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

Chapter 16

Jane

I sit beside Chloe, studying her sleeping face for any change. I hold her small hand in mine, in wonder at how fragile she is and yet also marvelling at her resilience, for she is still alive, still fighting on despite the enormity of her injuries.

Seemingly endless hours have passed since Brook Reeves informed me that I was to be a prisoner here. He left soon after telling me that I was not to leave Reeves Hall again for fear of betraying their secrets. Since then, I have stayed here, keeping a vigil over a sleeping Chloe. Betsy has also left the room. A footman came to fetch her some time ago when our trunks were brought in, so she could unpack our belongings. I do not know nor care what rooms we have been given. I do not care about much at this time, except that Chloe wakes.

A servant came, I do not remember how long ago, inviting me to go for my luncheon. I declined. Some milk and biscuits were brought in shortly after. That is all I have consumed since I broke my fast hours ago at Penhale Manor. I do not even know the time, for there is no window in this room. How it is ventilated or lit are a mystery to me. No candles or lamps are in sight. I must assume though, that it is now late afternoon or early evening.

Harry—or Horis as I should call him now—comes by at regular intervals to check on Chloe; so too does his helper, the young woman named Krilea. He is here now to look over his patient. I have come to understand he is something of a doctor, though like none I have ever met before. Horis smiles reassuringly and informs me, “Chloe is progressing well.”

“How can you tell?” I ask.

He points to the screen on the wall, which is filled with strange symbols that I cannot decipher. “This machine monitors Chloe’s vital signs,” he explains. “I can read from the screen that the swelling in Chloe’s head has reduced by twenty-two percent. Her heart is beating healthily, and she is breathing well. These are all good signs.”

“How can a machine do all these things? Is it a black art, some sort of magic that you practise?” I ask, unsettled by his words.

He laughs. “Nothing of the sort. There is no magic here, Your Grace, merely highly advanced scientific knowledge.”

I ask the question again, hoping for a proper answer this time. “Who are you, and why is it you have such advanced scientific knowledge?”

He looks away as he replies, “I am not at liberty to say.”

“Your brother said I was not to leave Reeves Hall again. Do you agree with that?” My tone is sharp and demanding.

In answer, he takes a chair and brings it over to my side, then sits, leaning forward on his elbows in thought. Finally, he looks over to me with a kindly expression and says, “Your Grace, we mean you no harm. We are doing all we can to save Chloe. But you now know things about us that we have kept secret for very good reasons. Just think what would happen if word were to spread about the way we live. Do you think we would be allowed to carry on as we are?”

“I—I suppose not.”

He nods in agreement. “All we want is to be left in peace to live according to our ways. The world around us is not capable of understanding who we really are. Already some folk here suspect us of witchcraft. You yourself did so just now.”

I hunch my shoulders defensively. “What else am I to think?” I cry in frustration. “I do not understand who you are or why you live so differently to the rest of us. Can you not explain?”

He sighs. “All I can say, Your Grace, is that we are men and women just like you, not demons or witches or anything supernatural. We come from a land far away, a civilisation that is highly scientific and advanced in its knowledge.”

“Where? What land? In Brazil?”

He laughs again, genuinely amused. “No, Your Grace, not Brazil. It is somewhere much further away, of which you can have no knowledge.”

I ponder his words. They still make little sense to me. How can there be a land that is so highly civilised and yet remains unknown? I narrow my eyes suspiciously at Horis. “If your civilisation is so highly advanced, as you say, then why has it not sent representatives to England to enlighten us with its great knowledge?”

He looks uneasy, rubbing a hand nervously over his cheek. He is not telling me the whole truth. I am certain of it. “Your Grace,” he begins again. “Our homeland is further away than you can imagine, and our people, seeing the level of ignorance and backwardness here, decided it was best to keep their distance.”

“You think us backward and ignorant?” I protest, indignant at the unfairness of such a charge.

His eyes go to Chloe and the machines around her, then come back to rest on me. “Look at Chloe and think, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “If you will pardon my saying so, your daughter would not have survived her accident had she been taken to a local surgeon, who in all likelihood would have bled her with leeches. It is our superior knowledge that has helped to keep Chloe alive.”

“It is God that keeps her alive,” I correct him pointedly.

He nods in acknowledgement. “God keeps her alive, yes, and our scientific knowledge too, which one could say is God-given.”

I am about to argue with this, angered still at his choice of words, but my eyes catch the steady rise and fall of Chloe’s breaths, and I cannot argue with the truth. I take a deep breath of my own and try to remain calm. My mind scrambles to keep up with all the fantastical things that Horis has just told me. There is one detail, out of the many, that particularly does not make sense. “If your people decided to keep their distance from us,” I demand accusingly, “then why is it that your family is here?”

He looks surprised at my quick-wittedness. “Well you see,” he begins then stops. He tries again. “We were… It is hard to explain.”

