Chapter 8
Broek
I pace up and down the room in fury. “How in the name of all that is holy, was the duchess allowed to stray into this part of the house?” I demand. Nobody answers. I turn to face Wolkan, whose job it is to ensure our security. “Well?” I ask. “What have you to say?”
He returns my gaze, his eyes not faltering. “I walked her to the retiring room, and Great Yol, any sane person would have known the way back from there to the drawing room,” he says by way of explanation, adding, “How was I to know she would slip out, get lost and walk in the wrong direction?”
My lips curl. “Mark my words, the duchess was not lost. She turned this way so she could pry about the house.” That damned slip of a woman did the opposite of what anyone would expect. I sense in her a lively curiosity—a dangerous inquisitiveness. She could be the downfall of us all if we are not careful.
“So, she found this room,” Horis reasons. “It was in darkness though, and I doubt she saw the screen. Even if she did, she would have no idea what it was. No irreparable harm has been done.”
“I saw her touch the charging panel,” I say flatly.
“Ah.”
“How are we to explain away a flashing red and green light which zapped her hand with energy? The work of the devil?” I ask sardonically.
To this he has no answer. It is Liora that replies in his stead. “We do not explain ourselves or say anything, unless the little duchess brings the matter up with us,” she says decisively. “To do so would make it seem as if we have something to hide and would only invite more curiosity.”
“She has enough curiosity about us as it is,” I snap, wishing everyone here would grasp the true peril of our situation. And furthermore, something in the way Liora just called Jane the little duchess is grating fiercely on my nerves. I may call her by this nickname and think of her as a little wisp of a thing, but nobody else should get to do so. I give my sister the blackest of scowls.
“I do not doubt her curiosity,” continues Liora, undeterred. “But even so, what is she, a newcomer to these parts, to do about it? Should she speak of seeing a flashing green and red light to anyone, they would think her mad. The wisest course of action for her is to keep the incident to herself, and she strikes me as a sensible female.”
“Liora is right,” concurs Horis. “We must hold our nerve and trust that the Duchess of Coleford will not speak of what she saw to anyone.”
What if we are wrong, and she speaks of it in the village? A cold wave of fear hits me at the thought, increasing my fury. “No more dinner parties,” I bite out.
“For now, no more dinner parties,” agrees Liora, “though I think tonight achieved more than you realise, Broek.”
All it achieved was to kindle dangerous curiosity in the duchess’s head about us and to shatter my peace of mind. A magnificent evening’s work indeed.
It is as if Liora reads my thoughts, for she continues, “The Calthorpes were greatly impressed with our home and our hospitality. As for their daughters, they were undoubtedly charmed by my handsome brothers.” Liora fixes her eyes on Horis as she says this, but he turns away, hanging his head, as if certain he is not included in this praise. I stifle an irritated sigh. When will my brother hold his head up high and realise he is our equal in every way that matters? Great Yol it pains me to see him put himself down. If we had not been banished from our home, I think bitterly, he would have grown out of this timid phase and blossomed. Not for the first time, I curse Mother for bringing this misfortune down upon us. The years have not softened my resentment at our exile.
“So,” Wolkan now says, a hopeful tilt to his voice, “putting everything into perspective, it does not seem as if tonight was an unmitigated disaster.”
I snort my disgust. Much does he know! Everyone here is keen to downplay the danger of Jane’s discovery tonight. Not me. I have begun to discern the features of her character, and I cannot forget her words to me earlier this evening. 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 . Jane Cavendish, Duchess of Coleford, is a hazard to be reckoned with.
“I will rest easier when the duchess sells Penhale Manor and returns to where she came from,” I grunt morosely.
“How well this project fares with you,” remarks Liora with a hint of a sneer. I glare at her in response.
“She will sell,” I state with more confidence than I truly feel. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a suspicion that the little duchess will hold on to that house merely to spite me.
Liora creases her brow in thought. “There is another way for us to get hold of Penhale Manor,” she muses. At our questioning glances, she elucidates, “Through marriage rather than purchase.” Then, addressing Horis, she says, “I saw that you got along well with the duchess tonight and spoke easily with her, showing none of your usual reserve. Would she not make an excellent bride for you?”
Now, that is going beyond the beyond. The very idea of Horis marrying Jane is preposterous, and I say as much. “Quite clearly, you do not know what you speak of, Liora. The duchess is far too wilful to ever make a good match for Horis. Do not mention it again or I shall lose all patience with you.” And with this last speech, I storm out of the room.
I go to my usual haunt in the evenings, descending a set of stairs to the basement. There, beyond a door that is discreetly hidden behind a rack of wine bottles, is our operational centre. I stand before a small gap in the wine rack and let the security system scan my face. As it does so, I cannot help but imagine what would have happened if Jane were to have explored this far into my house. Would she have seen the wine rack as the innocuous looking decoy it is, or would she have poked and prodded, her inquisitiveness coming to the fore?
