,” I urge her quietly.

“Want to play,” she says plaintively.

“Soon,” I promise.

She sticks out her bottom lip petulantly. “Now,” she demands.

As I try to quieten her, strong arms reach towards us and lift her away. Brook Reeves makes a mock scary face at Chloe that has her giggle in response. Next instant, I see him untie his cravat and give her the two ends of it, instructing her to tie it into a knot again. She takes the starched fabric and begins to play with it, tying it this way and that. In such manner, she is diverted until we reach the concluding part of the service. It is then I take Chloe back into my arms while Mr Reeves effects some repairs to his appearance, with mixed success.

After the service is over, I am kept busy with greetings and polite chit chat with all manner of people wishing to make my acquaintance. By the time I finally return to my carriage where Evans waits patiently, I have lost sight of Brook Reeves and of my opportunity to once more inform him that I am not, under any circumstance, attending his dinner party.