Chapter 7

Jane

T hursday dawns and with it my continuing resolve not to let Brook Reeves browbeat me into attending his dinner party. If he does show up to fetch me, I shall merely tell him he has made a wasted journey.

The day passes in busy endeavour, as I continue to set Penhale Manor to rights. I send Evans on an errand to the nearest town, asking him to find a glazier to fit new windowpanes and a tiler to repair the broken tiling on the roof. All the while I am mindful of the rapidly dwindling guineas in my purse. I shall simply have to live frugally until the next payment of my allowance is due in July, perhaps foregoing meat on a Friday—a very Christian thing to do.

Evening soon comes, and I go to bid Chloe goodnight. I settle her in bed and read Puss in Boots, her favourite story. Once I am done and putting away the book, she surprises me by mumbling sleepily, “When will we see Mr Brook?”

“Mr Brook?” I query.

“I like him,” she murmurs simply.

I make a noncommittal response and kiss her cheek. “Goodnight, Sugar plum,” I whisper softly. Then I stand and tiptoe out of the room, hesitating on the landing before I head to my bedchamber. I tell myself it is so I can read quietly by the light of a candle rather than be wasteful by lighting several of them in the drawing room. I must be frugal after all. I go to my wardrobe and look through the dresses. There is not much of a choice to be had while I am in mourning and must wear black. I have four muslin morning gowns in black and one lone evening gown in black silk satin. I caress the soft fabric with my finger, hesitating. No, I decide. I will not.

I push the wardrobe closed with a firm hand and go to sit on my bed. Reaching behind me, I untie the laces on the bodice of my gown and pull it over my head. I shake the gown out and place it over a chair, then my fingers go to my petticoat, preparing to remove it as well. I pause. Slowly, almost without my volition, my feet take me back to the wardrobe. I do not question why I do so, but I take out the satin gown and quickly pull it on. I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I tie the laces and arrange the bodice so it is snug on my figure. The cut of this gown flatters me, and the silky folds of the satin relieve the austerity of its dark colour. It is a welcome sensation to feel attractive again. I take out a few hair pins and rearrange my curls under the lace cap. Pearl earrings and a dab of cologne complete my toilette.

The front doorbell rings just as I am pulling on a pair of long kid gloves. The sound of Brook Reeves’s deep voice reaches me. As promised, he is here to fetch me for this dinner party, and fool that I am, I have made myself ready for him. A muslin shawl in hand, I close the door behind me and tread softly down the stairs. With every step I feel a rising sense of… what exactly? Is it fear or is it excitement? I think perhaps it may be a bit of both.

I catch sight of Brook Reeves standing in the hallway just as his eyes land on me. He watches me fixedly as I descend, a customary frown set into his handsome face. Clad in a massive greatcoat, there is something dark and menacing about him. My heart skips a silent beat. I am walking into the lion’s den, or so it seems to me. And yet I keep walking sedately, each step taking me closer to him. “Mr Reeves,” I say, and bend my knees in a curtsy.

“Duchess,” he replies, ignoring etiquette and addressing me as if we are equals. “Let us go. Our guests await.”

Quickly, I take my pelisse, which hangs on a peg under the stairs, and button it up securely. As we walk out into the chill of the night, I bid Evans to keep watch on the house. Then, I allow Brook Reeves to help me up into his carriage. The door closes upon us, and soon, we are on our way. Mr Reeves sits beside me, the heady scent of him enveloping me. We do not talk much on the short drive to his home. He asks me how the works are getting along on the house, and I paint a brief picture of the improvements that have been made over the last few days.

“I must take my hat off to you, Duchess,” he says in a deep voice, laced with a touch of amusement. “I did not think a little slip of a thing like you could take on the challenge of bringing that house back into good use.”

“It is a sad fact that many a person has judged me by the slightness of my figure rather than by the strength of my will,” I say with a touch of asperity.

“It is not a mistake I shall make again,” he rumbles in response.

I turn to him. “So I take it, you will no longer try to convince me to sell Penhale Manor?” I enquire with a raise of my brow.

“Oh, rest assured I will,” he promises. And with that, our conversation ends. It is not long before we reach the gates of Reeves Hall which are opened for us by a tall, heavily-set man—the gatekeeper for whom I had mistaken Brook Reeves. We drive along a winding avenue and in the light of the moon, I see before us a vast three-storied building. Our carriage comes to a stop.

“Duchess,” says Mr Reeves, holding out his hand to me. I allow him to escort me down. The front doors of the house open, revealing a brightly lit main hall. A butler takes my pelisse and Mr Reeves’s greatcoat, then I am ushered through another well- lit corridor—the Reeves do not stint on wax candles it seems—and into a spacious drawing room.

