The Shadow in the Glass

If anyone caught her, Eleanor would be dismissed on the spot.

The house clicked and creaked as it settled into sleep, the heat of the last days of August quietly slipping into the night. Eleanor was the only one awake. On silent feet, she was as insubstantial as a flame. She could drift past cold fireplaces and dust sheets looming like glaciers and all she would leave behind was the faintest stirring in the air.

Candlelight shimmered on the walls as she crept into the library. The dark spines of the books were rows of windows, waiting for the shutters to be pulled back. Open one, and she would know the secrets of Ottoman palaces; open another, and she would gaze across deserts. Granborough House would fade away. Eleanor smiled. Some things were worth risking dismissal for, especially with the master out of the house for the evening.

Eleanor set down her candle and surveyed her subjects. Damp equatorial rainforests, steaming in the heat. Versailles, glittering in the dark like an Earthbound star. Verona – Juliet on her balcony, sighing into the darkness. It was a perfect night for poetry: she could stretch out her legs and whisper sonnets into the slow, hot silence. But she would cry, and Mrs Fielding would be able to tell the next morning. Better to keep her face blank, in case the housekeeper grew curious.

Eleanor locked the door, slipping the library key back up her sleeve. She’d stolen the key from Mrs Pembroke’s housekeeping chatelaine. Even though the mistress of the house had been dead for more than three years, shame still crawled under Eleanor’s skin when she went through Mrs Pembroke’s things. Not that Mrs Pembroke would have minded. She had spent the last few months of her life propped up on pillows, telling Eleanor how to care for everything she would inherit from Mrs Pembroke’s will.

The weight of the key against Eleanor’s forearm felt like shackles. Mrs Pembroke never would have wanted Eleanor to creep around the house like a thief, just for something to read.

The lady of the house had not wanted Eleanor to be a housemaid at all. Versailles, Verona, perhaps even the rainforest – these were all places Eleanor might have visited, if only Mrs Pembroke had lived. A lump crawled into Eleanor’s throat. Mrs Pembroke had been planning to take her on a tour of Europe when Eleanor was old enough to enter Society. Suddenly it seemed cruel to have so many travelogues spread out in front of her, when she’d once been so close to seeing the places all these men had written of.

Eleanor gave herself a little shake. She’d told herself not to get upset.

She lifted The Fairy Ring off the shelves and felt better the moment it was in her hand. Her own fingerprints from years ago marked the table of contents – smaller, of course, than they were now – the corner of the back cover was fraying slightly, from all the times she’d plucked at it as she read.

Settling into her favourite chair with that book in her hands, the lump in her throat melted away. At seventeen, she knew she ought to have grown out of such things, but it was difficult to set aside a world where trees grew delicate gold and silver branches and strange creatures lurked in cool, clear water. She lost herself on narrow paths twisting through dark woods, yearned to spin straw into gold, and envied the twelve brothers who had been changed into swans. It seemed like a fine thing to be a clean white bird that might fly anywhere it liked.

She put the book back when the clock struck midnight, making sure to replace it exactly where she found it. The chimes were quiet, but the sound dropped through to the pit of Eleanor’s stomach like a leaden weight. An old memory struggled to the surface of her thoughts – she was nine years old and curled into a ball, back pressed against the leg of an iron bed as a cheaper, harsher clock tolled midnight – but she shook it off. It wouldn’t do to think of her own mother now, she’d make herself upset again. Somewhere outside a hansom cab rattled over the cobblestones; she flinched, heart pounding, and almost knocked her candle over. Mr Pembroke was supposed to be dining at his club tonight. What if he’d changed his mind and come back early?

Eleanor listened at the door, forcing her nerves into submission. Nothing from downstairs. If she was quick, no one would even guess that she’d left her room. She crept back up the servants’ staircase and slipped into her little room, trying not to wilt at the sight of the bare boards, the skeletal iron bedframe, her useless scrap of curtain hanging limp over the window. She crawled into bed, ignoring the smell of mildew from the blankets and holding the memory of the fairy stories like hands cupped around a tiny flame. When she slept, she dreamed of vast wings carrying her away, and she could not tell if they were her own.

