Chapter 4
“You will wear… ivory. No, cream. No. Ivory.”
Charlotte said it as though she were granting Eleanor a favor, not issuing another decree.
Eleanor stood in the breakfast room with her hands wrapped around a cold cup of tea she had not been allowed to drink. The room smelled faintly of toast and beeswax. Outside the windows, winter sunlight sat pale and thin over the grounds, offering no warmth, only exposure.
“I have no ivory gowns,” Eleanor said. “Only white.”
Lord St. George’s gaze lifted from his newspaper, sharp with irritation. “Then you will have one made.”
Charlotte smiled into her chocolate. “Of course Papa will have one made. A future duchess cannot marry in something… dreary.”
Arabella sat very still at the far end of the table. Her eyes flicked to Eleanor, then away again, as if she knew what her sister was thinking.
Eleanor set her tea down carefully. “A week is not enough time, and I–”
“It is if you stop complaining and start working,” Lord St. George said.
Charlotte dabbed at her mouth. “The Duke plans to marry quickly. One does not keep a duke waiting.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table.
It had been less than a day since James, Duke of Langford, had walked into the house and changed the trajectory of her life with the same cold certainty he likely used to sign documents. Since then, everything had moved with alarming speed.
A duke’s intentions were not questioned. They were accommodated.
The house had become a hive.
Lord St. George ordered letters written to London jewelers, modistes, and clergy. Charlotte insisted upon a guest list beyond reason, as though the wedding and wedding breakfast were hers to curate. Arabella stayed silent more often than not, caught between fear and conscience.
And Eleanor, whose name sat at the center of it all, was treated as though she were merely the instrument required to carry it out.
By midday, the drawing room had been transformed into a battlefield of fabrics.
Bolts of ivory silk and lace were arranged across the sofas. A seamstress stood at attention near the fireplace, pins caught between her lips as she waited for instruction. Boxes of ribbons, gloves, and stockings lay open like evidence.
Lord St. George entered first, Charlotte at his side like a triumphant shadow.
“Stand there,” Charlotte instructed, pointing to the center of the room.
Eleanor obeyed, the hem of her plain gown brushing the rug.
The seamstress approached timidly with her tape measure.
Charlotte circled Eleanor slowly, head tilted. “She is narrower than I thought.”
Eleanor kept her face smooth.
“She has always been narrow,” Lord St. George said. “Like her mother. Always half-starved, by choice, even when there is food on the table.”
Heat climbed Eleanor’s throat. She lowered her gaze, focusing on the seamstress’s shaking hands.
“We will need to add a bustle,” Charlotte decided. “And sleeves that do not make her arms look… common.”
Arabella’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Eleanor’s arms look fine.”
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, mildly surprised. “I did not ask you.”
Arabella stepped into the room anyway, though she did not meet Charlotte’s eyes. “I am only saying–”
“You are interfering, at best, and so very under foot… again,” Lord St. George snapped.
Arabella fell silent.
Eleanor watched her sister’s fingers curl around the edge of her shawl, knuckles whitening.
“Now,” Charlotte continued, waving a dismissive hand. “Take her measurements. Quickly. I have no patience for fussing.”
The seamstress began. Eleanor stood still as tape slid around her waist, across her shoulders, and down her arms. Pinpricks of pressure, the quiet humiliation of being measured like a parcel.
When it was done, Charlotte pointed at the fabric spread over the sofa. “That lace is too plain. We need something finer.”
The seamstress swallowed. “We can–if we send to–”
“You will send to wherever necessary,” Lord St. George said briskly. “And you will have it by tomorrow.”
The seamstress looked as though she might faint.
Charlotte’s eyes glittered. “The gown must be completed in four days.”
“That is impossible,” the seamstress whispered.
Lord St. George’s gaze sharpened. “Nothing is impossible when a duke is involved.”
Eleanor drew in a slow breath. “I will just wear the white that I already have.”
Charlotte laughed softly. “How modest. How predictable.”
“You will wear ivory,” Lord St. George said, voice flat. “And you will not embarrass me again.”
Eleanor held her tongue.
Charlotte moved toward the side table where a tray of tea had been set. “The invitations must be written today.”
“I can do them,” Eleanor said, because if she did not volunteer, Charlotte would choose someone else and Eleanor would still be made to carry the consequence.
Charlotte blinked. “You?”
“I have neat handwriting. They are for my wedding.”
Lord St. George looked pleased. “Then you shall do them. A useful task, at last.”
