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

Bedlam from her head. Of course she was not seeing things. Charles would not trust her to write his letters if he doubted her sanity. She ought to have as much faith in herself as he did, she told herself, and blushed when she wondered how much faith that was.

‘… yours etc. I’m sure you know how to finish these things off, Eleanor. I leave myself in your capable hands.’

She signed the letter and addressed the envelope. ‘Oh yes. I’ll call him a wastrel on your behalf,’ she teased.

He laughed and rang the bell for lunch. ‘How are your hands?’

‘Much improved, thank you.’

‘Capital.’

Charles sprawled in an armchair and smiled at her. He was always smiling at her. And when he wasn’t smiling, he was looking at her. She sometimes caught him staring at her mouth, her hands. He turned away every time she noticed.

There was a knock on the door and they both flinched. Aoife came in, carrying Charles’s lunch on a tray. She lingered by the fireplace as she set it down, and when she left she looked tired enough to cry.

Charles did not notice. He was beaming at his lunch. There was a steaming bowl of soup, bread, a plate piled with cold meats and cheeses, and three tiny fruit tarts, the jam gleaming like jewels. Eleanor had a hunk of bread and cheese waiting for her in the kitchen, if somebody hadn’t already eaten it.

‘Well,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘if that’ll be all …’

‘Sit and eat with me.’

‘Charles, I couldn’t deprive you of your meal—’

‘There’s plenty here. I shan’t let a lady go hungry.’

Eleanor caught the scent of marjoram. Mock turtle soup – one of Mrs Banbury’s best. She’d watched her make it countless times, but had never tried it once.

‘Well, if you insist.’ She sat down beside him.

‘Here,’ he said, holding out a laden spoon.

‘Charles, I am far too old to be spoon-fed.’

He smiled. ‘What gentleman would allow a lady to lift a finger, let alone a spoon?’

The spoon clinked against her teeth as he put it in her mouth. The broth was buttery and rich, with a hint of rosemary-and-clove sharpness. She had never tasted anything like it.

There were inches between them. She could have reached out and stroked his silk cravat. Faint lines nestled at the corners of his eyes; she wanted to trace them. She licked her lips and his eyes darted to her tongue. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his eyes still on her mouth. This close, she could see a suggestion of pale stubble on his cheeks, and she remembered that night in the library. If she hadn’t knocked the candle over, what would he have confessed in that soft, dark room, with Eleanor’s dreams spread before them both?

He shifted in his chair and looked away, and they ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Charles’s bandages came off the next day, and Eleanor spent it cleaning. Mrs Fielding insisted. Eleanor scrubbed, wiped, dusted and polished until her back was sore and her knees ached. The smell of carbolic soap and ground-in mould tangled in her hair.

‘Best thing for you, Ella,’ Mrs Fielding said. ‘A girl like you needs to be put to work.’

By the end of the day Eleanor was a clammy, grey creature. More than anything she wanted to step into her ink-and-paper armour and leave Granborough House behind. How had she ever stood the stink of damp, and the feel of ground-in dirt under her nails? The mould had crawled under her skin, rotting all her veins from the inside. No matter how many times she lathered soap up and down her arms, or soused her hair with rosemary water, its cold fingers crept up her arms and down her neck. She’d never escape it.

There was a knock at her door. Eleanor kicked her dirty clothes under the bed and answered it. Charles was standing there, looking hopeful and holding a large bottle under his arm.

‘I’ve brought you something. May I – good Lord! Is this where you sleep?’

‘It has its merits, I suppose. I’d rather not sleep on the kitchen floor.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean … I’m sorry, that was dreadfully rude of me. I’m sure your room is lovely.’

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. He blushed.

‘We could go somewhere warmer, if you prefer.’

‘Go and …?’

‘Celebrate, of course!’ he said, waggling the bottle at her. ‘I can’t think of a better way to thank you for all your help. Will you come downstairs?’

She hesitated. ‘If Mrs Fielding found out …’

‘She’s a good old stick, she shan’t mind.’

‘She shan’t mind if you do it. I daresay things are a little different for me.’

‘Of course. Silly of me.’

He looked crestfallen. The last of her self-control melted. ‘We’ll have to be discreet.’

He grinned at her. They crept down the servants’ staircase and sneaked into the drawing room. Charles locked the door behind them and Eleanor huddled by the fire, trying to stir some life into the coals.

There was a pop. Eleanor flinched so hard she almost dropped the poker.

‘What was that?’

‘Just the champagne,’ he said, pouring her a glass, ‘nothing to worry about.’

‘I hope you didn’t go to any trouble to get it.’

‘Frankly, I can’t think of a better use for my hand than opening champagne.’ He handed her the glass. ‘Here’s to an excellent scribe!’

Eleanor almost choked on her champagne. The bubbles prickled across her tongue.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked, his face hopeful.

Eleanor nodded, her eyes watering. She wasn’t sure she did, but with something this expensive she decided she’d better. Charles beamed and topped up her glass. His was already empty.

‘Have as much as you like,’ he said, ‘there’s no point opening a bottle of champagne unless you finish it. We got through the stuff like water back at Oxford.’

She took another sip. ‘And we all thought you were so hard at work.’

‘The amount we drank was hard work, I assure you!’

She laughed. ‘I don’t believe you. This doesn’t taste like hard work