It was hard to believe in fairy tales when you woke up to the smell of damp. Eleanor’s shoulders felt like a bag of rocks and her knees were already aching. Nothing felt magical in her little garret. Her chest of drawers was small, cheap and splintery; her jug and washbasin were chipped. The sloping roof came too close to her head and damp mottled the walls and ceiling. She might have been sleeping at the bottom of a well.

Eleanor pulled on her uniform – a hard-wearing brown wool dress, which still scratched no matter how many times she washed it – remembering the steady beat of wings she’d dreamed about. She’d tell Aoife about it later, and they’d list all the places they’d fly away to while they polished the silver.

As she did every day, Eleanor checked her money drawer before she left her room. She didn’t open the drawer properly, just dragged it out a few inches so that the purse lurched forward, coins clinking. It was a silly habit, but hope rekindled in her chest at the sound. She had almost twenty-five pounds now: nearly enough to rent clean and pretty rooms for a few months, but she would need to find a way to live after that. She wouldn’t be emptying other people’s chamber pots for much longer.

She crept along the corridor and knocked on Leah’s door.

Without her stays Leah’s stomach stuck out like a hillock among the valleys of sheets. Her dark hair was spread out across the pillow, long limbs sticking out from under the blankets. She twitched in her sleep, eyelids fluttering, wincing as the baby shifted. The rest of the maids had been pretending not to notice while Eleanor helped Leah let out the waistline of her uniform. Anger flashed through Eleanor like lightning. Eleanor would’ve pretended for the full nine months and feigned surprise when the baby came, but it was not up to her. It was up to Mrs Fielding, and everyone knew that the moment Leah could no longer hide her condition, Mrs Fielding would dismiss Leah without a reference. Leah knew it too. Her carpetbag had been packed for weeks, just in case.

Eleanor cleared her throat. ‘Leah?’

Leah started awake, her eyes flying open. ‘God above, Ella! I thought you were—’

‘I don’t think he’s back yet,’ said Eleanor, closing the door behind her. ‘I wondered if you’d like some help getting dressed.’

Leah flushed. ‘I’m only showing a little.’

Eleanor kept her voice gentle. ‘More than a little, these days.’

Leah eased herself out of bed and got to her feet, and when she was standing Eleanor felt a flutter of hope. Her friend had always been full-figured, and when she drew herself upright perhaps Mrs Fielding would think that Leah had only put on weight. Of course, there were other signs too – dark circles under Leah’s eyes from all the sleepless nights, a slight thinning in her face thanks to the morning sickness – but all the maids were tired, and Leah could always say she’d eaten something that disagreed with her. Perhaps Leah wouldn’t have to leave just yet. Perhaps things would be different this time.

There was no mirror in this room, which was as small and shabby as Eleanor’s, so Leah shook out a stocking and tried to wind it around her waist, to see how much she’d grown. The ends only just met. She threw the stocking aside, hands shaking. Eleanor picked it up and smoothed it flat, folding it up so she didn’t have to look at Leah’s face. It took longer than it should; a slow, desperate frustration made her clumsy.

‘Mrs Fielding might not have—’

Leah gave a hollow laugh. ‘If you noticed weeks ago, Little Nell, then there’s no hope for me at all.’

The old nickname had a sting to it, like a needle slid under Eleanor’s fingernail. She fought to keep her composure. ‘You never thought about … about bringing on your time a little early? There are women who can—’

Leah stared at her, her grey eyes full of disbelief. ‘I could never! Where did you hear about something like that?’

Eleanor flushed. Leah hadn’t been the first maid to fall pregnant at Granborough House. ‘Oh, of course, I couldn’t either,’ she gabbled. ‘But you don’t seem very happy and I thought I’d—’

‘Of course I’m not happy!’ Leah snapped.

Eleanor reached out a hand, but Leah batted her away.

‘You’d better get on.’

