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

Chapter 9

Jane

I come awake slowly, my body huddled under the blanket for warmth on this cold April morning. From the angle of the sunlight streaming in through my window, I can tell that morning must be well underway. I have slept beyond my usual time and should bestir myself. I take an additional moment though, to reflect on the happenings of yesterday.

In the cold light of morning, what I saw in that room—the square of red and green light that emitted a curious tingling energy to my fingers—seems like an outlandish dream. Did I imagine it all? No, I decide. I did not imagine it, especially not Brook Reeves’s angry reaction to finding me in that room. I remember clearly his threat. If you know what is good for you, Duchess, you will put whatever you saw in there from your mind. My house is none of your business . And I remember all too clearly what happened afterwards … but I will not distract myself with thoughts of how Brook Reeves almost kissed me. It’s enough I could not get to sleep last night for thinking of it. With an effort, I direct my mind back on the strange occurrences I saw at Reeves Hall.

I can only conclude there is something in that room that he does not want me to know about, something connected to what I saw. But try as I might, I cannot come up with any rational explanation for that strange flashing light. Could it be some sort of scientific experiment Brook Reeves is undertaking? Perhaps he does not want his secret leaked to competitors before he has patented and trademarked whatever invention he has underway. I still cannot fathom what this invention could be. A hand warming contraption for cold winter evenings? That still does not explain to me the green and red flashing light. What flame could produce such an effect?

I sigh and throw off the covers, getting out bed. My daughter’s cries from somewhere in the house remind me that I have business of my own to attend to. Quickly, I wash and dress, then go to find Chloe.

Later, our breakfast complete, I sit in my private parlour to go through the accounts. The numbers on my ledger are not reassuring. Replacing the broken windows and roof tiles is going to be a costly undertaking. I suspect the glazier that Evans found in Newquay is charging more than he should for his services, but I am not in any position to turn him down. Those windows must be repaired urgently and the house sealed from incoming rain and rodents.

I cannot escape my disheartening reflections. I have been burdened with a crumbling house in the middle of nowhere, the repairs on which are beyond my ability to afford. Replacing the damaged windows and roof tiles is only the beginning. Next, I shall need to tackle the terrible damp that has spread to parts of the house as a consequence of its neglect. There is still so much to do to bring Penhale Manor to a proper standard for living.

A little scurrying sound behind me makes me swing around in my chair quickly. I do not see anything, but I am quite certain that was yet another mouse making itself at home in my house. We shall have to lay some traps in this room too, I think.

I turn back to my dispiriting accounts. Much of my small reserve of gold guineas is gone. Last week, I had written to Mr Oakley to request an advance on my funds before the next instalment of my allowance is due, but his letter in response, received today, makes clear that this would not be possible unless I were to redeem some of the capital invested, something he would strongly advise against.

He had explained to me before I left Coleford Hall that my annual income of ￡400 would be paid in quarterly instalments on the first day of January, April, July and October. Of the ￡100 pounds of my April allowance, only ￡21 now remains. How am I to eke this amount in the two months to go before July finally comes? Chloe is growing fast, and I have already let out all her frocks. Instead of purchasing a new set of clothes for her as I had intended, I shall have to think of creative ways to make do with what I already have. I suppose I could sacrifice my peach muslin gown, for which I have no use at present seeing as I am in mourning. From that gown, I could fashion two, or perhaps even three small frocks for Chloe. It is fortunate that I am dexterous with the needle—something else I learned in my years as a subservient member of my aunt’s household. Truly, there can be no better preparation for the vagaries of the big wide world than to spend time in some lowly position, at someone else’s beck and call.

I ponder some more. I could sell the carriage and horses but then quickly discount the idea. Living in such isolation, it is vital we keep a means of transport. There is only one other economy I can think of. We shall have to cut down on our consumption of meat, I decide, limiting it to only once or twice a week. The rest of the time, we shall eat like humble cottagers—porridge, vegetable stew and bread. Perhaps we may supplement this with an egg or two. If others can survive on such a sparse diet, then surely so can we. It will not be forever, I console myself, only for two months until further funds come my way. I am sure we can do it. We shall have to, for I have no wish to be beholden to creditors.

I rise, about to go fetch my peach muslin gown, when there comes a knock at the door. Mary, the new housemaid, enters at my beckon. She bobs a curtsy then hastens towards me with a letter in her hands. “This just came, Your Grace,” she mumbles shyly.

I take the missive from her with a word of thanks. As the door shuts behind Mary, I turn it over, curious to see there is no postmark of any sort. Quickly, I break the seal and withdraw two sheets of paper. The larger sheet is a watercolour painting depicting a charming brick cottage. I set it down, puzzled, and take the other piece of paper, a cutting from a newspaper advertisement. On it, I read:

I stare at the newspaper cutting in bewilderment. Why has it been sent to me? And is the accompanying painting a depiction of the cottage that is for sale? It must be. I read the particulars of the advertisement again. The cottage is in Frome. It is a small town I know well, for I visited the shops there often when I lived in Coleford. I am struck by a heartening thought as I ponder the contents of this missive. This cottage could be the solution to my current dilemma, for I could easily afford its asking price and have a generous sum left over, were I to accept Brook Reeves’s offer for Penhale Manor.

Brook Reeves . He must be the one to have sent me this. It cannot be anyone else. The scheming Machiavelli! I do not question how in such short a time, he must have gotten hold of this painting and newspaper. The man quite clearly has the means to do many a thing beyond my wherewithal. On the back of that thought is another. He must want Penhale Manor very badly. At this, the contrary part of my nature, a side of myself I am not altogether proud of, rears up with a desire to thwart Brook Reeves in this endeavour.

My mind is in a quandary though. What a relief it would be to hand over the burden of Penhale Manor to someone else and walk away with more than sufficient funds to purchase a charming cottage such as this one advertised in Frome. It is not in my nature, however, to give up in the face of a challenge. And oh, how sweet the victory would be if I were somehow to prevail through these difficult times and succeed here at Penhale Manor.

I rise to my feet, determined to carry on. When next I see Brook Reeves, I shall have words to say. A smile forms on my lips, for I do believe that sparring with the scowling squire of Reeves Hall is fast becoming my newest, most favourite pastime.