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

Eleanor nodded. The Inspector let out a long sigh and made a note.

‘And – forgive me, Miss Hartley, but I must ask – do you have reason to believe that the girls were willing?’

Eleanor shook her head.

The Inspector made another note. Candlelight sharpened the grooves on his face. ‘And how long has this been going on?’

‘I’m not sure. Certainly since Mrs Pembroke’s death, three years ago.’

More scribbling. His pencil bobbed in the light, casting strange shadows on the wall. Upstairs, a door slammed, and Eleanor flinched.

‘Did you ever suspect your employer of having an inappropriate relationship with Miss Bartram?’

She shook her head. Someone was coming down the stairs. Mrs Fielding, come to look for her? Or worse – what if it was Mr Pembroke?

‘One more question, please, Miss Hartley. Did you ever—’

There was a creak of a door opening further down the corridor. Eleanor blew out the candle, seized the Inspector’s hand and forced him to hide. They crouched behind a chair, listening to the footsteps. Her pulse fluttered like hummingbird’s wings, and the Inspector squeezed her hand.

Aoife walked past the morning-room door, whistling. Eleanor slumped against the chair, but did not get up until the sound had faded.

‘I think you’d better go, Inspector,’ she whispered.

‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve told me, Miss Hartley. If Mr Pembroke should ever behave improperly with you, or any other maid in his employ, come straight to me. I will help as much as I am able.’

Eleanor couldn’t speak. There was an unexpected lump in her throat.

The Inspector seemed to understand. ‘My sister was in service,’ he said, his face dark. ‘She told me some of the things an unscrupulous master might do.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Now, wait here, and I’ll see you safely out.’

At three o’clock on the day that Charles came home, Eleanor was lined up in the hall with the rest of the maids. Starch crackled in the black folds of her dress uniform. The house shone. Polish masked the scent of damp. Fires crackled in all the right grates. A leg of pork was roasting in the oven, and a pot of Julienne soup was simmering on the stove. The gleaming hall floor reflected the maids’ white aprons – ghosts, floating under the surface of the water.

As they waited for Charles to arrive, Eleanor tugged on her cuffs. Her sleeves were too short; she’d not worn her dress uniform in years. Several inches of wrist showed, making her dry, red hands stand out even sharper against the white of her apron and cuffs. She knew Charles was going to notice. Oh God, what if he tried to shake her hand, which had once been so soft and delicate? One look at what three years of hot water and carbolic soap had done to her fingers and he wouldn’t even touch her.

There was a clatter from the top of the stairs.

Mr Pembroke was leaning heavily on the banister. Eleanor caught a whiff of stale sweat and brandy as he passed, and heard him stumble down the stairs. Let him fall, she thought. He deserved it.

Mrs Fielding nodded to Aoife, who stepped forward and dropped a curtsey.

‘Shall I help with your jacket, sir?’

His voice was slurred. ‘What? Oh, yes.’

Aoife fussed around him, re-buttoning his waistcoat and straightening his jacket. Mr Pembroke stood there, his eyes unfocused. It was only when she was tying his cravat that he noticed her. He whispered something in her ear and Aoife’s hands slipped.

Eleanor seethed. God alone knew where Leah laid her head, and Eleanor couldn’t begin to guess where the rest of Mr Pembroke’s girls were. Some of them might have persuaded their mothers to pass the baby off as a child of their own. Some of them had probably ended up as working girls, and Eleanor could only hope their customers were kind to them. She would not let Aoife become one of them.

Aoife fled back to her place in the line. There was a sharp rap at the door; Charles had arrived.

He was not the boy she remembered.

Then, he’d been shaped like a string bean, with a mop of vaguely yellow hair and a moustache like a caterpillar crawling along his upper lip. The man who came in was taller, broad-shouldered, and his golden-brown hair was brushed smoothly into place. His full-lipped mouth was already smiling, his clothes neatly tailored to his lean body. The straggly moustache was gone, and even from this distance she could see his eyes were brilliantly blue. His mother’s eyes.

He glanced around the hall. He saw her, she knew he saw her, but he said nothing. His expression flickered, and then he turned his eyes to his father.

And that, she thought, was it. She was staff. Her pride stung at the thought. She’d been relegated to the ranks of faceless housemaids, no more worthy of notice than the umbrella stand in the hall. But what had she been expecting? She hadn’t heard from Charles in three years. She’d been foolish to think he might’ve objected to her being forced to earn her keep. Perhaps he’d known all this time, and hadn’t cared. The thought punctured an old daydream and Eleanor’s face grew hot. She’d been stupid to imagine that—

Charles and his father went upstairs, the rest of the maids sloped off to the kitchen and, too late, Eleanor realized she had been left with the bags.

Eleanor opened the door to the second-floor landing, listening to the voices from the study. Mrs Fielding had sent her to tell the Pembrokes that a visitor was waiting in the drawing room, but Eleanor was in no hurry. She’d heard her own name through the door to the servants’ staircase and a mix of curiosity and dread had pricked up her ears.

A thin slice of light spilled into the corridor. The study door was ajar. Voices rang down the hall. She avoided the creaky floorboards and listened.

‘… you swore you’d send her to school! What would Mother say if she—’

‘Don’t talk