Eleanor went downstairs, leaving Leah to wrestle with her stays. The vast basement kitchen of Granborough House was still and dark; the street-level window splashed a thin slice of light across the floor. Eleanor filled the coal scuttle and lit the kitchen range after three attempts, before the rest of the servants came in. The coal smoke stung her eyes, but she stared at the flames until tears were streaming down her face.

Fetching the first lot of water was always the worst part of Eleanor’s morning. The iron bucket smacked into her shins as she walked up the steps to their little slice of garden. Grey light oozed over the high walls. The herb garden, the trees and the old coach house were vague shapes in the gloom. As she went to the pump at the end of their overgrown strip of grass, the broken windows of the abandoned coach house glittered.

The trough underneath the pump was full of water and a fine layer of dead flies. She wrenched the handle. The pump made a horrible sucking noise and spat water all over her skirts. Beyond the wall hansoms rattled past, fast and sharp. The houses around them were only just beginning to stir to life. Eleanor could hear doors opening, buckets clanking, the subtle sounds of chimney after chimney warming up along the street. Mayfair was still quiet, but she could already hear the racket when she turned her head towards Marylebone. Slow rumbling announced the arrival of the costermongers’ carts, already laden down. From far off came a cry of ‘Coffee! Hot coffee!’ – Speakers’ Corner, she guessed. The costermongers always got there early, selling pigs’ trotters to zealots so concerned with their souls that they forgot what they put in their bodies. But that was the best way to eat the costermongers’ wares. The fruit-seller at the corner of Wigmore Street had been boiling his oranges, and that wouldn’t be the worst of it.

She hauled the bucket back inside.

By the time she was done most of the maids were huddled around the kitchen table. Skinny, frizzy-haired Lizzie was yawning into her bowl of porridge. Leah was still absent. Aoife smiled at Eleanor, bleary-eyed. Daisy, their last remaining kitchen maid, was hunched over the stove, the muscles in her strong brown arms flexing as she stirred the heavy porridge pot. As Daisy ladled out another bowl, Aoife caught Daisy’s eye and blushed. Eleanor could’ve sworn she had seen Daisy wink.

‘Where’s Leah?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Is she still dressing?’

Aoife tore her eyes away from Daisy, blushing. ‘I’ve not seen her.’

Eleanor handed an empty bowl to Daisy. ‘Well, we ought to set something aside for her. She’ll need her strength.’

Lizzie, the head housemaid, rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, spare me your moralizing, Ella. It’s her own silly fault she’s eating for two.’

Eleanor whirled around, her temper flaring. ‘It is not her fault and you know it.’

Lizzie smirked. ‘There’s a lot of things I know, Miss Eleanor.’

Leah clattered into the kitchen and Lizzie fell silent. Leah hadn’t managed her stays properly; her dress bulged and sagged where they hadn’t quite fastened. It made her stomach seem larger than ever, and her eyes were very red. Still, she grabbed the porridge that Eleanor had set aside for her and wolfed it down.

‘You took your bloody time,’ Lizzie muttered, looking away.

Leah set aside her bowl and gave Lizzie a long, cool look. ‘You didn’t. There’s hardly any porridge left. Tell me, does food taste better when you take it from someone else?’

Lizzie flushed and slammed her spoon onto the table. ‘You watch how you speak to me!’

Mrs Fielding swept into the room before the argument could properly ignite, already immaculate despite the early hour. Her black dress had been brushed to a shine and her brown hair, greying slightly, was twisted into a savagely tight bun. Mrs Banbury, the cook, slouched in after her, short and stocky, her grey-streaked hair sagging down her neck. Both of them already looked hot and tired.

‘Still eating, girls?’ Mrs Fielding asked, rubbing an old scar on her neck. ‘Come along, we’ve lots to do.’

Lizzie simpered at Mrs Fielding. ‘We’ve just finished, Mrs F.’ She turned back to the table. ‘Ella, you can clear this lot away now.’

Mrs Fielding nodded. Looking over them all, her eyes landed on Leah, took in the bump, and they all saw the decision settle into place. Eleanor watched her jaw clench, the tip of the scar twitching, and knew that there was nothing she could do or say to make Mrs Fielding change her mind.

