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

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