Chapter 30
Thirty
Eleanor
After luncheon, still annoyed at Greybourne’s request that she teach art to boys, instead of him doing what he did best, Eleanor slapped a stack of freshly copied pages on her maddening employer’s desk.
“If you will leave these pages alone, we might finish this book before next July. Send at least this half of the book to your publisher, out of harm’s way. ”
His earlier remark about her gown still irked.
It had clawed at the back of her mind all morning, along with her other grievances.
She knew she had no fashion sense. Sitting at a desk all day, she had never needed one.
She loved what she did and had no other purpose.
She’d worn men’s clothes since her twin had started at the university and simply never had reason—or interest—to want more.
She wasn’t telling his lordship that. He was the one sitting on an apparently explosive document he would not finish—or even protect by sending partials to his publisher.
Greybourne dismissed her suggestion, again, and carelessly flipped through the clean pages, apparently searching for something, which he would inevitably tear apart and require re-copying. “I thought you wished to stay in this house of horrors.”
“It is a very nice house, and yes, if you mean to rewrite forever, staying here would be lovely. But I thought you wished to finish by December so you might plan your trip to Italy. I doubt Gravesyde is the best place for acquiring a fashionable valet or arranging transport.”
“I wish to finish by December because my publisher expects it. The rest is irrelevant. Go on. Prepare lesson plans for your students.” He waved her away.
Eleanor didn’t know why she was angry with him all the time these days. They’d had a very proper, businesslike relationship when she dressed as a man.
Why should he irritate her now that she wore skirts? He was paying her far more than her worth. She had no expenses. She enjoyed this new home. She had nothing to complain of. But she was simmering with fury.
He had called her shapeless.
What difference did that make? Returning to her room, she gazed at her reflection in the small hand mirror she had brought with her.
She refused to wear the hated corset. It wasn’t as if a round gown required an hourglass figure.
She concealed her breasts behind neckerchiefs, as was only proper.
The black was ugly, but practical. Her young maid wasn’t experienced in keeping hems clean.
Peg was so bored with El’s wardrobe that she spent the better part of the day in the kitchen.
Perhaps, now that she needn’t worry about rent for a while, she might indulge in something a little less practical. She’d show the oaf that she wasn’t shapeless.
Having no idea why she should care what Greybourne thought, she seized on the decision and proceeded full speed ahead.
Gathering up Peg, donning her one bonnet, Eleanor stepped out well before she was expected at the gallery.
She would be doing the small modiste’s shop a favor by spending a few coins.
She had enjoyed talking with the shop lady.
She swallowed hard, trying to talk herself into this excursion.
Peg chattered happily all the way into town. Mr. Bradford did not emerge from the abandoned cottage to terrorize them when they took the shorter path. Not even the goats and chickens on the green inhibited them from traversing the length of the village to the inn shop.
Eleanor thought she might be more afraid of buying a new gown than of Mr. Bradford or teaching perspective to boys.
But Mrs. Morgan—Kate—made fashion simple. The modiste was there, also, examining a new shipment of fabrics. Young, blond, and gowned in exquisite lace and muslin, Miss Marlowe wasn’t a terrifying ogre but delightfully excited at El’s tentative request for a second-hand gown.
They set Peg to rummaging through chests, while they measured and held colors up to El’s face, as if color made any difference to her plainness.
“The primrose, I think,” Miss Marlowe decided, taking one of the totally unsuitable fragile muslins Peg had set out.
“I know the color is currently out of fashion in London, but it is appropriate for your coloring. I think some gold trim to bring out the gold in your eyes. . .” She wandered off to examine another trunk of treasures.
“I will destroy anything so beautiful with ink,” El protested. “Really, only black is suitable.”
Kate laughed. “Black is suitable for mourning and naught else. We will teach Peg how to clean ink spots. Surely you do not carry ink to dinner.”
“And we can add a spencer that you may wear on Sunday for church, so the gown serves two purposes.” Miss Marlowe shook out a gold, embroidered kerchief that did not look at all suitable for church but was quite pretty.
El touched it warily, fearful it would disintegrate. “Two purposes? I have ever only worn a gown to cover myself. What other purpose is there?”
That produced gales of laughter.
Bewildered, El watched them lay out an assortment of delicate gowns and sashes and ribbons for which she had utterly no use. “Is this what I must wear if I am to do copy work for Mrs. Huntley?” she asked in dismay. Her wardrobe might cost more than she earned, if so.
