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

as much as she dared. ‘I’m sure you had more important things to attend to than amusing children. I mainly remember your wife from that time.’

Even after three years, a brief spasm of grief twisted across his face. Eleanor felt it too, but hers came with a vicious thrill of triumph. Even in death, Mrs Pembroke could protect her.

‘She was such a generous woman,’ Eleanor continued as she backed further away, watching two high spots of colour appear on Mr Pembroke’s flabby cheeks, ‘and so kind. She was a second mother to me. And so keenly aware of a lady’s duties. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who took such good care of her servants. I shall always remember her example. I try to act as though she would wish me to every day—’

Mr Pembroke got to his feet and stumbled to the door. ‘I – yes, yes. That will be all.’

He lurched out of the room, eyes bright and jaw clenched. Eleanor counted to five, and then scurried over to the door and locked it, heart rattling in her chest. She leant against the door, holding it shut.

She’d been telling the truth. She couldn’t remember much about Mr Pembroke from her childhood. He had been a distant and forbidding presence, and the only real memories she had were of him screaming at Charles in the school holidays about his marks, which had never been good enough. It was only after Mrs Pembroke had died, and Eleanor had been relegated to the wrong side of the green baize door, that she had learned what he was really like.

She stared at the back of the chair he had been sitting in and shuddered. She’d need to clean it if she ever wanted to feel safe in here again. But, she reminded herself, she had learned something valuable. Mr Pembroke still missed his wife, and if she had to make that knowledge her shield then that was what she was going to do.

She needed all the armour she could get.

Residual fear was still bubbling in the pit of Eleanor’s stomach when the sun went down. The heat strangled her as she climbed the servants’ staircase, flies buzzing over her head. The library would calm her – but even that was tainted by the memory of Mr Pembroke standing in it.

Eleanor flung open the door to her room and opened the window as wide as it would go. Through the glass, a forest of rooftops and chimneypots crowded around a slice of sky. On a clear morning she could see the vague shape of Hyde Park, but now the smoke from the chimneys and the heat haze had transformed it into a green smudge on the horizon. She stripped off her dress and corset, both of which were too small, and splashed her face with cold water. She could feel her damp chemise drying on her skin, sticky in the heat.

‘Ella? Are you awake?’

Aoife was standing in the doorway, clutching her letter in her hand. She blushed when she saw Eleanor in her underthings. ‘Oh, Lord, you’re in your shimmy! I’m sorry, I’ll come back later …’

Eleanor grabbed her shawl and threw it around her shoulders. The wool was scratchy and hot. ‘Here. Shall you mind me in this?’

Aoife still looked embarrassed, so Eleanor asked her to wait outside while she put her clothes back on, even though she felt like she was choking with every button she fastened. Aoife came back in as soon as she was finished and handed Eleanor her letter.

‘Oh, it’s from your mother!’ said Eleanor, scanning down the page.

Aoife made a quick, nervous gesture. ‘You’ve to tell me the news before you read it out loud. It’s better if I know before you read.’

Eleanor smiled. ‘I always do. She says she’s well, and so are Mary and her little ones, and so’s Patrick, although she says she’s not heard from him since he set sail.’

‘Is that normal?’

‘I think so. I suppose he won’t get a chance to post any letters until he puts into port. Ask Daisy, she’ll know. Anyway, she says that Michael – I’m sorry, Micheál – is keeping well and that the warm weather is helping his chest, and that he sends his love.’

Aoife sagged against Eleanor’s bedpost. ‘Good. Did she say if Micheál needs anything?’

Eleanor scanned through the letter again. It was clearly written by an Englishman; she could tell from the way Aoife pronounced her family’s names that whoever had written it had written down the closest equivalent. Aoife’s own name was written as Eve, though Eleanor had never told her. She didn’t want to put any more distance between Aoife and her family by rechristening her.

‘He’s quite all right.’

Aoife let out a sigh of relief and sat down at the foot of Eleanor’s bed, resting her chin on her knees. ‘Good. You can read it now.’

Eleanor sat down too and began to read the letter properly. Aoife laughed at her mother’s jokes, gasped at all the village gossip, and flushed every time Eleanor read a leading question about boys. But despite her smiles, there was a wistfulness in her eyes that made Eleanor wonder. If her brother had not been sick, would Aoife have come to London at all?

Aoife gave a happy sigh when Eleanor finished reading the letter. ‘Thank you, Ella. Can we write a reply?’

‘Of course. What do you want to say?’

Aoife seemed to shrink into herself. ‘I … I don’t know. I don’t think I want her to know about today.’

Eleanor remembered Leah clutching the garden gate and felt something twist inside her. ‘No. I imagine not.’

Aoife stared at her bare feet, poking out from the hem of her dress. ‘I wish I’d something fine to tell her about. London’s not how I thought it’d be at all. I thought there’d be ladies in fine dresses and trips to the Crystal Palace. Exciting things.’

‘Well,’ said Eleanor, forcing some brightness back into her voice, ‘let’s think of some.’

Aoife stared