I raise a questioning brow at him. Quietly, he mumbles, “We were banished.”

“Banished? Why?”

He rises to his feet hurriedly. “I have said too much. It is best I go,” he mutters. An instant later, he is gone.

I am left to consider all the information I have been given. My head hurts with the effort to make sense of these things that seem beyond my understanding. I pinch the skin of my hand. Maybe it will wake me from this nightmare dream. It does not. I am still in this strange, windowless room, and Chloe lies on a cot, tubes in her body attaching her to a machine that makes whooshing noises. Dear God, please help us!

Hours pass. My head drops in fatigue, but as soon as it does, I raise it again, determined to keep watch over my daughter. There is a knock at the door. A servant enters, informing me dinner is about to be served. He wishes to escort me to my room so that I may get changed. I refuse. With a bow, he leaves the room again.

More time passes. My stomach gurgles in hunger, but I am steadfast. I will not desert Chloe in this strange place.

The door swings open sharply. Brook strides in. He takes one look at me, swaying with fatigue by my daughter’s side, and glowers. “Time to get some food and sleep, Duchess,” he grits ferociously.

“I am not leaving Chloe,” I tell him in a steadfast voice.

He stares at me, brows knitted in his customary frown. “Then I shall have to… persuade you.” Next moment, he has me bent over his shoulder, gripping me with a strong hand.

I kick and cry, “Set me down!”

He ignores my cries, and his powerful arms subdue my straining body with little effort. “Let me go!” I cry again. Then as I see him cross the threshold, I call out in alarm, “Stop! I cannot leave Chloe.”

“Horis will sit with her,” he responds calmly. He walks on, then ascends a tall set of steps. I do not relent with my protests, but they fall on deaf ears, his grip on me tight and strong. We come to a door, which he opens with a quick flick of his wrist. I do not see much from my upended view—a polished floor, colourful rugs, the base of something that might be a bed.

“Go quick and bring up a tray of food for your mistress,” Brook commands in a brisk voice.

“Yes, sir,” I hear Betsy reply, and her footsteps as she flies out of the room.

With a grunt, Brook deposits me on the bed. Immediately, I sit up, determined to escape. “Do not even think of it,” he roars, pushing me none too gently back down. “Must you always be so difficult?” he exclaims in disgust.

I try to respond but find myself trembling. “I—I…” Speech too has become impossible. My body shakes uncontrollably.

His scowl deepens. “Great Yol,” he growls, then strides towards a connecting door. “Stay where you are or else!” he throws over his shoulder as he disappears into the next room.

I have no choice but to obey, in the state I find myself in. I lie on the bed, my hands still trembling, my head dizzy from fatigue, hunger and worry. It does not take long before Brook returns. In his hand is a tumbler half full with an amber liquid. He places it beside him on a short chest of drawers, then sits on the edge of the bed, helping me to an upright position. He steadies me with a firm arm around my shoulder and once more, I am enveloped in his scent. It does not set my pulse racing this time, but rather slows it down, the familiarity of it bringing comfort.

He guides the tumbler to my lips. I keep them resolutely sealed, which only brings a sardonic curl to his own lips. “It is good old-fashioned brandy, Jane,” he barks. “Now drink up.” I do as he says. One cannot waste good brandy, after all. I feel it burn my throat as I take several small sips. I do not manage to drink the entire contents of the tumbler, but once he sees I have had enough, he sets it aside.

My hands, fortunately, have stopped their trembling, yet I am still unbearably weak. My head rests against the solid width of Brook’s shoulder. I take a deep breath and try to speak. “Chloe,” I say.

“Horis is with her,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble at my back. “She will not wake for many hours as we are keeping her sedated until the swelling in her head subsides.”

“I should be with her,” I breathe.

“You are no good to her in this state,” he snaps. A little more gently, he continues, “Eat, Jane, then rest. Horis and I will watch Chloe. If there is any change in her condition, I will let you know.”

I close my eyes then, conceding defeat. I do not know whether I dream it, but I feel his hand stroke over my hair, a gently delicate touch. Time stills. The spell is broken only by the opening of the door as Betsy returns, bearing a tray of steaming food. Brook releases me and stands to leave. “Stay here,” he grunts warningly, “and do not get any ideas about leaving this room. I will have someone stand guard outside in case you are foolish enough to try.” With these parting words, he walks out of the room.

Betsy brings the tray over to me, and I begin to eat listlessly, listening to her chatter with half an ear. “It is ever so strange here, Your Grace. I have never seen a kitchen like the one below. Why, there is not even a fire! When I asked Velnas—that’s the cook—how we were to heat your food, he put the plate into a glass cupboard, touched his finger to it and it lit up! Then the cupboard door opened, all by itself, and your food was steaming hot. Like magic!”

“The work of the devil, most likely,” I declare sourly.

