Chapter 2

Jane

Two weeks later

W e are near our destination at last after two long and wearying days of travel. At least, I hope we are not too far from Penhale Manor. I cannot be sure, for I am new to these parts. We were told, on setting out this morning from the inn on the outskirts of Exeter where we had stopped for the night, that Penhale was an easy day’s journey and that we should reach it well before sundown. I am beginning to doubt the truth of this. Outside my carriage window, the twilit sky is spreading darkness over the flat, grassy landscape we are traversing.

Ever since we stopped in the town of Bodmin to refresh our horses earlier this afternoon, we have been travelling through the moor on a rutted and mostly deserted road. We have passed the occasional farmhouse or hamlet, but for the most part, all I have seen through the window is a vast heathland covered in stubby shrubs, the only sign of life being the occasional flock of grazing sheep.

Chloe’s head rests in my lap, her even breaths assuring me that she is fast asleep. In her small, dimpled hands, she grasps Nessie, the rag doll she is loath to ever part with. Over the course of the journey, she had grown restless and fractious, her young body more accustomed to energetic activity than sitting still in a carriage all day. Much as I adore my daughter and delight in her youthful exuberance, I must confess to having grown weary of the need to placate and soothe her these past few hours. I am thankful she is finally resting.

The only other occupant of the carriage is Betsy, my maid, though she too has given in to lassitude. Her chin has dropped to her chest in sleep, rousing with the occasional jolt of the carriage before dropping down again. It is only me and the coachman that are alert in this empty and rapidly darkening landscape. My worried gaze flits once more to the window, searching for any building or turning in the road that would indicate proximity to Penhale village. Nothing but shrubland greets my eyes, a vast carpet of long grass dotted with the purple and yellow of spring blooms.

And then, I see it.

To my left, I catch sight of a stone wall, at least ten feet in height. My pulse quickens as we begin to drive alongside it. Could this be Penhale Manor? I frown in concentration, trying to make out the road ahead. The wall stretches out before us, and I cannot see where it ends or where the entrance gates might be. All I can deduce is that there must be a sizeable estate behind the wall, enclosing far more land than I was led to expect. A sense of unease trickles through me. Perhaps then it is not Penhale Manor we are reaching but a neighbouring house.

By now, the carriage has slowed its pace, allowing me to make out a painted wooden sign affixed to the middle of the wall, the message on it stark and unwelcoming: INTERLOPERS BEWARE. I cannot help the shiver that runs through my body at reading those words. Whoever it is that lives in this house evidently wants to be left well alone.

It is another half mile before we finally come to a stop in front of imposing iron gates. In the gathering dusk, I can narrowly discern the name engraved on a large slab of grey stone set into a tall pillar by the gates, beyond which I can see a small lodge, presumably housing the gatekeeper. I gently remove Chloe’s head from my lap to push open the carriage door and peer out, hoping to get a better look. With an effort, I manage to decipher the words: Reeves Hall.

Just as I suspected, this is not Penhale Manor, but perhaps we may enquire here about directions. It seems the coachman has the same idea, for I see him jump down from his perch and go to ring a bell set into the stone pillar. The sound of it ringing is an eerie echo in the quietness of the gathering night. We wait at least a full minute before the lodge door opens, and a man wearing a deep scowl strides towards us. He is in shirtsleeves, the top buttons undone and revealing dark swirls of hair on his broad chest.

“Yes?” he barks.

For a moment, I am taken aback, but I quickly gather my wits, rushing forward to where the man stands behind the gate, hands on hips . As I near him, I can see that he does indeed have a hostile countenance. “Good evening, sir,” I say in my most genteel manner. There is no need for my standards of courtesy to be compromised, even when confronted by such a blatant show of rudeness.

He does not respond but directs his glowering stare at me. I continue, trying to sound brave, “I wonder, sir, if you would assist us with directions to Penhale Manor. Is it very far from here?”

Still, the man stares, no hint of softening in his expression. Up close, I can see he is tall—a few inches above six feet—and powerfully built. The taut muscles of his arms strain against the fabric of his shirt as he continues to hold his stance, hands on hips. He exudes menace, firmly reined in but ready to be unleashed at any given moment. Quite clearly, this is not a man that one would ever want to cross. I feel tremors run through my body, and it takes every strength I have not to step backwards or show any fear.

Finally, the man deigns to respond. In a low voice, he grunts, “What business have you at Penhale Manor?”

“My business, sir, is that it is my home, and I am come to live there,” I answer smoothly, proud that my calm voice does not betray the inner turmoil I feel.

“And who might you be?” he bites out.

I gather myself up to my full height, which admittedly is not very high at just two inches above five feet. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Coleford,” I tell him, “and Penhale Manor was left to me by my late husband. I would appreciate, sir, given the lateness of the hour, if you would kindly direct us to our destination.”

His eyes rake over me, from the top of my black silk bonnet to the tips of my boots peeping out from under the bottom of my cloak. Then, with a dismissive huff, he turns to my coachman and instructs him, “Keep going another quarter mile. You’ll then see a turning for Penhale Manor on your right.” Without another word, he turns and strides back to the lodge, closing the door behind him with a resounding clack.

I take in a deep, shocked breath. I do not think I have ever felt so humiliated—and that is saying something, thinking back to how I was treated at my aunt’s. And by whom? A mere gatekeeper? A rush of anger quickly replaces the shock I had been feeling. My cheeks burn with it. How dare that man speak so to me, a duchess, and dismiss me so casually? If his master is anything like him, then I would be well advised to maintain my distance from whatever family resides behind those walls. I send out a silent prayer that this is the last I ever see of this rude man, then I turn to face my coachman. “Let us be on our way,” I say crisply. “We have only a short time until darkness falls.” Determination in every step, I return to my carriage and snap the door shut with a satisfying clack of my own.