Mrs. Hargreaves’s brow lifted. “Nine.”
The footman swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Eleanor smiled once. “Better nine than one.”
They continued down the corridor toward the ballroom. At the door, Eleanor paused to listen.
Inside, the room was alive with preparation. Servants moved across the floor, adjusting chairs, checking the drapery, polishing the edges of mirrors. The air smelled of flowers and warmed wax. The blue-tinted candles were already lit in places, casting a faint aquatic hue that made the white blooms look like pearls.
“It looks…” Eleanor began.
“Acceptable,” Mrs. Hargreaves supplied.
Eleanor laughed softly. “No. It looks beautiful.”
Mrs. Hargreaves turned her head just enough to allow Eleanor to see that she was pleased, though she would never admit it aloud.
Eleanor walked the perimeter, eyes scanning every detail. She stopped at one table where a floral arrangement sat slightly skewed.
“That one,” she said, pointing.
A maid hurried over. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“It leans,” Eleanor said gently. “Only slightly. You see.”
The maid flushed. “I do, Your Grace.”
“Fix it now and no one will ever know,” Eleanor said. “If you wait, everyone will see it.”
The maid nodded vigorously and moved at once.
Mrs. Hargreaves watched her. “You speak to them kindly.”
Eleanor kept her gaze on the room. “They work harder when they do not fear being humiliated.”
Mrs. Hargreaves snorted faintly. “That is a modern notion.”
“It is a practical one,” Eleanor replied.
They moved on, and Eleanor’s attention turned toward the far end of the ballroom where chalk had been prepared near the floor.
“Is the blue-green chalk ready?” Eleanor asked.
Mrs. Hargreaves nodded. “Prepared. And applied only at the edges as you directed.”
Eleanor exhaled. “Good. I do not want it tracked through the center.”
“You will have slippers ruined regardless,” Mrs. Hargreaves said.
“I know,” Eleanor said. “But I would prefer not to ruin tempers along with them.”
They left the ballroom and moved toward the music room where Graham would be.
Graham, Blackmere’s steward, stood with a ledger open in his hands as though it were an extension of his body. He looked up at their approach, expression perfectly composed.
“Your Grace,” he said.
Eleanor didn’t bother with pleasantries. “The orchestra.”