There I am met by the Reeves siblings and a number of other guests, of which I recognise Reverend Horton, the vicar of Penhale. Introductions are made. I make the acquaintance of a florid looking gentleman named Sir Nicholas Calthorpe, his wife and their two daughters who seem to be newly out into society. There is also a younger gentleman of around thirty, a Mr Drake, and I meet his sister who looks to be of a similar age to me. They greet me with great civility, and I begin to hope that I may, in the fullness of time, make friends here in my new home. If Mr Brook Reeves thinks he can compel me to sell Penhale Manor, he can think again.

We converse for a short while before we are called to the dining room. I find myself on the arm of Mr Brook Reeves by no design of my own. Presumably it is so he can interrogate me again, though I can’t help feeling a frisson of excitement at the outlandish notion that he wishes me close for other, more personal reasons. He leads me through another well-lit corridor—what a great number of candles they must have burning tonight—and to a generously sized dining room with a long, rectangular table laid out with twelve place settings. My host seats himself at the head of the table and guides me to his right. On my own right sits Harry Reeves and opposite me is Lady Calthorpe.

A footman walks in and pours the wine as well as glasses of water for all the guests. I am unused to seeing water drunk at the dinner table, but I take a refreshing sip of it. It is cold and clear, with a pleasant taste to it, making me wonder what sort of well is kept at Reeves Hall that produces such fine water. The first course is brought in, a cream of vegetable soup that is so velvety that I marvel how long his cook must have slaved to achieve such a smooth consistency. Around me conversation flows, though Brook Reeves says little, contenting himself with listening to and observing those around him. Despite his silence, his presence looms large in the room. I cannot help but feel a tingling awareness in every inch of my body.

It falls to Harry Reeves to take on the burden of discourse with me. He gives me his kindly smile and remarks, “I am very glad that you decided to join us tonight, Your Grace. This dinner party is much elevated by your presence.”

Brook Reeves makes a harrumphing sound deep in his throat at his brother’s civilities. I flash the man a stern glance as I reply to Harry, “Thank you, sir, though I must point out I was not given much of a choice in the matter.”

Another huff from the man on my left. I studiously ignore it.

“My brother can be a trifle forceful,” Harry says in amusement. “I have learned, over the course of my years, the ways to manage his forcefulness.”

“Do please share your wisdom with me, for I shall need it if Mr Brook Reeves continues to harangue me about selling Penhale Manor,” I say with great feeling, but Harry merely shakes his head.

“I cannot give away my secrets, but in any case, I do not think you are much in need of help when it comes to managing my brother.” His tone is wry as he looks across the table towards the man in question.

Unwillingly, I turn my gaze to Brook Reeves. He raises a sardonic brow, then asserts with perfect confidence, “She will sell. It is the only sensible course of action and well she knows it.”

My back stiffens in annoyance. I do not at all appreciate being spoken of as if I am not present. However, I will not deign to take the bait. Instead, I smile pleasantly at Harry Reeves and move the conversation to a different subject. “Tell me, Mr Reeves,” I begin. “I am most curious to know. I detect an unusual intonation in your speech. Is it a Cornish way of speaking or is your family originally from other parts of the country?”

He hesitates, once again exchanging a glance with his brother. “Your Grace is most perceptive. Although our family is of Cornish descent, we have for many years been abroad in Brazil. That may account for the slight difference in our speech.” He says this last in a rush, almost as if it is something he has rehearsed, though I do not see why that should be. Perhaps he has been asked about it often and has evolved the same response. In which case, I am sorry to have brought the matter up. One never likes to be singled out as different to the rest of society.

I smile. “You are fortunate indeed, sir, to have lived abroad. I myself have never left these shores. In fact, until my marriage, I had never even travelled further than my home county of Somerset.”

“Yes, I am fortunate indeed,” he responds laconically. His relieved expression has me steer the conversation to safer waters. We turn to discussing the local area. I enquire about landmarks worthy of a visit and the shops to be found in the nearest town of Newquay. In this manner, we while away the rest of the meal.

In my periphery, I am conscious of Brook Reeves listening in to our discourse like a hawk studying its prey. I hear his occasional grunted responses to Lady Calthorpe’s polite civilities but mostly, he is a silent presence at my side. Once or twice, I cannot help throwing him a quick, curious glance. Each time, his gleaming brown eyes hold mine. I do not quite understand it. For some unfathomable reason, something about me has excited his interest. It must be to do with Penhale Manor and my determined refusal to accept his offer for it.

