“That seems unnecessary,” Eleanor said.
“Does it?” Charlotte asked sweetly.
The door opened without ceremony.
Their father entered, already frowning. “What is all this?” he demanded.
Charlotte’s voice weakened instantly. “Papa…”
Eleanor turned slowly.
Norman Barker, Lord St. George, had his gaze already fixed on her, cool and assessing.
“Charlotte. Eleanor,” he said in a near whisper.
Eleanor folded her hands, steadying herself, and braced for what would come next.
Lord St. George did not raise his voice. He never did when he wished to wound. He stood just inside the threshold of Charlotte’s bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze moving first to his youngest daughter, then to Eleanor, as if assessing two objects of vastly different value.
“My poor child,” he said, his tone heavy with concern as he crossed the room. “You should not be sitting up. You look quite pale.”
Charlotte shifted against her pillows with a delicate sigh. “I tried to manage, Papa. Truly. But Eleanor has been… distracted this morning.”
Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the hearth. The embers glowed softly, the only honest warmth in the room.
“Distracted?” Lord St. George repeated, turning at once. “Is that so?”
“I was attending to what she asked of me,” Eleanor said evenly.
Charlotte pressed her hand to her temple. “I asked her to warm my tea properly, Papa. She was in such a hurry. I fear she has little patience for care.”
Lord St. George frowned. “Haste is the enemy of quality.”
Eleanor felt her jaw tighten.
“She always rushes,” Charlotte continued, her voice weak but precise. “And then wonders why things are not done properly.”
Lord St. George nodded as though this were an established truth. “You should be grateful you are useful at all, Eleanor.”
The words landed with practiced cruelty.
Eleanor lifted her gaze. “I am grateful,” she said, because she had learned long ago which truths were worth speaking.
“Are you?” he asked. “Because it does not show.”
Charlotte shifted again. “Papa, the fire was nearly out when I woke. I could have taken a chill.”
“And the flowers,” Lord St. George added, gesturing dismissively. “Far too strong. You know Charlotte is sensitive.”
“I replaced them,” Eleanor said.
“And yet you left ash on the rug,” Charlotte murmured.
Lord St. George’s gaze snapped back to Eleanor. “Is that true?”
Eleanor looked down. A single dark smudge marked the edge of the carpet. “Yes.”
“Careless,” he said flatly. “Always careless.”
