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

She was loitering outside a shop all by herself, a lady’s maid with no lady in sight. Certain types of men would treat that as an invitation. Perhaps she should buy an umbrella, to have something to hit them with.

‘Eleanor?’

Charles had materialized out of the fog and tipped his hat to her. Immaculate and shiny, safe from all the grime and dirt around him. Eleanor couldn’t hold back a smile.

‘Charles! I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Nor I you. Where is Miss Darling?’

Eleanor kept her smile in place. ‘She’s inside. Shall I fetch her for you?’

‘Good,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘I need to speak with you, Eleanor. How do you get those bruises?’

Eleanor started. He might as well have stepped out of her daydreams, if she hadn’t been panicking. When she had imagined this moment she’d been graceful and dignified, poised despite her pain. But now, she felt as if she’d been set adrift, grasping at any word she could reach.

‘Bruises? I don’t—’

‘I see. You’d have no objection to rolling up your sleeve, then?’

She blushed. ‘In public?’

‘Of course. Of course not, I meant to say. Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.’

When she looked up, he was blushing too. He held out his hand. She shook it, and he saw the strip of skin between her glove and her sleeve. Mottled green bruises peeked out from underneath her cuff.

‘Oh, Eleanor. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She took her hand away, ashamed.

‘I would have believed you. Do you think I never look at you?’

Felicity was careful when she left her bruises. She planned ahead when she slapped Eleanor and kept her out of sight until the bruises faded; visible marks would only cause her problems. She made Eleanor roll up her sleeves, or gather her hair away from the nape of the neck.

Eleanor could barely meet his eyes.

‘I’ll speak to Felicity,’ he sighed. ‘I expected better of her.’

‘You can’t!’ hissed Eleanor. ‘You mustn’t say a word!’

Charles rubbed his jaw. He did not seem so immaculate any more.

‘I’m sorry, Eleanor. I never thought she would treat you like this. I don’t seem to be much use at helping you.’

‘Don’t be silly, Charles.’

He smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘You don’t think you’d be better off without me?’

The world seemed to shift. The street was unchanged: the match-girls still called out plaintively, the shop-boys still tried to coax in customers. Only now a strange kind of urgency mounted around her. How many more seconds would slip away before Felicity opened the door? She needed them all, and yet she could only let them pass. She wanted to run, to shout, to pull Charles towards her and whisper in his ear, but noise and movement were too sharp, too close. They would smash the fragile thing she wanted so much to build.

‘No. Never.’

The words were raw. The moment she said them, she regretted them, and yet she had never said anything truer.

‘Thank you, Eleanor. May I ask you one more thing?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think I made the right choice?’

They both knew the answer. But why ask her at all, if he already knew the truth?

‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said. ‘Do you love her?’

‘That’s a very personal question, Eleanor.’

‘As was yours, sir.’

He gave a sad laugh. ‘I seem to recall asking you not to call me “sir”.’

‘You did. Once more ought to do it.’

He laughed – a real laugh, this time, and the sound warmed Eleanor from the inside out.

Behind the window, Felicity was standing at the counter. Her wedding dress was neatly folded in a box. She sent the errand boy running with a clip round the ear and smirked. Charles saw, and his expression was something Eleanor never wanted to see again.

Eleanor laid the facts before her like a craftsman setting out his tools.

Felicity was going to dismiss her. She would not let Eleanor stay in Granborough House, even as a scullery maid: she wanted Eleanor gone. But Felicity would wait until after the wedding: she knew Charles and Eleanor were close, and she would not make such a risky move until her position was secure.

Mr Pembroke was getting worse. Aoife had cried like a child – she was a child, Eleanor thought, her temper flaring. She’d been terrified, and lonely, and too ashamed to even repeat the things he’d asked her. Eleanor could not leave her in Granborough House for a moment longer. She had to find a way back.

And then, there was Charles. Remembering the look on Charles’s face as he watched his future wife swipe at shop-boys sent a strange mixture of guilt and anger crawling across her skin. Eleanor could not stand the thought of him pouring all his warmth and gentleness into Felicity’s hands when it was only going to slip through her fingers.

It was time to make another wish.

Eleanor chose her words carefully, stitching them together with the same care that she would take over a piece of fine lace. Felicity had to go; with her as mistress of Granborough House Charles would be miserable, Eleanor would be dismissed and there would be no one to stop Mr Pembroke from putting his hands on Aoife. Charles was already having doubts; she might not need to make a wish at all. Still, she could not wait for him to come to his senses when Aoife was in so much danger.

If she was careless, someone would die. There were countless reasons why people did not marry, and death was one of them. But it was a risk worth taking. The black-eyed woman had told her that the wishes needed a death to come true, but she had proven that Eleanor could not trust her. Why should Eleanor believe that, when so many other things the black-eyed woman had said had turned out false? If she phrased her wish so that Charles and Felicity would choose not to marry, no one might get hurt at all – or perhaps, if she was lucky enough, it would be