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

Chapter 11

Jane

I had hoped to put Brook Reeves in his place last Sunday, but I am not sure my efforts were entirely successful. His jibe about my wanting to score a point over him hit deep, as the truth inevitably does. Not least because the decision to stay on at Penhale Manor is proving to be very costly.

The glazier has finished his work and all windows on the house have been repaired, which is a great relief. However, I have also had to pay his steep bill. Only ￡14 remains in my purse, of which much must go towards the servants’ pay and maintenance of the horses. If I am to stay on at Penhale Manor and not sell to Brook Reeves, I must endure the tribulations of having to make trenchant economies.

There are seven weeks to go until I receive my next funds in July. In that time, we must somehow survive on ￡2 a week. If we live simply, it may be doable, though I am riddled with doubt about it. I myself am going without meat, keeping our meagre supplies for Chloe, though even then, I cannot afford to feed her meat every day. Yesterday’s dinner was a thick vegetable and barley stew, together with slices of bread and butter. It was not a rich meal, but it filled my belly. I cannot complain. Chloe, however, was not so easily satisfied. “I want a meat pie,” she demanded.

“You had meat pie yesterday, and we’ll have some again in a few days. Not tonight,” I replied.

“Don’t want this,” she groused, pushing away the soup.

“If you do not eat it,” I warned, “you will go hungry.”

“Don’t want it,” my daughter insisted with a strangely familiar stubbornness.

In the end, I managed to get her to eat the bread and a slice of cheese I had been keeping for next day’s breakfast. I put her to bed later that evening, guilt gnawing at me. What sort of mother was I to deprive my child of the hearty meal she deserved? In vain, I tried to reason with myself. There was enough food on the table to fill her belly with had she not fussily rejected the soup. My daughter would not be expiring from starvation. It was a cold comfort.

The following Sunday, Chloe and I make our way to church once more in the carriage. Despite my dismal situation, as we near the village, I begin to feel a nervous excitement in my being. I do not need to guess why. It is that man, Brook Reeves. He may be my nemesis, for I cannot let him win this little battle we are engaged in, but it is also him that has eroded the numbness of my grief. There is something about our encounters that invigorates me, filling me with renewed life.

I still think of Giles, of course, but with a lessening of pain at his loss. Try as I might to avoid it, his features are beginning to grow hazy in my mind. All I have to remind me of him is a miniature portrait which I wear around my neck and a charcoal sketch of him that I made. I could not bring with me to Penhale the life-size portrait of Giles that hangs in the main gallery at Coleford Hall, for it is part of the entailed estate. One day, I hope Chloe and I will visit there again so she may see a good likeness of her father.

There is also something else, of which I feel a trifle ashamed, that has helped ease my grief over Giles. It is resentment at him for not having made the provisions to take care of his family in the event of his death. Oh, I know that I am being unfair to him. I am sure he thought that we would have a son or two in the fullness of time and that the estate would remain within his branch of the family. And yet, my notion of him as the white knight that came to this young maiden’s rescue has sadly been tarnished. What good is it to rescue the maiden only to throw her into penury once more? Poor Giles. Little does he know, wherever in heaven he now resides, that these thoughts cross my mind. I am not proud of them, but there it is, an undeniable fact.

The carriage stops, and we descend. Keeping a firm hand on Chloe so she does not evade me this time, we walk into the church vestibule. Without my volition, I search the room, my eyes not resting until they land on Brook Reeves. It does not at all help my feud with this man that I find him so immensely handsome. There is, of course, his large, well-shaped figure. More than once, as I have slaved over my needlework, I have conjured in my mind a vision of him that first time I saw him, his shirt undone at the collar, exposing the crisp dark hair on his broad chest. It was a display of masculinity I am unused to. Giles was fair, and his lean body was smooth as a babe’s. The sight of a dishevelled Brook Reeves had set my pulse pounding in a mixture of excitement and fear.

