Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Collection
Waking up, Eleanor let out a groan of displeasure, a sound that spoke of a difficult night and an unwelcome morning.
The torrential rain that’d disturbed her throughout the night was a backdrop to her churlish mood.
Upon her return from the marquis’s party, Eleanor had discovered a half-empty bottle to add to her collection hidden beneath the floorboards, then closed the door on the world.
Sleep had barely found her, and she’d gasped awake more times than she’d have liked, but thankfully, the night had remained quiet.
That was no longer the case as giggles, murmurs, and shuffling feet loudly intruded from under the door.
They were all making their way to the kitchen for their mid-morning breakfast ritual.
Given the events that transpired last night, she adamantly refused to venture downstairs, her reluctance fuelled by the lingering unease of the previous evening's occurrences.
It was clear to Eleanor that her trip and her companion were no secret, as everyone knew where she had gone and who she was with.
Their desire for the gossip and information she didn't have would be evident in their hateful sneers as they eagerly sought out every last detail.
She wasn’t in the mood.
She’d amassed a nice collection of bottles under the floorboards. If there was ever a time to aim for the backboard, it was now. Hopefully, it’d be enough to get pleasantly drunk, enough to sleep deeply. Reaching that point, though, would have to wait for a little while longer.
No matter how fatigued Eleanor became, she always maintained her minimal magical reserves to shield any of her exposed scars and marks on her skin. So ingrained was the reflex that it occurred with the same acute and unconscious ease as breathing, a testament to her years of repetitive training.
Eleanor pulled the fraying ties of her cotton robe together as she made her way to the door.
It wouldn’t do to make the trek to Madam Grace’s office naked, unless…
it might make the madam more favourable towards granting her this request. The door ripped open before Eleanor potentially made a mistake.
The sudden burst of movement made Eleanor sober up too quickly for her liking. She shifted backwards, with her hand hovering over her pocket.
“You’re not working.” Madam Grace’s stern voice filled the doorway.
Eleanor blinked, wondering if she’d heard the madam correctly.
“You’ve been paid for this week. I’m not to see you in line for the carriages, and don’t you dare go, thinking you can work on the side downstairs.” The fine lines around the madam’s harsh red lips twisted, as if she tasted something unpleasant. “You’re ill as of now.”
Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek, but she was not questioning the reasons behind whatever this was. She nodded in agreement and without another word the madam left as suddenly as she’d appeared, leaving Eleanor somewhat stunned at the circumstances.
She’d been ready to feign illness. She admitted to herself that it wasn’t her finest moment, but she would rather charge an army into battle than let anyone make a fool of her again.
The only reason she hadn’t wanted to claim ill-health was that this wasn’t anywhere near the lowest point in her life.
It only felt awful because it was a raw and current low that she found herself in.
If Eleanor was honest with herself, she knew she was hiding from the marquis and his entourage of flustering courtiers.
There mere idea of showing her face in court right now was enough to make her groan.
Her eyes tracked to the floorboard stashed with liquor bottles and licked her lips.
Without knowing it, the madam had solved a problem for her.
She could stay here and happily work her way through the bottles.
“You don’t look ill.”
Eleanor squinted at the now dark doorway, she didn’t know however late it was, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard the bell toll. Eleanor had been pleasantly out of it, enough to not hear the floorboard creak.
Julia’s small frame was lit by the hallway sconces, but the candle in her hand illuminated the scowl on the girl’s face.
She hadn’t drunk enough.
“Something happened at that fancy party.”
Eleanor drew a hand over her face. She was not in the mood for whatever the girl wanted.
“Leave, Julia,” Eleanor mumbled.
She could feel her lips, so she definitely hadn’t drunk enough yet.
“Julia,” Lucy said in a serious voice that was unsurprisingly motherly. “Veronica’s been looking for you. You’re late.”
“But I was checking on Eleanor. She doesn’t look so ill,” Julia protested.
Eleanor waved a hand. “Go on Julia, you don’t want to be late for your lessons .” The word tasted more bitter on her tongue than the lingering cheap wine.
“Go on. Kitchens. Now,” Lucy ordered the girl.
“Fine,” Julia replied in a petulant tone, as she stomped off to the kitchens to face Veronica’s ire for her tardiness. That had probably earned the girl a few lines to remind her how improper lateness was.