“Oh no, Your Grace, it is not that at all,” exclaims Betsy. “I asked Velnas, you see, and he said it is science.” She nods sagely.

I let her prattle on as hunger takes over and I finish every last morsel of the food I have been given. Once I am done, Betsy takes the tray from me and sets it outside the door. “Is there a privy nearby?” I ask, feeling a sudden need to relieve myself.

Her face lights up. “You will hardly believe it, Your Grace. There is a privy inside the washroom right behind that door.” She points to the connecting door through which Brook had fetched the brandy earlier.

“There is a washroom and privy there?” I ask dumbly.

“Yes!” she nods excitedly. “And beyond the washroom is the master’s bedchamber.” She adds conspiratorially, “I hear the master was none too happy to have you put in the room beside his, but there was nowhere else. All the other bedchambers are taken.”

I wonder if Betsy is right, or whether I have been placed in the room beside Brook’s so he can keep me captive. The thought makes me shiver, although for some reason it is not entirely unwelcome. With a servant guarding my door and Brook in the next room, there can be very little opportunity for escape—not that I wish to do so now. Thoughts of escape must wait until Chloe is recovered. I rise from the bed and go to the washroom door, opening it carefully to peer inside.

Like all the rooms in this house, it is well-lit, almost by magic, though I am sure Horis would say it was science. The washroom is large and covered in gleaming white tiles. I search for the privy and catch sight of a shiny dark contraption, like the commode I used the night of the dinner party. I approach it cautiously and lift the lid. Yes, I am right. It is the same design as the one downstairs.

With a sigh of relief, I sit on it and do my business. Once I am done, I search for something to wipe with and find a pile of very fine cloths stacked in a small tray. I use them gratefully but cannot see a bin to place the soiled cloths in. After a moment’s hesitation, I throw them into the cavity inside the commode. I am about to rise when I remember the curious jet of water that splashed me the night of the dinner party. I angle my head to look at the panel behind me. There, I see two round markings, one coloured blue and the other green. These had been covered up in the retiring room downstairs, evidently to prevent their discovery. It was only when I had run my finger over the panel that I had felt the hollow space hidden under the cloth.

I study the two round markings, thinking fast. That water spray, I decide, must be some mechanism to clean a person’s nether regions, but which button should I press? I decide to try the blue one. Immediately, I feel a jet of warm water rise up to the exposed parts of my body. It is not an unpleasant sensation. A short while later, the water stops, and I dab myself dry with another cloth.

What, I wonder, is the green button for? Is it worth trying? Of course, I am never one to shy away from a mystery, so I reach over and press it. In an instant, there is a loud gurgling sound below me, and as I rise quickly in alarm, I see the bowl of the commode flushed with a freshly-scented green liquid. Oh, I see . How ingenious.

I pat the skirt of my dress down and search for the jug of water to wash my hands with. However, there is none to be found. I open the washroom door and call out, “Betsy, please bring a jug of water.”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” she replies as she hastens towards me. “There is no need for a jug. That is the other magical thing. The water comes out on its own. Let me show you.” She enters the room and waves her hands under a tap that is fixed to the wall above a tiled basin. As if by magic, water begins to pour from it. She beams at me, her joy evident. “And it is the same with the bathtub, Your Grace. At the press of a button, hot water comes out of the tap. Imagine that! No more having to carry it up in buckets.” I can see she is dazzled by such scientific innovations. And why not. I cannot imagine it is easy work to carry water buckets up and down the stairs each day.

As I go to wash my hands, she asks eagerly, “Will you take a bath now, Your Grace? That way you will see how it magically fills with hot water.”

I do not have the heart to disappoint her. Besides, a wash in the bath would be welcome. “Yes,” I say.

No sooner have I agreed than she is rushing towards the large, oval-shaped tub and pressing a button, not dissimilar to the one on the commode, though this one is red. Instantly, great gushes of steaming water pour out of the spout and into the tub. Betsy turns to me in triumph. I make the proper admiring sounds as she adds a cup of scented salts to the bath. Then, she is helping me out of my dress and underclothes. A moment later, I step into the tub and submerge my body in the fragrantly hot water.

I cannot help a sigh of pleasure. This, I must concur, is a superlative innovation. For long minutes, I luxuriate in the bath. Betsy assists me to wash my hair with the soap and rinse it clean. When I am done, she holds out the largest, softest towel I have ever beheld and wraps it around my wet body. Back in the bedchamber, she lays out my white shift for me and brushes out my hair. It has been a very long time since I have had the services of a lady’s maid, not since I lived at Coleford Hall. I had forgotten how pleasant it is to be so pampered.

I smile gratefully at Betsy as I get under the bedcovers. I look around the room curiously, wondering what I must do to extinguish the light. Betsy anticipates my question. With a great air of exultation, she confides, “Your Grace, it is magical. You simply have to say what you want and it is done.” She pauses meaningfully, then says in a clear voice, “Lights out.”

