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

Chapter 13

Jane

Three weeks later

T he day has come for our departure. Six weeks I have spent at Penhale Manor, yet it has felt like more with all that has occurred since I arrived. I had come here in hopes of making a good home for me and Chloe. This hope was fractured upon my first sight of the house, and though I fought on valiantly to keep it alive, in the end, I could not prevail.

My pride has been dented, but my purse is full, and I will shortly be the proud owner of a charming cottage in Frome, just as soon as contracts can be exchanged. On my instructions, Mr Oakley visited the cottage to ensure it was in sound condition, then put an offer for it at a little less than the asking price. The offer was accepted, and now with the sale of Penhale Manor complete, all that is left is for us to depart for Somerset once more.

Our trunks are packed and stowed in the carriage. Betsy and Chloe are already settled in, all ready to go. I linger inside the house a while longer, walking from room to room to make sure nothing has been forgotten. I am not too disheartened to bid it farewell. I suppose we have not been here long enough to make it feel truly like our home. The damp crumbling walls, the mice and the cobwebs have not helped to endear this house to me.

There is one aspect to living here, though, that I shall miss. It is my encounters with Brook Reeves, esquire, of Reeves Hall. I do not see him often, for he is a busy man. Occasionally, he has called to enquire after Chloe and me, always bringing some gift with him—oranges from his glass house, delicate chocolates, cut flowers from his garden. He does not stay long for these visits, merely makes his enquiries, proffers his gift and then bids me good day, though not before making some remark to raise my ire. I can almost believe he takes pleasure in doing so. Then, he departs before I can hit back with a good word of my own, leaving me to stew over what I shall say to him the next time we meet.

The chance to do so comes round every Sunday at church, when I sit beside him, Chloe wedged between us. Then, at the right moment, I whisper my prepared riposte. I almost think he attends church only to hear it, because he never fails to reply in a way that only provokes me further. And so on it goes, this diverting game we play, though now it must stop.

On his last visit, just yesterday, I thanked him for the bouquet of flowers he brought for me. He merely shrugged and replied, “Some colour is needed to counteract the dullness of that black you wear every day.”

“Sir!” I cried. “You must know that I am in mourning.”

To this he made a harrumphing sound in his throat and gifted me with one of his scowls. Gruffly, he wished me luck on my journey the following day and said his final goodbyes. On his way out, of course, he could not resist having the last word. “Take my advice, Duchess, and spare the people of Frome the dismal sight of your widow’s weeds. That husband who left you in these straits does not deserve a shrine to his memory.” And then he left, not giving me a chance to voice a rejoinder.

There will not ever be a chance to speak to that infuriating man again. I have seen the last of him. In these final quiet moments before I leave, I can acknowledge that I shall miss my time with him. I am changed since coming to Penhale, and that is partly due to him. I came here a grieving widow. I am still that widow, but my grief has eased. With a sigh, I cast one last look at my erstwhile home, then walk out with a determined step and close the door behind me.

In the carriage, I gaze absently out of the window, thinking of Brook Reeves. If only, for once, it could be me to have the last word. What would I say to him? Take my advice, Mr Reeves, and spare the people of Penhale the dismal sight of your scowl . I think some more then add another pithy line. Whoever that lady is who left you out of charity with the rest of the world, she does not deserve a shrine to her memory . I smile to myself, thinking of his countenance if ever I were to say such words to him. Of course, I would not wait for a reply. I would flounce out victoriously. The image is so vivid in my mind, that as we approach the gates of Reeves Hall, I cannot help but tap the coach door and bid Evans to stop.