Tonight, Eleanor would go to the library again. She would read until her eyes ached. She would drown herself in words, sink into the vanilla-smell of the binding, replace her blood with ink. She’d feast on other worlds and make herself anew. A fresh, clean, charming thing with a story from every continent, safe in a world where good, kind girls would not be abandoned …

‘Get to work, girls,’ Mrs Fielding snapped, staring at Leah.

Eleanor had been told to wash the kitchen floor when Mrs Fielding led Leah out of the kitchen, past the abandoned laundry room and into the housekeeper’s private rooms. Eleanor clattered around the kitchen as she fetched her supplies. Three buckets: soapy water, clean water, and water and vinegar, and enough rags and sponges to make a patchwork quilt. She scrubbed each flagstone carefully, first with soap, then water, then the vinegar mixture, until her hands were red and stinging and a fine web of tiny cracks was bleeding across her knuckles. She wished that the sound of cloth on stone could drown out Leah’s pleading.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Eleanor knew she shouldn’t have expected any better. Eleanor’s mother had been Mrs Pembroke’s servant since they were both teenagers, and they had still confided in each other long after Eleanor’s mother left Mrs Pembroke’s employ. Eleanor had vague memories from when she was small of playing on the floor between the two women as they planned out her future. Mrs Pembroke had promised Eleanor a good character reference for her first job, and hoped that she’d care for Mrs Pembroke’s own daughter, in her own grand house, when the time came. But when she was eight, Eleanor’s mother fell ill, and all those plans had been eclipsed by a long year of nursing that Eleanor remembered only in snatches: sweeping the floor with a broom as big as she was, helping her mother sit up against the big iron bedframe, spooning broth into her mother’s mouth. When her mother died, followed by Eleanor’s father not long after, Mrs Pembroke had taken Eleanor in. Everyone expected her to train Eleanor up as a housemaid, give her a good reference and send her on her way.

Instead, she had treated Eleanor like a daughter.

When Eleanor woke up screaming in the night, it was Mrs Pembroke who came running through the bedroom door. Mrs Pembroke took Eleanor into the library every morning and had patiently taught her French, arithmetic and a little piano, without the help of a governess. Mrs Pembroke even helped Eleanor dress, brushing out Eleanor’s long blonde hair and making her giggle by twisting it into silly shapes. Eleanor never wondered at the close attention: Mrs Pembroke had always wanted another little girl, and often said so. For a few shining years she had been ‘Miss Eleanor’, dressing in silks and satins, and the world where she’d had to change the sheets with her mother still lying in the bed was far, far behind her.

Eleanor was going to be a lady. She was going to be beautiful, and soft, and safe. Her life should have been an endless carousel of parties, trips abroad, and problems so gentle they would not hurt at all. Mrs Pembroke had even taught her how to waltz with her son, Charles. He was only a little older, blue-eyed and gangly and with a straggly moustache he was inexplicably proud of. When he was home from school, Mrs Pembroke would have the footmen clear a space in the drawing room so that Eleanor and Charles could plod around mechanically, staring at each other’s feet. Charles’s face had always been bright red, clearly mortified at being asked to dance with a girl four whole years his junior, but he’d taken one look at his mother’s misty eyes and danced with Eleanor anyway.

Then, Mrs Pembroke died.

The smell of the vinegar made Eleanor’s eyes water, dragging her out of her reverie and back to the present day.

Leah came out of Mrs Fielding’s rooms and vanished up the servants’ staircase. Moments later she was back, her red carpetbag in hand, and stalking towards the back door. Mrs Fielding watched her leave, her face utterly blank.

Eleanor ran after her.

‘Leah!’

Leah whirled around with one hand already on the gate. Her grey eyes were lit with nervous energy, and there was a tightness to her expression that made Eleanor take a step back. Hansoms clattered past on the road, broughams glided after them. The look on Leah’s heart-shaped face was so strange, Eleanor was half afraid she might try and throw herself under one. She couldn’t let her leave like this.

