Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I look at Clara, who seems lost in a daydream. I pick up my silver spoon and tap the side of my teacup. She blinks rapidly and looks up. ‘Are you dreaming of the hero in your latest read?’ She does it often. A true romantic. While Clara reads Austen, I read encyclopaedias and books on adventurous travels. I’m not foolish enough to believe the elaborate tales of burning love truly exist.
Clara smiles, but it is meek, and she plucks another muffin from the pile. ‘I’m not indulging in any sort of book at this time.’
‘Well, that’s not true,’ I say on a laugh. ‘Only last night we sat together in the drawing room in front of the fire and read together.’
‘I am not reading, Eliza,’ Clara reiterates, sighing heavily. My usually upbeat, enthusiastic sister looks forlorn. And it occurs to me…
Oh heavens.
Frank was right to be worried. ‘The boy in the park,’ I say, sounding a trifle accusing.
‘I am in love,’ she blurts, letting her hands fall to the breakfast table with a thwack. The muffin jumps up and bounces onto the rug, and my eyes follow it as it rolls under a chair. ‘Oh, Eliza, he is wonderful.’
‘You hardly know him, Clara.’ I laugh, this time sounding a trifle patronising. I mean not to belittle her, I really don’t, but… in love?
‘I know him well enough to know I am in love.’ Clara stands, offended, her chin raised. ‘I would not expect you to understand.’
Said with such emphasis on you. I breathe out as Clara marches away in a foul mood, and I consider just how terrible this is. It does not take much of my time to conclude that it is awfully terrible. Clara is no longer free to fall in love with anyone who has not been handpicked by Papa. And a stable boy? Did she not hear me when I pointed that out to her in the park? I rub at my forehead, feeling unspoken worry for my dear, naïve little sister. I fear she is going to be left gravely bereft. How silly to fall in love with a man she will never be allowed to marry. How silly to fall in love at all!
I am not partial to fashion, but a good coat dress and fancy bonnet is a necessary disguise, that much I have come to know. To be seen in anything but fine threads would draw more attention to oneself than my preferred, comfortable attire. So I will wear what is expected of me, and I will do it quietly.
Taking the stairs, I pull on my gloves. I shall accompany Mother to buy her new… everything, and if luck is on my side, I will find a moment to slip away and indulge my curiosity with a wander through the gardens.
I come to a stop at the bottom of the stairs when I hear the enthusiastic chatter of many men. The door to Father’s study is ajar. I recognise one voice in particular and approach, my eyes unsurprisingly narrowing.
‘I believe the courtship is going quite well,’ Lymington remarks cheerfully. ‘Isn’t that right, Frederick?’
‘Yes, Your Grace, very well indeed,’ Frederick agrees, sounding confident of that. Naturally, I beg to differ, and if I expected there to be even a remote possibility of being heard, I would speak up.
‘That is comforting to hear,’ Papa says, getting up from his chair and joining a rather pleased-looking Mr Porter by the fireplace, roaming up and down with a glass of Scotch in his hand.
‘It is a shame it is not true,’ I say quietly, reaching for the ribbon of my bonnet under my chin and loosening it.
‘Eight thousand copies, Melrose,’ Porter sings.
‘Let us make today nine.’ Lymington seizes a copy of today’s edition from Dalton’s hand and starts fingering through the pages. ‘Any news on that rogue Winters?’
My eyes naturally shoot to Porter by the fireplace, whose back has straightened. ‘Nothing new, but in the works,’ he says over a cough. I quickly find Frank, who has turned his back on the room. I know his game. He never could lie, so he’s hiding his face and the guilt that I know will be emblazoned across it.
‘The workers will need to work longer hours if sales continue to increase so rapidly,’ Papa says as Lymington inspects the broadsheet. I look at Father, seeing an interested stare pointed at Frank’s back. Longer hours? They already have their fingers worked to the bone. ‘Everyone is apparently buying the paper now primarily to see if there is any update on Johnny Winters’ return and his family’s demise,’ Father continues, making me come over all hot and sweaty. ‘Now which of the two of you will be reporting this time?’
Porter coughs, as does Frank. ‘Me,’ my brother interjects quickly. ‘Just as soon as I have further news.’