“The primrose for Sunday and dinner.” Miss Marlowe laid out the gown on a table with the pretty gold scarf. Peg and Kate laid out a corset and chemise.
“Dinner? No one invites a clerk to dinner,” El scoffed. “You misunderstand my station.”
“Your station is what you make of it. Lord Greybourne holds a place of respect. If you dine with him—and I know you do—you cannot look like a ragpicker. He is accustomed to dining with ladies.” Kate set out a white muslin sprigged with blue-green flowers.
“You are not quite past the age of girlish whites, but this will suit for morning calls. I have a spencer the perfect color to match.”
Past the age of whites? Morning calls. Bewildered, El admired the lovely frocks but could see no purpose in them. Her mother had never worn more than dull colors when she taught. “Perhaps a brown?” she suggested tentatively. “That would hide dirt.”
“Why waste your youth and beauty looking like an old hen?” Miss Marlowe exclaimed. “We can fit these to suit you for little money and almost no time. Lord Greybourne shall be in for a shock.”
A look of shock on the professor’s face. . . That settled it. She might look like a looby in such fancifulness, but if she could cause the oblivious dolt to pay attention—he might actually finish his book and send pages to his publisher. Is that what it took to make men listen? Impractical gowns?
By the time El had to cross the street to the gallery, they had wheedled her into the dinner and morning gowns.
But for herself, she chose a lovely, practical gray that suited without adjustment, once she donned a corset that lifted her meager bosom and created a curve for her skinny waist and hips.
She wanted to conceal herself in a shawl, but they insisted it was too warm.
Instead, they provided a pink muslin scarf that was more adornment than useful.
“You have inhabited a man’s world too long, Miss Eleanor. It is time you learn the power of a woman.” Miss Marlowe added a perky bit of starched muslin with pink roses on it to El’s hair. “We’ll refurbish a bonnet that will match your walking dress, but this will do for now.”
Walking dress. One had to wear a different gown for walking? Were there teaching dresses? El suspected not. She’d have to ask the schoolteacher.
She didn’t dare ask how much all of this would cost. If Greybourne threw them out tomorrow, they’d be worse off than when they’d started. . . in debt.
“Peg, you are to carry Miss Eleanor’s shawls and reticules when she is not using them,” Kate instructed. “Stand discreetly to one side and notice when she needs them. We won’t send you out with boxes today, but be prepared next time.”
Peg hurried to catch up with El’s long—terrified—strides. “You look beautiful, miss. You should wear ribbons in your curls all the time!”
El imagined going to bed in ribbons and was laughing at herself by the time she arrived in the gallery.
The boys were waiting with their tutor. The place seemed much busier than the last time she’d visited.
Men tinkered in the back of the shop. Andrew appeared to be discussing boots with the shoemaker.
Arnaud painted in a corner near the front, but there was no sign of Thea. Besides Peg, El was the only female in here. Feeling extremely visible in a thin gown that nearly revealed everything, she held out her hand to the boys, who properly bowed over it, as did the young, handsome tutor.
“I understand you enjoy mathematics.” El gazed around at the various landscape paintings displayed. They’d be easier than portraits. “Have you ever recognized the geometry an artist uses to create the sensation that you are standing at a window, looking out on a real scene?”
She started with a painting of buildings where the element of geometry was more obvious. Young Mr. Jones eased up to listen. El concealed her wince. It hadn’t occurred to her that the artists would actually pay attention.
She wasn’t at all certain that she liked being noticed. Perhaps invisible was what she was meant to be.
As she explained perspective and the boys whipped out homemade measuring sticks, El became absorbed in the lesson and ignored the artists—
Until the boys eagerly struck out on their own and Mr. Jones attempted to engage her in conversation.
Over his shoulder, she noted Gustav slapping paint on canvas and arguing with the burly artist she thought might be called Mort.
Reminded of her mission, she brushed off Mr. Jones to admire one of Arnaud’s works.
It stood on an easel, closer to the argument.
Jones walked off in a huff, allowing her to concentrate on muttered voices on the other side of the canvas.
“Grey must be stopped,” Gustav insisted. “If we don’t stop him, we’ll never be able to show our faces in Town again.”
El froze, concealed by the large canvas.
“You know he won’t do it unless we pay him,” the burly man protested.
“Then we must steal a purse.”
At a question from another, the men drifted out of El’s hearing.
She didn’t know what she was expected to do with this information, but she was horrified to realize Grey really was a target for infamy.