‘Don’t go,’ Eleanor said.

Leah’s face twisted. ‘I don’t have a bloody choice!’

‘You could sneak back up to my room when she’s not looking. I’d bring you food. Or the coach house! No one ever goes in there!’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ella!’

Eleanor fiddled with her apron. She wasn’t going to cry, she told herself. It would only make things worse. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. I … I didn’t …’ Leah pressed a hand to her mouth. When she took it away, her eyes were hard again. She set down her bag and grabbed both of Eleanor’s hands.

‘Don’t let him touch you,’ she hissed. ‘Not for anything. He comes near you, you just … hit him. Kick him. Smack him over the head with the poker! You do what you need to, you hear?’

Eleanor nodded, clinging to Leah’s hands. ‘Will you write to me?’

Leah let go of her hands and picked up the bag once more. ‘You know I never learned. Remember what I said. And tell Aoife, too. You’ll have to keep an eye on her, now I can’t.’

‘I won’t let anything happen to her.’

Leah was blinking fast. ‘God,’ she muttered. ‘I wish I’d never come here. It never used to be like this.’

‘No,’ Eleanor said, feeling older and lonelier than ever. ‘It didn’t.’

Eleanor emptied her buckets in the garden. Sudsy water splashed up her skirts. Sunlight fell hard on her face. If she wasn’t careful, she would burn. She watched the dirty water splash across the grass with her fists clenched, pinned in place. She had to get herself under control before Mrs Fielding saw.

Leah was right.

A few years ago, Granborough House had been a different place. There’d been footmen, laundrymaids, a coach in the coach house instead of beggars the constables had to run off every winter morning. Eleanor had dug her toes into perfectly brushed carpets, watched her reflection in every gleaming surface, and lingered next to warm fireplaces. When Charles was home on his school holidays they would sit on plump chairs in the library and practise their French together – if he stayed still long enough. But after Mrs Pembroke’s death the footmen left. The coach was sold; the coachman dismissed. The butler left, shortly followed by the valet, each hiding a crate of fine wines in their luggage. The carpets faded, the shining surfaces dulled, more and more fireplaces stood empty and cold. Charles stopped coming home. Then one morning, Mrs Fielding had shaken her awake at five o’clock and told her that now, she had to earn her keep. It didn’t matter that Mr Pembroke was Eleanor’s legal guardian, and ought to treat her like his own child. She’d been relegated from ‘Miss Eleanor’ to plain old Ella, her own name used to remind her of her place. She’d been fourteen, and she’d watched her future crumble.

She forced her temper back into place and brought the buckets in. Lizzie was rummaging for rags in one of the cupboards; Eleanor resisted the urge to bash the buckets against her bony knees when she put them away. Daisy was peeling carrots and talking about the public house she wanted to open with her brother, who had become a sailor in the West Indies like their father; Mrs Banbury was sweating over the iron range, standing on an old housemaid’s box to help her reach the pans. The cook had a rash all up her neck that blossomed in the heat, and every so often her hand would creep up and scratch it. Aoife was waiting at the kitchen table, a letter clutched in her hand. She started forward when she saw Eleanor.

‘I’ve a letter from home! Oh, miss, will you read it for me?’

Eleanor smiled. ‘There’s no need to call me miss, Aoife.’

Daisy rolled her eyes as Aoife blushed. ‘Too bloody right there ain’t.’

‘Save your gossip for Sunday, girls. That mutton here yet?’ Mrs Banbury called over her shoulder. Lizzie straightened up at once, eyes snapping to the tradesmen’s entrance.

Daisy yelled back. ‘Ain’t the boy been, Mrs B?’

‘Jesus wept! You should know, you dozy girl!’

‘Been doing the carrots, Mrs B!’ She waved one to prove her point.

Mrs Banbury swore and caught sight of Eleanor.

‘Be a dove, Ella, and run and fetch the master’s mutton. That bloody boy’s not been.’

‘It’s only noon,’ Lizzie said quickly, ‘he’ll come yet.’

