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 catch a look of guilt that passes over my beloved brother’s face, and I find myself leaning back in my chair, wary. I can hear Mama in the distance, singing orders to the staff, and Clara, our little sister, playing piano. ‘Why are you looking like that?’ I ask.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you know something you think I should know.’
‘I must be going – reports to check, and Porter is due imminently to meet with Father and me in his study about the next edition.’
‘You mean talk about what rubbish he’ll be putting in Father’s newspaper tomorrow?’ I ask, getting a tight smile in return, which tells me my brother understands me, even if he cannot admit it. I lean forward. ‘Oh, Frank, please speak to Papa. Convince him to let me write again, I beg you. I feel utterly misplaced and without purpose.’
‘What will you write about, Eliza? We are in a different world now.’ He motions to the table that’s laid with silverware and bone china, and I sigh. Perhaps Frank is right. What would I write about, because I’m certainly finding no inspiration from these surroundings or the people? But imagine if I could travel. Imagine if I could bring back stories to London. Imagine, imagine, imagine.
Frank rises from his chair as he pulls his jacket in.
‘Wait!’ I seize his arm, and his backside plummets to the seat. I narrow an eye on him, and once again he cannot look at me. I gasp and sit back. ‘My God, he’s done it, hasn’t he?’
‘Done what?’ Frank asks, wincing, as if regretting opening his big, fat mouth.
‘Found a man. A suitor.’
Frank’s eyes drop as he rises. ‘Have a good day, sister.’
Once again, I seize him, making him sit. ‘And you know who it is,’ I say, sounding rather accusing.
‘I know no such thing.’
‘Oh, God, Frank, we’ve been here just a few weeks.’
‘Think yourself lucky,’ he says, close to a hiss. ‘This is Esther Hamsley’s fifth season. There’s talk of Lord Hamsley now offering money.’
I roll my eyes. Perhaps Esther, like me, doesn’t want to marry. Good for her. ‘Did you accept?’
‘Eliza,’ he warns.
For pity’s sake. It’s preposterous that credit and acceptance comes only through giving yourself up. I will not. I can only liken this whole ridiculous situation to a sandwich. I like beef sandwiches. Have always been partial to one. But, and it’s a surprise to me, if indeed worrisome, I have recently developed an aversion to the meat. Yes, I have gone off it. Perhaps because now, here in London in our fancy new home complete with servants, maids and cooks, we have been scoffing the rich meat in abundance. I’m bored of it. What was once indulgent is now tiresome. I crave variety. Like when I write, I like to write about various subjects, because one would surely become bored if their mind was eternally focused on one matter. I imagine the same can be said for a man. I might like a man. Become partial to him. Even marry him. But what about when boredom strikes? I’m then stuck with him? No. Lord above, it would be hell.
But, really, do I have a choice? To be impervious would be to tarnish everything my father has built. Destroy it. I am defiant, but I am not wicked. I know his intentions are admirable. That a good life is all he wishes for, for Mama and Frank, Clara and me. But a good life is what we had before the newspaper started growing. This?
This is hell glossed over with fancy food, drink and frocks.
I sink into my seat, despondent, my life as I knew it in ruins.
‘Frank, Eliza,’ Mother chants as she flounces into the room, happy to see us, like this lunch is a rare family event and does not happen five damn times a day. She swishes her way round the table to her chair, followed closely by Emma, her maid, because since Father became stinking rich, our mother suddenly cannot do anything for herself.
She lowers herself like a lady to her chair, and Emma pours her tea.
‘Where’s Papa?’ I ask. Perhaps he’s been forced to abandon lunch with his family in favour of a breaking story. Something outrageous and also probably untrue. Let us not get sticky over minor inaccuracies, Father had said last week when I read the article Mr Porter had written claiming a vagrant ransacked a home and murdered a lady while she slept in her bed. Bypassing the matter of one violent husband who I had personally seen manhandling said lady into their fancy, gated home off Grosvenor Square on more than one occasion did not seem like a minor inaccuracy to me. Your imagination will get you into trouble, Eliza, he’d snapped after I’d pleaded for him to let me re-write the story with the facts I had and knew to be true. But no. The vagrant will be hung. The husband will mourn his wife for a few weeks and then find a young bride who will face the same fate.