“I know what you need,” Lucy said, halting Eleanor’s hand from reaching aimlessly for a bottle she knew was nearby. She had forgotten about Lucy’s presence by the door.
“More drink,” Eleanor muttered.
She hoped she didn’t run out of bottles in her advancement to getting well and truly sloshed. She didn’t fancy leaving the room in search of anything.
“A good dicking.”
Eleanor raised her brow and bit back the retort. She hadn’t drunk enough to let those instincts lapse. This time, she gave Lucy her full attention. Was Lucy offering her a cock? Was that what she’d said? She had a cock? Perhaps she had finally drunk enough.
Lucy entered her room, as if she had been invited, and took out a sizable drawstring bag from her pocket. “You can borrow ours if you want. It’s clean.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes at the woman.
From the drawstring bag Lucy pulled out a…
Eleanor blinked, making sure she was really seeing this.
Lucy was holding a cock. It was made of polished wood.
It was shiny, long, and wide. Eleanor was unsure whether her groin cinching was a reaction to potential pain or pleasure from the idea of that being anywhere near her.
“It’s this,” Lucy waved the wooden cock around to emphasise what this referred to, as if Eleanor was under any misapprehension, “or I’ll go see if Milk or Cookie are free. They might help. They’re professional like that.”
Eleanor was wrapping her mind around what Lucy was offering her.
“The First, Lucy, what are you doing waving that around?” Iris’s reprimanding voice got louder as the woman came into her room.
Since when were people allowed to walk in? Eleanor started considering that it was about time to barricade the door.
“What?” Lucy asked, failing at sounding innocent, especially with a wooden cock in her hand. “Eleanor needs some dick to cheer her up.”
Eleanor groaned as she rubbed a hand down her face. She really needed some more to drink.
“Ahh, flower. Something did happen at the marquis’s party.”
Stars , this woman.
She knew none of them would leave her alone without an answer. “Nothing happened.”
“So why are you drinking…so much?” Iris continued in a disapproving voice. Eleanor didn’t need to look to know Iris had her arms folded.
“Do I need a reason? Can I not want to forget what my life is like?” Eleanor said as her hand had finally contacted a bottleneck. “And this,” Eleanor said, jostling the bottle, “ this will do that for me.” She was done talking and gulped down the sour contents.
With her focus on emptying the bottle, Eleanor barely heard Iris say, “Come on, let’s leave her to it.”
Eleanor kept drinking, ignoring the sharp acidic taste. Even when she heard the click of her door shutting, she kept drinking, and as the groan of their feet moved away from the doorway, she kept drinking.
With each passing day, Eleanor’s frustrated intensified.
The courtesans had been to court a few times, and Madam Grace had offered a feeble excuse for Eleanor, leaving her as alone as she could be in The Ladies Grace.
Eleanor wasn’t a complete fool. The madam had spread the rumour that she was ill, lest the alternative deter any other lords from also paying for her.
The lie had made the others keep their distance, genuinely thinking that she was ill.
No one wanted to risk being close to her in case it was the Wasting Disease.
Some still thought that was contagious. Milk and Cookie either didn’t believe the rumour or they accepted that only women could catch the illness.
Some healers spouted that women were susceptible to the illness due to their weaker and frailer bodies, but those were the healers who were also more likely to kill a labouring mother, proving they knew nothing of real healing practises.
“So being hungover is now a code word for ill,” Milk said.
Eleanor blinked. Unfortunately, she wasn’t seeing things, Milk and Cookie were standing in her room wearing…
she couldn’t decide if they were lacy, or frilly, either way they were colourful dressing gowns.
An equally bright scarf held back Milk’s curly hair, and Eleanor blearily thought he was the colour of sunshine.
From their opposite ears, a pair of matching earrings swayed gently, a subtle but noticeable detail in their appearance.
Eleanor had consumed enough alcohol during the day to prevent her from becoming completely intoxicated and to maintain a degree of lucidity.
As soon as the nighttime quiet crept in, swallowing the last sounds of the day, she could have chunks of time missing.
The lack of any apparent threat from anyone entering the room made her less concerned about the missing time than she should have been.
“I don’t think we should give these to you,” Cookie said, as he placed the bottles of alcohol on the floor.