The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

coming to Granborough. There were only flashes that came to mind, now: a bucket full of coal that cracked against her shins as she carried it, lye soap stinging at her hands as she tried to scrub something out of the floorboards, an iron bedstead pressing into her back. But whatever that place had been, it was nothing compared to this room. Mrs Pembroke had opened the door to a bright, pretty room that she’d furnished just for Eleanor. There had been pale curtains at the windows, a flowered jug and basin on the washstand, and soft white sheets on the bed, where Mrs Pembroke had read her ‘Rapunzel’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in a soft, melodious voice. Pastel-coloured dresses of silk and satin had sat in her clothes press, wallpaper printed with roses had hung on the walls, and a small square of carpet had sat by the side of the bed, where she used to kneel down and pray every night. The room had been soft, as gently coloured as a sunrise, all its contents more delicate than eggshells.

Eleanor’s hands were trembling. She opened the door.

It was almost as she’d left it.

The windows were shuttered, the curtains limp with dust. The bed was covered in dust sheets, the hangings folded away in boxes in the attic. The washstand was still there, although the jug and basin were gone along with the carpet, leaving a pale square of wood on the floor, like a shadow. She’d been allowed to keep her linen – she was still wearing it three years later, though she’d been letting out her chemise for years – but everything else in the clothes press had been sold.

At least the wallpaper was the same, she thought.

Eleanor drifted across the floor in a daze. Here, she had tried on her first proper corset. Mrs Pembroke had laced it up herself, making sure it sat properly over her chemise and telling Eleanor not to worry if it pinched. She’d been so proud to set her stays aside and get her first real piece of women’s clothing. The corset eased her shoulders back and fitted snug around her waist, and even standing there in her underthings she had felt so grown-up. She had turned to Mrs Pembroke, standing straighter than she’d ever done before, and there had been tears in Mrs Pembroke’s eyes.

She was still wearing that corset. It had been too small for years.

Eleanor hugged herself, the coarse material of her uniform scratching her fingers. All the shadows seemed to press in on her.

She left with a lump in her throat and ducked back through the door to the servants’ staircase, knowing what she would find in her little garret room. The walls mottled with damp. The straw mattress that rustled as she slept. The chipped jug and basin on her faded chest of drawers, the grey, scratchy blanket on her bed.

She opened her bedroom door.

The room had been torn apart.

Upended drawers lay on the floor. Her stockings had been ripped in half, huge strips of material had been torn away from the collars of her dresses, and her underthings had been completely shredded. Her sewing kit had been emptied, strewing needles everywhere. Even the blanket was covered in boot prints.

She remembered Lizzie, stalking out of the dining room hours ago, and knew what she had done.

Her breath caught. The purse.

Eleanor scrabbled through the mess. Needles skittered across the backs of her hands. It had to be here. Lizzie couldn’t have taken it. Had she known? No. No, she couldn’t have. But if she’d found the purse in her temper, and heard the clink of coins inside it …

Eleanor threw aside a bundle of stockings, panicking. She shook out every shift. She looked under the bed. She upended the empty chamber pot. She reached under the chest of drawers, tore through every pocket, and peered into a mousehole in the corner of the room.

Her money was gone.

It was all gone.

Three years’ wages, stolen. She’d been saving it so carefully. She’d let down the hems of all her old dresses. She’d unpicked seams and re-used the thread. She’d never bought so much as a hot cross bun – and now, it was all gone.

Lizzie had taken it to stop her getting away from Granborough House. Eleanor got to her feet. She wasn’t going to let her get away with it. She was used to the occasional slap but this – no. No. She wasn’t going to be treated like this for the sake of Lizzie’s pride.

Eleanor hurtled back down the servants’ staircase and pelted through the kitchen, past the laundry room and skidded to a halt outside Mrs Fielding’s rooms. She hammered on the door and did not stop until the housekeeper answered.

‘Ella?’ said Mrs Fielding, looking alarmed. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Someone’s been in my room, Mrs Fielding.’

Mrs Fielding sighed, pinching the bridge of her long nose. ‘I really haven’t the time to be resolving petty disputes. I have a lot to do, you know, and—’

Eleanor could feel the tears building like a thunderstorm. ‘You don’t understand! My wages are gone – all of them, just gone!’

Mrs Fielding’s expression hardened. ‘You are making a very serious accusation, Ella. Are you quite sure you’ve looked everywhere?’

‘Of course I’ve—’

‘Less of that tone!’ Mrs Fielding snapped. ‘Go and search your room again and do make sure to look everywhere, this time. If you can’t find them, I shall help you put the matter before the master.’

Eleanor went cold. She knew exactly how that would go. Mrs Fielding would be with her, at first, but there was always something that needed Mrs Fielding’s attention and she wouldn’t stay for long. And when the door had closed, leaving Eleanor on the wrong side of it, she would have no choice but to listen to whatever Mr Pembroke said because she had nothing, now, there was no way she could get out. She had no relatives who would take her in, no references to get another