Mrs Banbury fixed her with a sharp look. ‘I’ve no time for yet. If it’s not here by one that’s dinner ruined. Go on, Ella. Get your basket.’

‘Now?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Might I wait until Aoife’s ready to collect the laundry, and we could go together?’

‘No, now,’ Mrs Banbury snapped.

‘Without a—’

She caught herself, but it was too late. She was already shrivelling under the weight of her own embarrassment. Daisy widened her eyes at Aoife and twirled a bunch of carrots in her hand like a parasol, mouthing ‘Without a chaperone?’

Lizzie snorted with laughter. ‘As if Miss Eleanor would sully herself by going to the butcher’s on her own! I’ll go, Mrs B. She’ll have a fit of the vapours otherwise.’

‘Back to work!’ Mrs Banbury snapped at Lizzie, ignoring her glare. She turned back and sighed before she patted Eleanor’s arm. ‘God above, child,’ she said, more quietly, ‘you won’t be snatched the second you step outside our door. Go on, now. Go.’

Eleanor found her old wide-brimmed hat, turned up her collar and slipped on a pair of gloves before she went outside. Ladies were like lilies, pale and lovely. She would be too, if she could help it. A veil would be better, but it would never work with her dark dress. She rather liked the thought of gliding through the streets like a ghost, the world set in shadow around her. But people might think she was in mourning (or worse, a Catholic), and the veil would only become one more thing to wash.

The heat was like a slap. Her damp dress steamed in the sun. Their street was quiet, the row of gentlemen’s townhouses blindingly white in the sunlight. The only movement came from a large ginger cat stretched out on the pavement, twitching its tail. Eleanor turned towards Marylebone – the Mayfair butchers were far too expensive for them now – and the noise pressed in on her. Brown dust stuck to her skirts, twirled around horses’ hooves, climbed up the legs of passers-by. Children crowded around a Punch and Judy show, sticky with sweets and sweat. Cabs and carriages rattled past, windows cranked wide open. Horses snuffled hopefully at trays of apples. Costermongers sold ginger beer and strawberry ices, red-faced from shouting in the sun. Milkmaids fought their way through the crowds, pails sloshing. As one passed by Eleanor caught a whiff of rancid milk, and saw a fine layer of brown dust and dead bugs floating on its surface.

Elbows jammed into her sides. Her feet skittered on the dust. A child tipped up her empty basket, then ran away swearing when nothing fell out. Horses snorted in her ears, cab drivers cracked their whips over her head, and there was shouting on all sides.

‘Apples! Fresh apples!’

‘Billy! You come back here this instant!’

‘Strawberry ices! Lovely strawberry ices! Penny for the babby, missus, and one for you besides—’

‘All aboard for Piccadilly! You, sir, you going down Piccadilly?’

Eleanor darted out of the way of an omnibus. Someone trod on her skirts. A hand reached for her purse and she slapped it away. Another hand reached for her bottom; she smacked that one with her basket. Dogs growled at her, a piper blew his whistle in her ear, flies whirled around her head and finally, she reached the butcher’s, pummelled and sweating. Not even the sight of the pig carcasses strung up in the window could dampen her relief.

She ducked inside, trying to ignore the smell of meat that hadn’t been kept out of the sun. The butcher’s boy – a young man of about twenty with dark hair and a long, thin face – straightened up and wiped his bloody hands on his apron. Eleanor had seen him hanging around the tradesmen’s entrance to Granborough House, waiting for Lizzie and looking apologetic. They’d been walking out together for almost a year, but if the arguments Eleanor had overheard were anything to go by, Lizzie was wasting her time.

‘Granborough House delivery, please.’

‘It gets delivered, you know.’ He looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re a Granborough House girl?’ he said. His eyes flickered down to her waist. ‘Ain’t seen you before. You new?’

‘No. I’ve been there a few years.’

He laughed at that, disbelief echoing all around the shop. ‘You never have! How’d a pretty thing like you last that long? The old man gone blind?’

