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

Mrs Cleary now, the coach and four was sent to collect her. At the first snap of the whip the children next door would shriek and rush to the window, and the sound of running feet was as good as any doorbell. Eleanor was ready when the coachman knocked, head held high as her neighbours stared. The coach sailed down the street like Cleopatra’s barge and she sat with her shoulders thrown back, fierce and proud.

She was careful not to let it show when she arrived.

Every time she saw the gleaming walls of Mrs Cleary’s home she thought of Aoife. A fraction of Mrs Cleary’s fortune would cover Aoife’s wages. Bessie barely spoke to her; Charles had been sent away; she had not found Leah. Without Mrs Cleary she had no one. Eleanor could not lose her favour. If she did, there would be no hope of getting Aoife out of Granborough House.

Eleanor laughed at Mrs Cleary’s jokes, and asked her to explain things she already understood. She complimented Mrs Cleary’s dresses and was demure and blushing whenever the old lady asked her about husbands. She met Mrs Cleary’s companion – a tall, poised Black woman named Miss Hill who was also in mourning – and tried her best to emulate the easy way Miss Hill shrugged off Mrs Cleary’s barbs. She even wore green on St Patrick’s Day, just to be polite, and fretted about it for days when Mrs Cleary didn’t mention it. Eleanor was pious, she was shy, she was kind, she was admiring, and Mrs Cleary never noticed when Eleanor slipped off one mask and put on another. But Mrs Cleary never mentioned anything about an allowance, and at the end of every evening Eleanor was left staring at the bare walls of her shabby little room, listening to the clock ticking slowly towards midnight.

Now, Eleanor was drinking a cup of coffee and trying not to wince. It was Turkish, and probably expensive, so she was determined to enjoy it no matter how long that would take. Mrs Cleary was finishing a monologue about the latest fashions, all of which she followed despite being in mourning, while Miss Hill nodded along politely. Eleanor had not met many widows, but she was sure they were not supposed to glitter.

‘… and of course, it is always pleasing to see a return of the fashions of one’s youth,’ Mrs Cleary concluded. ‘I suppose that is why they suit me so well. A young lady should never be too interested in fashion, but now I may be daring.’

Eleanor, who had been coveting the dramatic swoop of the overskirts on Mrs Cleary’s dress, nodded. ‘Your gown really does look lovely,’ she said.

Miss Hill cleared her throat. ‘But you dress very well too, Miss Hartley. I can see you have quite a way with the needle; such fine work on the—’

‘No,’ said Mrs Cleary, eyeing Eleanor up and down. ‘No, Miss Hartley, you really ought to have something better to wear. Come with me.’

She held out her hands. Miss Hill helped her off the sofa while Eleanor fetched Mrs Cleary’s silver-topped cane. Mrs Cleary stumped into the hallway and up a wide, sweeping staircase. She led them both into a gargantuan bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed with blue brocade curtains. Mrs Cleary’s face was flushed.

‘Miss Hill,’ she said, ‘would you bring through my old walking dress? The green and white – and perhaps the burgundy, too. I find myself a little overtired.’

Miss Hill disappeared into a dressing room while Eleanor helped Mrs Cleary into a chair. ‘Mrs Cleary, this is too generous—’

‘Nonsense! My dear Miss Hartley, I shall be in mourning for the rest of my life, I shan’t wear them again. Besides, I may wish for your company in public, and you could never be seen with me wearing that,’ she said, nodding to Eleanor’s sweet blue dress.

‘You are too kind, Mrs Cleary,’ Eleanor said, swallowing her pride. ‘I wonder, could I ask you some advice this moment?’

‘Ask away.’

Eleanor licked her lips, suddenly nervous. ‘I would like to try and find an old friend, but I believe she may have fallen on hard times.’

‘If she’s got herself in the family way, you must wash your hands of her,’ Mrs Cleary said, sharply.

‘Oh, Leah would never do that,’ Eleanor said, the truth tangling itself under her skin.

Mrs Cleary nodded. ‘In that case, I can offer you the services of one of my grooms. He will accompany you, should you wish to visit anywhere less respectable. Although I must say, Miss Hartley, that you would do better not to be seen in such places at all. Barnes is perfectly capable of enquiring on your behalf.’

Barnes arrived the next day, hulking on Eleanor’s doorstep. He was a middle-aged man who looked as if he had been welded together in a shipyard, and he had clearly been told to treat Eleanor like a lady. He took off his hat when he spoke to her and barged a path through the crowds on Oxford Street so that she could walk through undisturbed. Eleanor was touched; Mrs Cleary must have told him to look after her.

She would need him.

Churches, charities, boarding-houses, workhouses, agencies and registry offices: Eleanor had visited them all, and found nothing of Leah. She’d been along every respectable street and knocked at every clean door. The people living in those neat, well-kept houses either hadn’t seen Leah or had moved her along. But London had plenty of places to hide. Cramped courts where narrow houses clustered together for a scrap of daylight. Fetid cellar rooms where sewage seeped through the walls. The reeking, crowded rookeries, where corpses lay stinking because no one could afford to call an undertaker. If Eleanor visited any of those places alone, it would be a miracle if she came out unscathed.

The first such street on her list was St Christopher’s Place. It sat between Oxford Street and Wigmore Street like a gap in a smile. It looked like