Immediately, the light in the room dims to impenetrable darkness. I feel a nervous shiver. A moment later, Betsy’s voice says loudly, “Lights on,” and the light returns. She grins, obviously proud of her newfound knowledge. “You can also tell it how dark or how light you want it to be,” she says, then demonstrates. “Lights low.” Instantly, the room dims to a light glow. She tries another instruction. “Lights on very bright.” A moment later, I am dazzled by the brightest of white light.

I decide to take matters into my own hands. “Lights low,” I say, and the white light is thankfully replaced by a low glow.

“Thank you, Betsy,” I say, dismissing her. She bobs a curtsy and hurries out of the room. Outside my door, I hear her speak in a friendly tone to the man standing guard. He responds in a low voice, but I cannot make out the words. Shortly after, silence falls.

I lie back in the bed. The mattress is springy and the sheets like soft silk. Everything at Reeves Hall is of the highest order of luxury, it seems, but there is a price to be paid for this sumptuous splendour, I think bitterly. That price is freedom.

My thoughts fly to Chloe. I wonder how she fares in that windowless room downstairs, and when it is she will wake. I feel an urge to go to her. I am about to throw off the covers and do just that, when Brook’s voice speaks in my ear, as if he is in the room with me: “Jane, I thought you might like to know that Chloe is doing well and the swelling on her head is easing.”

I look to my left and right. “Where are you?” I ask in fright.

“I am with Chloe in the medical bay,” he answers immediately. “I will show you— onscreen .” A moment later, a screen I had not noticed on the opposite wall comes to life with pictures—moving pictures—of Brook sitting in the chair beside Chloe. Looking straight at me, he says, “She is sleeping soundly.”

“How—how is this happening?” I whisper, but he hears me anyway.

“There is a recording device in this room,” he replies. “It transmits images and the sound of my voice to the screen in your room.”

“Like magic,” I murmur very low.

“Not magic, Jane, but science,” he answers me briskly.

A horrifying thought occurs to me. “If you can hear me, then are you seeing me too?” I ask, burrowing under the covers so only my face is visible.

He snorts. “No, Jane, your modesty is quite safe. To activate the visual recording, you have to instruct the computer with the word onscreen .”

“And to stop the visual recording?”

He smiles, the first smile I have ever seen from him. “Then you merely have to say offscreen .”

My curiosity gets the better of me. I am buried under the bedcovers, so there is nothing of an immodest nature to see. Quickly, I say, “ Onscreen .”

Now, Brook is smiling wide. It quite takes my breath away. “Duchess, you look like you might drown under the weight of those blankets.” His eyes sharp, he remarks, “Your hair is wet.”

“Well, yes,” I say. “That happens when one has a bath.”

He frowns. “You should not sleep with wet hair, Jane. You will catch a chill that way.”

“I have been doing it all my life, Brook,” I respond, using his given name for the very first time. Or is it his name? “Is your name truly Brook?” I ask.

“It is close enough. In my language, we say Broek .”

“Broek.” I try the name out on my tongue.

“Jane,” he says, all trace of amusement gone from his face. “From here on, you will dry your hair before going to bed.”

I raise a sceptical brow. “Broek,” I say, putting emphasis on his newly discovered name, “do you expect me to sit by the fire for an hour at night?”

His face takes on its customary scowl. I think I hear him mutter, “Backward people.” Then, he speaks up. “In the washroom, there is a dryer. It is an oval glass dome on the wall. Stand below it and lower it over your head, like a cap. As soon as it senses your wet hair, it will start blowing hot air to dry it. When your hair is dry, it will stop on its own. Simply push it back up on the wall.”

I sigh. Yet another newfangled contraption. “That sounds interesting,” I say politely.

“Dry your hair with it,” is all he says in reply.

I do not dignify this with a response. Instead, I look at my sleeping daughter and murmur, “Goodnight, Chloe. Sleep well.” Then I add the word, “ Offscreen .”

A moment later, the screen on my wall goes dark, and I settle to sleep. I am beginning to drift into slumber when Broek’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Go dry your hair, Jane.”

With an angry huff, I throw off the covers and march to the washroom. There, I spy the oval glass contraption on the wall—I had thought it to be a wall sconce. Angrily, I pull it over my head, only to feel a hot gust of air. Good Lord! I stand under it for several minutes, my head beginning to burn with the heat. Then, just as suddenly, it stops. I push the infernal thing away, then check my hair. It is dry to the touch but definitely in need of a brush. I leave the washroom and find my brush on the dressing table, running it through my hair until it is free of tangles. Then, finally, I return to bed and settle under the covers. Some moments later, Broek speaks to me one last time. “Good girl,” he says. Then I tuck my head into the pillow and sleep.