Anger flared briefly in Charles’ face. He glanced over his shoulder, and Aunt Florence cleared her throat and shuffled away, muttering some excuse that nobody listened to. Then Charles stepped very close to Eleanor, reaching out to grip her shoulders tightly.
“Listen to me, Eleanor,” he said, voice low and angry. “I am your father. You will obey me. I am sorry if this business with Lord Henry is not to your satisfaction, but I believe I’ve made it perfectly clear that I want you to marry and settle down, like Louisa has done. I see now that I have made a mistake in letting you have as much freedom as I have. Unless you want me to take further action, you will go shopping with your aunt at once, without further complaint, and you will not come back to the office today. Is that absolutely clear?”
Injustice sang in Eleanor’s veins. Her fists clenched so hard her knuckles stood out white. She swallowed once, twice, three times, trying to count her breaths, trying to do anything that would calm her down, even a little.
Really, there was only one thing she could say.
“Yes, Papa,” Eleanor managed, at long last.
***
“I wasn’t even consulted,” Eleanor groused for the hundredth time.
Aunt Florence, sitting opposite in the rocking carriage, sighed.
“It is unfair, dearest, but that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? The shareholders will feel better with a gentleman like Lord Henry at the helm – or so they believe – and you can work in the background, keeping everything afloat.”
“But perhaps I don’t want to stay in the background.”
Aunt Florence bit her lip. “Well, it is a pickle. And I am sorry for it.”
Eleanor nodded, sinking back into the carriage seat. Some of the tension had faded from her limbs. Shedidfeel better, and it had felt good to unburden herself to Aunt Florence.
“I’m sorry I was so childish about coming shopping with you,” she muttered, after a pause. “There really was a lot of work to be done.”
Aunt Florence reached forward, patting her hand. “I am not taking offence, dearest. Charles is… well, he’s more stubborn than people think. I know he worries a great deal about you, Eleanor. He worries what will happen to you when he’s… when he’s gone. He feels as though he cannot rely on me – which is nonsense, of course – and naturally Louisa and Jonathan will have their own children to manage. Your father might be sharp, but it comes from a place of love.”
Eleanor bit her lip, tracing one finger along the seam of the window.
“I love my father,” she admitted, “I just sometimes wish he understood me a little more.”
“That’s the fate of women in this world,” Aunt Florence agreed. “We are never asseenas we would like to be.”
The carriage rattled on through the busy streets of London. The milliner’s shop was behind them now, along with the proprietor who claimed to be French but was almost certainly not. It had been a beautiful place, full of soft, deep carpets and shelves stocked with colourful bolts of fabric, walls and walls of muslin, cotton, silk, satin, taffeta, bombazine, crepe, stuff, even lawn for more reasonably priced caps and aprons, all in every colour and texture a person could imagine.
There were ribbons, rows and rows of ribbons, lace, sequins, beads, more and more and more until Eleanor’s head spun with it. There was so muchchoice, and she wondered how a person could leave with only one item of clothing.
That was no doubt the intention.
Eleanor came away with a beautiful brocade gown, not in the newest, tightest fashion, but something a little more relaxed, with elbow-length sleeves and a few modest trimmings of lace and beads, and a pair of gloves to match. The gown would be made up and ready in a few days, but the gloves sat in a box on her knee.
Aunt Florence’s purchases filled the rest of the space, and there were a few hatboxes lashed to the roof. They were on their way to Gunter’s – as was the rest of London, judging by the traffic.
Abruptly, Aunt Florence leaned forward, taking Eleanor’s hand.
“Everything passes, sooner or later,” she said firmly. “That can be a terrifying idea, or a great relief, all depending on your perspective.”
Eleanor bit her lip. “I… I think I know what you mean, Aunt.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re a clever girl, my dear. Cleverer than you think.”
There was, naturally, a queue at Gunter’s. Generally speaking, it was the fashion to take one’s ices and go and eat them in the Park, or else simply climb in one’s carriage and go home, eating as one went. However, today was a grey and gloomy day, with a smattering of rain coming down at intervals, and it seemed that while nobody had lost their appetite for ices, they didn’t particularly want to wander in the open while they ate them.
By the time Eleanor and Aunt Florence finally managed to put in their orders and find a seat, their feet were aching and they’d been buffeted around horribly. Eleanor was, naturally, at the end of her patience, so when an unfortunately familiar face came swaggering up, she very nearly threw a cup of tea at him.
“Lord Richard Grenville,” Eleanor said tightly, when it was impossible to ignore him any longer. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Yes, fancy seeing another member of Society here, at one of the most popular locations in London,” he laughed. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant laugh. The man gave Aunt Florence a short, disinterested bow, but kept his eyes on Eleanor. She did not like how his gaze raked over her, taking in every curve, every detail, everyflaw.
