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

‘Such a pity there was nobody about to carry your sedan chair.’

‘Yes.’

Eleanor picked up her housemaid’s box. The wide wooden box, shaped more like a basket, was laden down with old rags, tins of polish and an enormous feather duster. Eleanor could feel Lizzie glaring at her as she hung it on her arm, and daydreamed about clipping her round the head with it.

‘Well?’ Lizzie snapped.

Eleanor put on her most innocent expression, the one that Lizzie had always hated. ‘Excuse me?’

A muscle worked in Lizzie’s jaw. ‘What did he say?’

Eleanor thought of the way Lizzie had smirked when she’d talked about Lea, and a savage glee uncurled in the pit of her stomach. She kept it from showing on her face. There’d be no more smirking if she had anything to say about it.

‘I’m sorry, who do you mean?’

‘You know who I bloody well mean! Bertie! Does he have a message for me?’

‘Is he the tall fellow, with the dark hair? He asked if I was new.’

Lizzie’s hand jerked away from her mouth. Blood welled up on the side of her nail. ‘What d’you mean by that?’

Eleanor kept her eyes wide and earnest, but inside, she was crowing. ‘He only wanted to know if he’d seen me before. I let him know that he had not.’

Leaving Lizzie fretting, Eleanor slapped the dust off her skirts and climbed the stairs on sleeper’s legs. The second-floor landing was dark and quiet, a long, thin carpet muffling her footsteps as she crept down the empty corridor. Untouched dust sheets and closed shutters gave the air a still, heavy taste, but at least it was cooler.

Five minutes in the library was all she needed. Five minutes to bask in the smell of old books and let all the anger ebb away. She ducked inside. It looked smaller in the day, but the sunlight picked out the bright threads in the old Persian carpet and the gold names on all the spines. It was a treasure chest, and all the jewels were hers. She went to the nearest bookcase and pulled an old travelogue off the shelves. Just five minutes.

The door opened behind her. Eleanor whirled around.

Mr Pembroke stood in the doorway.

She couldn’t help it. She backed away before she could stop herself. There was no way she could slip past him; he was a big man made bigger by better dinners than she could ever afford. How someone like him had ever married a lady as generous and kind as Mrs Pembroke was completely beyond Eleanor. She supposed he might have been handsome, once, but now sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, his face was puffy and jowly, and his eyes glistened like rotten fruit when he looked at her. Even in the day she could smell the brandy on him.

Her hands balled into fists. How dare he, she thought, how dare he show his face? Leah had been dismissed that morning, with his child in her belly. Leah, who had given her a silly nickname and taught her how to turn Lizzie’s sharpness against her, had been dismissed without a reference, unmarried, and with a baby she didn’t want. Leah wouldn’t be able to get another job now, and no decent landlady would rent rooms to an unwed mother. Her money would run out, she’d have nowhere to stay, and if anything went wrong with the baby she’d never be able to afford a doctor. God knew where Leah was going to go, or what she was going to do. Mr Pembroke didn’t care. He’d strolled towards the library, large hands in the pockets of his shiny silk waistcoat. His frog eyes were as carefree as a child’s, he was humming a tune, and the force of her own hatred felt like it was going to set her blood alight.

The whistling stopped when he saw her.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ella.’

She forced herself to curtsey. He was still the master of the house; she could not afford to be careless. If Eleanor was thrown out without a reference, she’d have nowhere to go either. His collar was spotlessly white, his silk cravat gleaming, his dark suit brushed and pressed. Leah had done it all the day before. She had insisted on picking up his laundry and laying out his clothes in the hope of catching him in his room. It could’ve been the last afternoon Eleanor and Leah spent together, if Leah hadn’t tried to beg some money for his child. But the coward hadn’t come home last night, and now Leah was gone.

‘What are you doing with that book?’

‘It … it was out of place, sir,’ Eleanor lied, forcing her tone back towards humility. ‘I was only putting it back.’

‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’

He nodded towards the bookshelves and kept standing in the doorway. Eleanor turned around and shoved the book back into place, shame crawling under her skin. She could feel him watching her.

‘Tell me, Ella,’ he said slowly, when she turned back around. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen, sir.’

He raised his eyebrows as though she hadn’t been living in his house for just over seven years. ‘How you’ve grown.’

Eleanor said nothing. She wanted, desperately, to wash her hands.

Mr Pembroke strode towards an armchair and sat down. ‘Do you know, I can still remember when you used to sit on my lap. Come here. Indulge an old man.’

He patted his knee. Eleanor clutched her housemaid’s box like a shield. Her entire body seemed to be filled up with disgust and fear, like coal smoke staining everything it touched. Don’t let him touch you, Leah had said. She hadn’t expected it would start this soon, not when her friend hadn’t even been gone for a full day.

The thought of Leah stopped her from being swept away on a tide of revulsion. Eleanor thought fast. She wasn’t going to end up like her.

‘I confess I don’t remember that, sir,’ she said, shuffling towards the door