The door now opens to allow me through, and as I walk inside, I determine grimly that at all costs, the duchess must not be allowed back into Reeves Hall. She must not marry Horis either. In fact, the only solution is for her to sell Penhale Manor to me and leave this county far behind. I stride down the corridor and open the third door to my left, which requires an additional security scan before it lets me in. The door slides silently shut behind me as I go to my console. With one touch, I power it up, instructing the computer to send my nanoprobes to Penhale Manor and display the visuals on the screen.
Now as I watch her house, I see our carriage draw up in front of it. Simor escorts Jane to her door, bids her farewell and returns to the vehicle, which soon begins its journey back to Reeves Hall. My eyes are glued to Jane as she enters the house, dismissing one of her servants, and shuts the door. A minute later, a light appears through one of the upstairs windows— Jane’s bedchamber, I surmise. For long minutes, I watch that window. I do not see anything of note except the brief movement of a silhouette. Finally, the light is extinguished.
I sit for some time in quiet contemplation, imagining Jane slipping into bed, her slight form nestled under the covers as she drifts to sleep. “ What will you dream of tonight? ” I wonder. “ Will you dream of me? ”
I huff, vexed with myself. What should I care what the little duchess dreams? The only thing that matters now is to get her to sell the house and leave. But how? I think on the matter some more. Knowing what I do now about her, I do not believe it will do much good to keep plaguing her with offers to sell. But what if I were to find another home for her that she could easily afford with the proceeds from Penhale Manor? A home close to Coleford where surely she must have relations. One that is in a good state of repair and close to the amenities of a village or town. A place that is not isolated as Penhale Manor is, where she and her daughter can live comfortably.
I program in a search on my computer, instructing it on the parameters. Ever since our ship landed on Earth seven years ago, I have had hundreds of thousands of microscopic recording devices placed in strategic locations around this planet, the data feeding into a powerful analytical engine that processes the information and sends it to me in daily bulletins. Each night, from this console, I access this information, whether it be written reports or visual and sound recordings of important events taking place around the globe. With this vital information, I am able to keep track of all the most important political and economic developments, and to make judicious investment decisions to grow our wealth and secure our futures here on this distant planet that is now our home.
Tonight though, my attention is not on the latest happenings in Lord Liverpool’s cabinet nor on President Monroe’s new federal law regarding the purchase of land in the western frontier of America. Neither is my attention on what the king of Prussia or the Tsar of Russia might be machinating. I am not deciphering messages conveyed between officials in the Ottoman and Persian empires, nor studying the latest conflict between the emperor of China and the encroaching British empire. No, tonight, I am threading through the minutiae of newspaper listings, social chitchat recorded on my many devices and private letters scanned, all in search of mentions of any homes that may be up for sale.
I learn that one squire by the name of Barrington is selling a cottage in the village of Holcombe, not a half mile away from Coleford. I enter the co-ordinates of Holcombe village into my visual database to retrieve pictures of this cottage, but a few flicks through them convinces me it will not do for Jane and her vivacious daughter, Chloe. The rooms look cramped and the grounds outside are very modest in size.
I set to search again. In the nearby town of Frome, I find another cottage for sale through a local newspaper advertisement. Once again, I go to the visual database to retrieve pictures of this cottage. The pictures are pleasing. The cottage is modest, but not too small and quite charming in aspect. I read the particulars in the advertisement. There are four bedrooms, a coach-house to stable horses and a garden. Would Jane be comfortable living in such a place?
I do not question why it has become all important for me to ensure her comfort. I tell myself I am not some ogre wishing ill upon the duchess. If I am to take Penhale Manor from her, at a very generous price I might add, then I would wish to see her well settled elsewhere, that is all. It is a Christian duty to want to ensure the young widow is safely situated, even though I am not much of a Christian.
I print out the advertisement for this cottage scanned from the Frome Times and have the computer render an illustration of the front aspect of the cottage. Once printed, it looks to be a hand illustrated watercolour, not a digitally made image. I have even taken care to instruct the computer to fray the edges of the image, to make it look like it has been sent in a letter.
I take the watercolour illustration and the newspaper cutting, placing them both carefully in a folded sheet of paper which I seal and address to “The Duchess of Coleford, Penhale Manor”. Tomorrow first thing, I shall have it delivered anonymously. Of course, she may guess it will have come from me, but that is no matter. All I am doing now is sowing the seeds of what might be, should she sell to me. I will keep my distance, observing her from my console in this basement, and when the time is right, I shall pounce with a one-time, even more generous offer for Penhale Manor.
I very nearly kissed the duchess tonight. Only at the last moment did I exert enough self-control to step back. Next time, I do not know whether I’ll have the strength to resist her. That is why there can be no next time. The duchess must leave Penhale. She knows too much already, and she is dangerous to my peace of mind. Once she learns of this cottage in Frome, I hope she’ll see sense and agree to a sale. With this, for now, I must be satisfied. I tap the console shut and make my way back upstairs to retire for the night.