My feet now take me towards him. I should, if I am to maintain a haughty distance, find somewhere else to sit, far from all the Reeves family. My feet, though, have other plans. They take me to him, without even his having to beckon me as he did the last time. As I approach, I am struck again by the attractiveness of his countenance. Eyes of a rich brown stare fixedly at me under a set of straight black brows. A bold nose looks down at the world, telling it to mind its own business. Cheeks and jaw look to have been carved by a master sculptor, such is the perfection of their symmetry. And beneath the well-formed and full lips are a set of even white teeth.

Yes, the rogue is too handsome for his own good, I think as I approach him. Though it is not solely his handsomeness that attracts me to him. It is the way he looks at me. There is nothing about my appearance that should make a man stare. I am a mousy slip of a thing, far too accustomed to not being noticed, and so his notice of me is notable. It is a rare experience to be truly seen, one I have not enjoyed since Giles. Of course, his stare may not be one of admiration. I would hazard a guess that it is not. There is no softening of his expression. In actual fact, his face is set into something of a scowl. Yet I do not mind it. Though he may not admire me with his look, he pays me the respect of an esteemed adversary—one that he would never make the mistake of underestimating. I like that very much. Too much perhaps, for it is partly his scowling attention during our argumentative encounters that spurs me to prolong this battle rather than give in with good grace.

Soon, I reach his vicinity, and that is when I am hit with the other great reason for my attraction: his heavenly scent. It is like nothing I have scented before. I do not know who the maker is of his cologne, though not all that I inhale is come from a bottle. There is a wickedly male muskiness that emanates solely from him. Good Lord! Is it any wonder that I am revelling in our encounters, no matter how prickly they are? Lord forgive me, but I am mere flesh and blood, and before me you have lain the greatest of temptations. It is that which spurs me to say, a trifle coquettishly, “Mr Reeves, we meet again.”

“Duchess,” he responds in a low, deep voice. Then his eyes flick down to Chloe, who is grasping at the cloth of his trousers with her small fist, vying for his attention. “And what have we here?” he enquires a moment before picking her up in his arms.

“It’s Chloe,” my daughter chides, reminding him of her name.

“So it is. Hello, Chloe.” Her small hands stroke the roughness of his cheeks, and Lord have mercy, I am now jealous of my own daughter. “Did you bring a surprise?” she demands.

He lifts a brow. “Should I have?”

“Yes, yes!” she nods eagerly.

His brow creases as if in deep thought. “Then perhaps, I may have remembered to bring something along with me. But you will only have it if you promise to sit very quiet and still.”

Chloe is not sold on the bargain just yet. “What is it?” she wants to know.

“Something you will like very much, but you shall only get it if you sit nicely for your mama and me.” He points to the pew and reluctantly, she goes to sit in the middle between myself and Brook. I am relieved that he is not pandering to her wish to be fussed the whole time through the service. My daughter must learn to sit like everyone else.

She perches now between us, but her curiosity is such that she cannot help but ask, “Is it a sweet?”

“It is a surprise, Chloe, and therefore I cannot say.”

Chloe makes a little grimace of disappointment. “I want it to be a sweet,” she whines. Unabashedly and much to my mortification, she adds, “We did not get meat pie for dinner.”

“Oh? Then maybe you had a fish or a game pie,” responds Brook, playing along.

Chloe shakes her head mournfully. “Only horrid soup and bread, that is all we eat these days,” she moans, and at this moment, I wish the ground could swallow me whole in my shame.

“Chloe, that is enough,” I say more sharply than I intend.

Brook’s gaze rakes over my wildly flushed face, and his scowl deepens. I am saved by the bell—or rather by the organ—as the service begins, and we all rise to our feet. Throughout the next hour, I studiously avoid looking in his direction at all. Chloe is thankfully quiet, fidgeting at times but settling down at a whispered reminder from Brook of the surprise that awaits her if she sits still. I am surprised that she manages it so well. The lure of something sweet is far stronger than I realised. Or more likely, it is to do with the deprivation she has experienced of late. Pain clutches tightly at my heart.