Charlotte stamped a foot. “Her? Father, you are going to let her do them? I wanted to do them!”
Arabella’s brows drew together. “There will be dozens.”
“There will be as many as Charlotte believes necessary,” Lord St. George replied.
Charlotte started at what her father said and sipped her tea thoughtfully, understanding the . “I believe fifty will be enough.”
Eleanor did not flinch. “Very well.”
“And Arabella shall deliver them,” Charlotte added.
Eleanor’s gaze lifted. “The footmen–”
Charlotte smiled. “They will be occupied with other matters. She will do it. She has legs.”
Eleanor’s fingers twitched. She forced them still. “I will do it.”
Lord St. George stood suddenly and appalled. “You will do no such thing, Miss Barker!”
Everyone in the room jumped at the rage-filled outburst and stared at him.
“Arabella will do it, as ordered, and that will be the end of it!”
Charlotte smirked, and Eleanor’s gaze shifted to Arabella, who had dropped her gaze to the floor and softly responded, “Yes, Father.”
That afternoon, Eleanor stood at the sideboard in the breakfast room, arranging a tray that Charlotte had insisted must be “proper”. An engagement to a duke meant more suitors would come to St. George Manor calling.
The silver teapot gleamed. The cups were aligned. The biscuits sat in a neat stack, though Eleanor doubted any of the ladies of their acquaintance came for biscuits rather than gossip.
Eleanor glanced down at her hand. A faint smudge of black marked her skin where she had blotted too quickly the night before.
“It will wash,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte clicked her tongue. “A duchess with ink stains. How charming.”
Arabella shifted in her chair; her gaze fixed on her plate. Eleanor could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself as if bracing for impact.
Lord St. George had left early, announcing he had letters to write and calls to make. That meant the morning belonged to Charlotte.
Which meant it belonged to cruelty dressed as propriety.
Charlotte reached for the teacup Eleanor had set closest to her. “This cup is chipped.”
“It is not,” Eleanor said, already knowing the argument was unwinnable.
Charlotte held it up to the light with exaggerated care. “There. A flaw.”
Eleanor stepped closer. The “flaw” was a faint scratch in the glaze, nearly invisible unless one searched for it.
“We have no time to replace it,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked up, bright. “We have nothing but time. You are the one running out of it.”
Eleanor set her jaw.
“You must be feeling quite accomplished,” Charlotte continued, voice light. “Tricking a duke. Securing a title. All without even possessing a decent complexion.”
Arabella’s head lifted sharply.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the edge of the tray. “I did not trick him.”
Charlotte smiled. “Do not be modest. It is your most impressive talent, after all.”
Eleanor forced herself to keep breathing.
Charlotte leaned back, studying her. “How long have you been planning it?”
Eleanor did not answer.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed with delight. “Oh, you have been planning for a long time, have you not? Watching me. Waiting. Biding your time like a little mouse beneath the floorboards.”
Arabella made a small sound of protest.
Charlotte ignored her. “Tell me, Eleanor. When you imagined being a duchess, did you imagine it would be like this? You carrying trays and writing invitations while I ensure you do not embarrass yourself.”
Eleanor set the tray down carefully. “You are ensuring nothing.”
Charlotte’s smile thinned. “I am ensuring you remember what you are.”
Heat rose behind Eleanor’s eyes. She blinked once, hard.
Charlotte’s gaze drifted over Eleanor’s plain morning gown, the careful mending at the cuff. “Are you wearing that to greet the modiste? How bleak.”
“It is morning,” Eleanor said evenly.
“It is your engagement week,” Charlotte countered. “You should be glowing.”
Eleanor stared at her half-sister. “I am not you.”
Charlotte’s laugh was soft. “No. You are not.”
Arabella’s chair scraped suddenly against the floor as she stood. “That is enough.”
Charlotte blinked, genuinely surprised. “Excuse me?”
Arabella’s cheeks were flushed. “You have been cruel for days.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Cruel? I am realistic.”
“You are spiteful.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, then sharpened. “Careful, Arabella.”
Arabella took a step forward. “You have spoken about Eleanor as though she were beneath you since we were children. You speak about her as if she is something to step over.”
Charlotte’s smile returned, slow and dangerous. “And yet she will be a duchess.”
Arabella’s hands curled at her sides. “Yes. She will.”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked to Eleanor, then back. “Which means she will finally be in her proper place. Useful. Decorative. Quiet.”
Eleanor’s skin prickled. She could hear her own pulse, steady but insistent.