Eleanor thought of Leah and hopelessness settled on her like a shroud. She pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘The Granborough House delivery, please.’

‘All right, all right. Didn’t mean nothing by it.’

He handed her a large parcel wrapped in waxed paper. When she tried to take it he didn’t let go. ‘Will you be there when I make my next delivery?’

‘I shall be working. Thank you.’

She yanked the parcel out of his hands and stuffed it into the basket. He grinned, showing a missing canine tooth. ‘I’ll pop up and see you, how about that?’

‘Perhaps not. Do let me know if you have a message you’d like me to give to Lizzie. She’s your sweetheart, isn’t she?’

His grin faded slightly. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say sweetheart, not as such …’

‘I think she would.’

Eleanor stepped back into the crowds, mouth set in a tight line.

Lizzie was hanging around the servants’ entrance when Eleanor got back. She watched Eleanor hang up her hat and take off her gloves while chewing on a ragged thumbnail.

‘Thank the Lord,’ said Lizzie, ‘Miss Eleanor has survived a visit to the outside world without a chaperone and returned to us safe and sound. We’re all bloody delighted.’

Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘It’s sweet of you to say so, Lizzie,’ she said, her tone calm and measured.

‘Such a pity there was nobody about to carry your sedan chair.’

‘Yes.’

Eleanor picked up her housemaid’s box. The wide wooden box, shaped more like a basket, was laden down with old rags, tins of polish and an enormous feather duster. Eleanor could feel Lizzie glaring at her as she hung it on her arm, and daydreamed about clipping her round the head with it.

‘Well?’ Lizzie snapped.

Eleanor put on her most innocent expression, the one that Lizzie had always hated. ‘Excuse me?’

A muscle worked in Lizzie’s jaw. ‘What did he say?’

Eleanor thought of the way Lizzie had smirked when she’d talked about Lea, and a savage glee uncurled in the pit of her stomach. She kept it from showing on her face. There’d be no more smirking if she had anything to say about it.

‘I’m sorry, who do you mean?’

‘You know who I bloody well mean! Bertie! Does he have a message for me?’

‘Is he the tall fellow, with the dark hair? He asked if I was new.’

Lizzie’s hand jerked away from her mouth. Blood welled up on the side of her nail. ‘What d’you mean by that?’

Eleanor kept her eyes wide and earnest, but inside, she was crowing. ‘He only wanted to know if he’d seen me before. I let him know that he had not.’

Leaving Lizzie fretting, Eleanor slapped the dust off her skirts and climbed the stairs on sleeper’s legs. The second-floor landing was dark and quiet, a long, thin carpet muffling her footsteps as she crept down the empty corridor. Untouched dust sheets and closed shutters gave the air a still, heavy taste, but at least it was cooler.

Five minutes in the library was all she needed. Five minutes to bask in the smell of old books and let all the anger ebb away. She ducked inside. It looked smaller in the day, but the sunlight picked out the bright threads in the old Persian carpet and the gold names on all the spines. It was a treasure chest, and all the jewels were hers. She went to the nearest bookcase and pulled an old travelogue off the shelves. Just five minutes.

The door opened behind her. Eleanor whirled around.

Mr Pembroke stood in the doorway.

She couldn’t help it. She backed away before she could stop herself. There was no way she could slip past him; he was a big man made bigger by better dinners than she could ever afford. How someone like him had ever married a lady as generous and kind as Mrs Pembroke was completely beyond Eleanor. She supposed he might have been handsome, once, but now sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, his face was puffy and jowly, and his eyes glistened like rotten fruit when he looked at her. Even in the day she could smell the brandy on him.

Her hands balled into fists. How dare he, she thought, how dare he show his face? Leah had been dismissed that morning, with his child in her belly. Leah, who had given her a silly nickname and taught her how to turn Lizzie’s sharpness against her, had been dismissed without a reference, unmarried, and with a baby she didn’t want. Leah wouldn’t be able to get another job now, and no decent landlady would rent rooms to an unwed mother. Her money would run out, she’d have nowhere to stay, and if anything went wrong with