Chapter 2
Eleanor woke to the sound of sharp knocking.
Not the discreet tap of a maid seeking permission, but the sort that assumed obedience before it was granted.
“Miss Eleanor.”
The voice carried easily through the thin morning quiet. Charlotte’s maid, breathless and already irritated. “Miss Charlotte requires your assistance. Immediately.”
Eleanor lay still for a moment, staring at the pale canopy above her bed. Her body ached with the dull fatigue of a night spent too alert, too aware of every whispered glance and calculated smile. Sleep had come late and without kindness.
“Tell Miss Charlotte I shall come presently,” Eleanor said at last.
There was a pause, then a sniff. “She said not to delay.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Presently,” she repeated, calmly.
Footsteps retreated, sharp with displeasure.
Only then did Eleanor sit up.
She washed and dressed with purpose, choosing a plain morning gown and smoothing her hair into a neat knot that would not invite comment. She moved slowly, refusing to let Charlotte dictate even the pace of her breathing.
Before answering another summons, she turned down the corridor toward Arabella’s room.
Arabella’s maid admitted her at once, her expression strained. The curtains were half-drawn, pale light spilling across the coverlet where Arabella sat upright, already dressed but untouched by the morning’s usual energy.
“You should not be here,” Arabella said at once. “She will be furious.”
“She is always furious,” Eleanor replied, closing the door behind her. “How are you?”
Arabella’s mouth tightened. “How do you think I am?”
Eleanor crossed the room and sat beside her. “I hoped you might feel better after sleeping.”
“I did not sleep,” Arabella said flatly. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lady Calderwick’s face.”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “She was particularly animated.”
“That is not amusing.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed. “It is not.”
Arabella turned toward her, eyes sharp with restrained emotion. “You should not go out today.”
Eleanor stilled. “What?”
“The garden party,” Arabella said. “You should lay low. At least for a few days. Let things settle.”
Eleanor shook her head. “That would defeat the point.”
“The point,” Arabella said, her voice rising despite herself, “is that you lied to half the ton in one evening.”
“I managed,” Eleanor corrected gently.
“You tempted fate.”
“I redirected it.”
Arabella stood abruptly, pacing. “What if someone sends to verify it? What if Father hears something amiss?”
“Father will hear what suits him,” Eleanor said. “A duke’s name smooths many irregularities.”
Arabella stopped. “You speak as though this is a game.”
“It is not,” Eleanor said quietly. “That is why I must not retreat now.”
Arabella looked at her, then away. “You should have told me sooner.”
Eleanor reached for her hand. “I am telling you now. And I promise you this will not touch you. That is all that matters.”
Arabella’s fingers curled around hers. “You always say that.”
“And it has always been true.”
A sharp voice carried down the corridor. Charlotte again.
Eleanor rose. “I must go.”
Arabella hesitated. “So you will attend to the garden party?”
“I am planning to, yes.”
“And I should just –”
“You should just go along with it.”
Arabella exhaled. “You are impossible.”
Eleanor smiled. “You love me.”
“That is my misfortune.”
Eleanor kissed her sister’s cheek and slipped out before the conversation could turn again.
Charlotte’s room was staged with false fragility.
The curtains were drawn just enough to suggest weakness without sacrificing light. Pillows were arranged like evidence. Charlotte reclined against them in a lace-trimmed wrapper, her hair artfully loosened, a glass of barley water untouched at her side.
“Oh,” Charlotte said faintly, as Eleanor entered. “You took your time.”
“I was asked to come,” Eleanor replied evenly. “I was not told I must run.”
Charlotte sighed, as if the effort cost her dearly. “I am unwell.”
“So I have heard.”
Charlotte gestured weakly. “The fire is too low. Fix it, Eleanor.”
Eleanor crossed the room and adjusted the grate, soot smudging her fingers.
“Careful,” Charlotte added. “You are dropping ash.”
Eleanor bit back a response and wiped her hands on her apron before continuing the task.
“And the flowers,” Charlotte continued. “They smell too strongly. Replace them.”
Eleanor lifted the vase, carried it out, and returned with a milder arrangement.
Charlotte watched the entire time.
“My shawl,” she said next. “No, not that one. The blue. The other blue. Check the wardrobe.”
Eleanor retrieved it wordlessly.
Charlotte frowned. “You have folded it incorrectly.”
Eleanor unfolded and refolded it, slower this time.
“My tea is cold, Eleanor.”
Eleanor rested the shawl on the arm of the sofa Charlotte was lounging on, and then went to repour the tea.
“You did not warm the cup.”
Eleanor warmed the cup by the hearth before handing it back to her gently.
Charlotte smiled, faint and satisfied. “You see? I require you for these such tasks, Eleanor. What would I do without you?”
Eleanor straightened. “I’m happy to help, Charlotte. Was there anything else?”
Charlotte considered. “My hairpin is missing.”
She searched for the next hour. It was beneath the pillow.
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed. “How careless of you.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened.
“Do not scowl,” Charlotte admonished. “You always look so… common when you do.”
Eleanor forced her expression smooth.
Charlotte shifted, wincing theatrically. “I should ring for Father. He will want to know how attentive you have been.”
“That seems unnecessary,” Eleanor said.
“Does it?” Charlotte asked sweetly.
The door opened without ceremony.
Their father entered, already frowning. “What is all this?” he demanded.
Charlotte’s voice weakened instantly. “Papa…”
Eleanor turned slowly.
Norman Barker, Lord St. George, had his gaze already fixed on her, cool and assessing.
“Charlotte. Eleanor,” he said in a near whisper.