As the repast comes to an end, the ladies adjourn to the drawing room while the gentlemen remain in the dining room for their port. Feeling the need to refresh myself, I make my excuses and go in search of the water closet. Outside the drawing room door, I am accosted by a stiff-faced footman who demands to know where I am going. “Please would you be so kind as to point me to the retiring room,” I respond loftily.

With a bow, he escorts me through the well-lit corridor, refusing to leave my side until he sees me to the retiring room door. I give him a regal nod, then enter the room. Again, it is surprisingly well lit, though I do not know how that can be, for I see only one lone sconce on the wall. I cast my eyes around the room, looking for a commode or chamber pot. I spy an oval-shaped receptacle made of a darkly polished wood. I lift the lid, which feels curiously light. Perhaps, I reason, this is some exotic wood brought over from Brazil. The small aperture inside the bowl confirms this is indeed a commode, though of an unusual design. I lift my skirt and swiftly do my business over it, finding on a table nearby a square of linen to dry myself with. The linen is very fine and soft to the touch. It seems everything here is luxuriously appointed. The Reeves must be very wealthy indeed.

As I stand and arrange the skirt of my dress, my eye is caught once more by this strange-looking commode. I run my finger over the glossy smoothness of the wood and along the back panel, where it comes to some slight hollow no larger than my thumb, not immediately apparent to the eye, covered as it is with a satiny black cloth. My fingers explore this hollow, pressing down on it slightly. All of a sudden, a gush of warm water rushes up at me from the depths of the commode. I cry out in alarm and step back, but I am not quick enough to avoid getting wet.

I glance down at myself in dismay. The top of my bodice is damp, and droplets of water are trickling down from my collar to my chest. I look for some more linen cloths and use them to dry myself as best I can. I very much hope that the water was clean, seeing as it came out of the commode. What a bizarre contraption it is! I give myself a little sniff to make sure I have not been sprayed with a noxious liquid.

To ensure I am clean, I pour some fresh water from a jug into the bowl that sits by the stack of linen cloths. There is a small bar of soap there too. I dip a linen cloth into the water and rub it with a little soap, then wipe my chest with it, as well as the top of my bodice. I rinse it out and wipe again, to be doubly sure. I have achieved a modicum of cleanliness, but at the expense of making my dress even wetter than before. I cannot return to the drawing room in such a state as this. I take another linen cloth and try to mop myself dry, but it is no good. In the mirror set in the wall above the table, I can see clearly the dark and damp patch on my bodice. So will others.

I think quickly of what I may do. With relief, I remember the muslin shawl I brought with me. I can drape it around my shoulders, claiming to be cold though in truth this house is wonderfully warm, and hope to cover the visibly damp patch. The shawl, however, is not with me here, for I left it on the back of my chair. I sigh in vexation and think some more. The men will be at their port for a while longer, so maybe I could pass the time exploring some of the rooms in the house, and hope that the dampness of my bodice will have lessened in that time.

I go to the door and edge it open slowly, casting a look along the corridor to see if there is anyone there. The punctilious footman has his back turned to me. Quickly, I slip out and make my way further along the corridor, in the opposite direction from whence I came. On soft feet, I approach a large wooden door and put my hand on the knob. It turns easily, and the door swings open without a sound. I hesitate on the threshold, knowing I should not be wandering about these rooms without the express permission of my hosts. But my curiosity is greater than my need to be bound by propriety. Something about this house, about this family, feels different. And I would like to know more.

On cautious feet, I step into the room. It is large and unlit, though there is enough luminance streaming in from the corridor to make out the various shapes in the room—some armchairs, an odd-looking chaise longue, a low round table with a handful of books strewn over it. This is some kind of parlour, I conclude. My curiosity satisfied, I turn to retrace my steps. I am nearly at the door, when something strange catches my eyes. On the far wall, at waist height, a curious light is flashing green and then red.

My pulse quickens nervously. Some instinct makes me want to run far away from it. And yet, contrary as ever, I find myself walking to the far side of the room, wanting to know what it could be. I reach the wall with the flashing light and stare at it in bewilderment. It is a small square of light, no more than two inches in length, flashing so rapidly that I can barely make out when it is green or when it is red. I stare at it for several moments, trying to make sense of what I see. There is no candle there, no lamp. Could it be a glass panel enclosing some hollow space in which a candle is flickering? How very odd.

I reach out my fingers to touch it then jump back in fright. At my touch, a buzzing energy had flooded my fingers with a tingling warmth. I shake out my hand, still feeling a tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers. What in great heavens is this? After a while, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I reach out my hand once more, feeling that curious buzzing warmth on my fingers.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” booms a voice behind me.

I pull away quickly from the wall and turn in trepidation to face Brook Reeves. He stands at the threshold, the light from the corridor casting his great hulking frame in an ominous shadow.