In this moment, I would gladly sell up. I would do it in a thrice if it could mean I had the funds to feed my daughter well. Whyever have I clung stubbornly to this accursed house? Why have I let my pride stand in the way of the sensible thing to do? I am gripped by shame, as well as by resentment. It is all Brook Reeves’s fault. If he had not provoked my contrary nature, I would never have embarked on this madness.

The service finally comes to an end. I wait, staring down at my feet, as Chloe claims her prize from Brook, a paper bag with lemon drops, which she takes from him with a gleeful look. “What do you say, Chloe?” I remind tersely.

Her mouth already full with the sweets, she mumbles a thank you. Then, with a brisk good day , I am leading her away, not stopping to greet any acquaintances, preoccupied only with making the fastest possible escape. We reach the carriage and get inside, and after curtly instructing Evans to make haste, we blessedly begin our journey home.

I lean my head back, letting Chloe prattle on, her speech thick with the sweets in her mouth. I close my eyes and take deep breaths in and out, trying to stop the heaving sobs that want to escape from me. I cannot cry in front of Chloe. Poor child would be alarmed to see her mama in tears. Soon, she too would be sobbing along with me. I try to calm the raging pain borne of shame in my breast. I need hold on only long enough to leave Chloe in Betsy’s capable hands and make it to the privacy of my bedchamber. Then, I can allow my grief to finally rip through me.

It is the longest fifteen minutes before we are finally at Penhale Manor. I descend quickly, taking Chloe with me and go to find Betsy. A few mumbled instructions and I am free to make my escape. I rush up the stairs, not quite running but nearly, and hurry to my room. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock. Then my feet slide from under me as I fall to the floor and bury my face in my hands. And then I cry.

I cry as I did not when news of Giles’s accident was brought to me. I cry as I have never done before. The agony of the past three months, as well as every affliction that has beset me since I was orphaned at age fourteen, all flow out of me in deep, wailing sobs. Each time I think I have reached the end of it, more is drawn from within me. Such pain have I been holding on to but never knew. I had to keep it well hidden, well under control if I were to survive. And now that the floodgates have opened, all I can do is let it out.

Finally, I quieten. I lie with my head against the door, eyes closed in weary defeat. It is quite some time before I rise to my feet and go wash my face. In the mirror, the redness of my eyes betrays me. There is nothing for it though. I must check on Chloe and see to our dinner. And of course, an endless pile of needlework awaits.

I unlock the door and make my way out on heavy footsteps. I stop by the nursery and find Chloe napping, the excitement of the day having caught up with her. With a smile at Betsy, who is busy pressing clothes with a hot iron, I go down to the kitchen. There, I find Mary busily chopping up the vegetables for yet another stew. She stops as I enter and points to the table on the opposite side of the room. “These came just now from Reeves Hall,” she says.

I follow her glance and see four neatly trussed pheasants, plucked of their feathers, laid out on the table. Without warning, tears form in my eyes again. My daughter wanted a meat pie, and Brook Reeves sent over the meat so she could have it. I have no more shame to feel. The tears, which I manage to hold back, are tears of thankfulness and relief. “I have prepared the dough,” continues Mary, “so I can make a pie for each bird.”

“Yes, thank you, Mary,” I say, my throat thick.

I leave the kitchen and go to my parlour. In the basket sits a mountain of clothes to be mended, but first, I take myself to the desk where I begin to write a short note.

Mr Reeves, esquire, Reeves Hall

Dear Sir,

I write to thank you for your kind gift. Chloe will have her meat pie tonight, and for that, we are both grateful.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Cavendish, Dowager Duchess of Coleford

P.S. There is a matter I wish to discuss. Would you be able to call on me at your convenience?

I seal the note and take it to Evans, bidding him to deliver it to Reeves Hall. It does not take long for a reply to arrive. Brook’s note is terse.

Jane,

I shall call on you tomorrow morning. Enjoy the meat pie.

br