Eleanor folded her hands, steadying herself, and braced for what would come next.
Lord St. George did not raise his voice. He never did when he wished to wound. He stood just inside the threshold of Charlotte’s bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze moving first to his youngest daughter, then to Eleanor, as if assessing two objects of vastly different value.
“My poor child,” he said, his tone heavy with concern as he crossed the room. “You should not be sitting up. You look quite pale.”
Charlotte shifted against her pillows with a delicate sigh. “I tried to manage, Papa. Truly. But Eleanor has been… distracted this morning.”
Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the hearth. The embers glowed softly, the only honest warmth in the room.
“Distracted?” Lord St. George repeated, turning at once. “Is that so?”
“I was attending to what she asked of me,” Eleanor said evenly.
Charlotte pressed her hand to her temple. “I asked her to warm my tea properly, Papa. She was in such a hurry. I fear she has little patience for care.”
Lord St. George frowned. “Haste is the enemy of quality.”
Eleanor felt her jaw tighten.
“She always rushes,” Charlotte continued, her voice weak but precise. “And then wonders why things are not done properly.”
Lord St. George nodded as though this were an established truth. “You should be grateful you are useful at all, Eleanor.”
The words landed with practiced cruelty.
Eleanor lifted her gaze. “I am grateful,” she said, because she had learned long ago which truths were worth speaking.
“Are you?” he asked. “Because it does not show.”
Charlotte shifted again. “Papa, the fire was nearly out when I woke. I could have taken a chill.”
“And the flowers,” Lord St. George added, gesturing dismissively. “Far too strong. You know Charlotte is sensitive.”
“I replaced them,” Eleanor said.
“And yet you left ash on the rug,” Charlotte murmured.
Lord St. George’s gaze snapped back to Eleanor. “Is that true?”
Eleanor looked down. A single dark smudge marked the edge of the carpet. “Yes.”
“Careless,” he said flatly. “Always careless.”
Eleanor swallowed.
“You see?” Charlotte said softly. “She means well, Papa. She simply does not think.”
Lord St. George turned fully toward Eleanor now. “You have always lacked attention to detail.”
Eleanor’s hands curled into her skirts.
“Arabella is no better,” he continued. “Always underfoot. Always needing something. Always with the questions. One would think I had raised nothing but inconveniences.”
Charlotte’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly.
Eleanor felt the heat rise in her chest, sharp and sudden. “Arabella has done nothing this morning.”
“That is hardly an argument in her favor,” he replied. “If she is not causing trouble, she is preparing for it.”
Eleanor stepped forward before she could stop herself. “She never is.”
Lord St. George’s brows drew together. “Do not correct me.”
The room seemed to contract, the air thickening.
“I have allowed both of you to remain here out of charity,” he said coldly. “You would do well to remember that.”
Charity. The word scraped raw.
Charlotte shifted again, coughing delicately. “Papa, my head aches terribly.”
Lord St. George’s attention snapped back to her at once. “Of course it does. You should not be exerting yourself.”
He turned sharply. “Eleanor, fetch fresh water. And bring her a shawl or something for her chill.”
Eleanor moved at once.
She returned with the water, folded the shawl exactly as Charlotte preferred, and placed both within reach.
Charlotte frowned. “You spilled!”
Eleanor wiped the table.
“There is still some just there,” Charlotte whined and pointed.
Eleanor wiped again.
Lord St. George watched, arms crossed, as though observing a lesson. “You are always finding shortcuts,” he said at last. “Always rushing to finish half the work.”
“I am trying to be efficient,” Eleanor said before she could stop herself.
His eyes hardened. “Efficiency is no excuse for sloppiness.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
“You have always had a terrible work ethic,” he continued. “No pride in the quality of what you do.”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked to Eleanor, gleaming.
Eleanor’s breath came shallow. “I do everything I am asked.”
“And yet it is never enough,” Lord St. George said. “Perhaps because you are always looking for ways to avoid doing it properly. For every one thing you do, you create at least three. Do you not see, girl?”
Something inside Eleanor snapped, not loudly, but completely.
“You are always trying to escape your duties,” he went on. “Just like your mother.”
The room took a collective inhale. Eleanor’s vision blurred, edges sharpening too brightly, the world tilting.
Her mother was never spoken of here. Not kindly. Not at all.
Her hands trembled.
For one terrible moment, she saw it. The porcelain cup. The weight of it. The arc it might take through the air.
She could hear it shatter.
She could imagine the sound.
Her fingers twitched.
Then Arabella’s face flashed before her eyes.
The fragile balance they lived within. The way every outburst rebounded twice as hard on her sister.
Eleanor forced her hands to still.
She lowered her gaze.
“I apologize,” she said, the words tasting like ash.
Lord St. George seemed satisfied.
“Just go, Eleanor,” he said. “Charlotte needs rest. And you are agitating her.”
Charlotte sighed weakly. “I hope she learns one day.”
Eleanor turned toward the door.
“Oh, and Eleanor,” Lord St. George added.
She stopped.
“You would do well to remember your place,” he said. “It is unbecoming for you to forget it.”
Her nails bit into her palms as she inclined her head. “Yes, Father.”
She reached for the handle.
The door opened before she could turn it.
Graham stood there, rigid as a pillar, his voice carrying with unmistakable authority.
“The Duke of Langford,” he announced, “has arrived and requests the presence of Miss Eleanor Barker.”
The name echoed through the room like a thunderclap.
Charlotte’s head snapped up, eye brightening wildly.
Lord St. George froze.
And Eleanor, still burning from the inside out, felt the world shift beneath her feet.