“I—I, nothing,” I say, stumbling on my words. “I took a wrong turn on my way back from the retiring room.”

“Come away from there,” he barks furiously.

On unsteady legs, I make my way to him. He takes my hand and places it firmly on his arm, hurrying me away from the room with the curious flashing light.

“W—what was that in there?” I ask breathlessly.

“Nothing that should concern you,” he responds, his tone brusque. He marches me down the corridor but stops abruptly as we reach the drawing room door. Turning to me, his face cast in the grimmest of scowls, he grits out, “If you know what is good for you, little Duchess, you will put whatever you saw in there from your mind. My house is none of your business.”

“And my house is none of your business either,” I strike back, my anger rising to the fore.

His hands grip my arms, pulling me flush with his chest as he glowers down at me. I am caught in his stare, my breaths coming short and shallow. The blood rushes to my heated cheeks. Then slowly, his furious face bends towards me. My lips part on instinct. It must be so that I can gulp much needed air into my lungs. It cannot be for any other reason. His face is so close to mine now I can feel his breath feather my nose. Oh Lord! Is he about to kiss me? I should resist, demand he unhands me, but all I do is stare dazedly as his parted lips stop a hair’s breadth from mine. We stay fixed in place, neither of us moving to close the remaining gap between us. I inhale his warm breath and feel as if it is igniting a raging fire in my entire body. And then suddenly, he is gone. He steps back without a word and strides away, entering the drawing room.

I am left reeling, gulping in air as I watch him go. What in the world just happened? Gracious Lord, I nearly let that man kiss me. That he did not must be a relief, though my body is shaking in disappointment. I take a few moments to compose myself before following him into the room, any worries about my damp dress forgotten. For the rest of the evening, I sense Brook Reeves stewing with leashed fury next to me. We do not address each other. I barely register what is said in the conversation around me, though I believe I make the appropriate responses when I am spoken to.

Soon, the dinner party comes to an end, and we all rise to leave. The Calthorpes depart in their carriage, the vicar riding with them. The Drakes take their leave too, and then it is just me that is left. As I button up my pelisse, Brook Reeves approaches me. “I have urgent business to attend to, so I shall let Simon see you home,” he says in a cold, clipped voice. “Good evening, Duchess.” With a perfunctory bow, he leaves me at the front door. I wonder for a moment if this urgent business has anything to do with me and what I saw in that room, but I am not left to wonder long as Simon Reeves appears, fixing the ties on his long cloak.

With a smile, he holds out his arm to me. “Your Grace, it is an honour indeed to be escorting you home,” he says, the warmness of his tone in sharp contrast to his brother’s coolness. He assists me into the carriage and perches beside me as we begin the journey.

“You are too kind, Mr Reeves, and I do thank you,” I venture to reply. The strangeness of the evening weighs upon my mind, and I am unable to converse any further. We sit in silence, the only sound the rattling of the carriage wheels as we sway gently from the motion. I ponder all the strange occurrences, from the commode that sprayed me with water to the curious flashing light in the parlour. What was it that had caused Brook Reeves’s fury? Of that almost kiss, I resolutely do not think.

“Do not mind my brother, Your Grace,” I hear Simon murmur beside me. “His bark is very much worse than his bite.”

“I seem to have angered him tonight, and I am not entirely sure why,” I say tremulously.

“Angered him? No, Your Grace, he is not mad at you, truly.” Simon sighs, “Ever since we lost Father and Mother, Brook has taken it on himself to be responsible for all of us. It is this responsibility, and the worries that come with it, that often make him seem surly. He is mistrustful of others.”

I nod, though I do not quite understand. “And this dinner party tonight was one of those worrying responsibilities?” I enquire, a little doubtful.

He laughs softly. “You could say that.” He grows serious and goes on to say, “There are matters of which I am not at liberty to speak, but suffice it to say that Brook carries the weight of these matters on his shoulders. I am sure he did not mean to discomfit you tonight. Do please accept my apologies on his behalf.”

“Of course, Mr Reeves,” I murmur. “There is no need to apologise.”

The carriage draws up before the front steps of Penhale Manor. Simon hops down and holds out his hand for me. I let him assist me out of the carriage and up to my door, which Evans holds open. “Thank you, Mr Reeves,” I say quietly. “I shall bid you goodnight.”

He smiles, a genuine and warm expression on his young countenance. “Goodnight, Your Grace.” With a tip of his hat, he takes his leave.

Wearily, I bid Evans goodnight, bolt the door and head up to my bedchamber. As I prepare myself for bed, my mind keeps turning over the events of the evening, not finding any satisfactory answers to my questions. All I can conclude is that something strange is going on at Reeves Hall, and Brook Reeves is in the thick of it.