A startled laugh escaped the older woman. “Self-pity! You have opinions, it seems.”
“I have been informed it is a defect.”
“By whom? Tedious people, I suspect.” The Dowager flicked a dismissive hand. “Read something to me. In Italian. I wish to hear whether your accent matches your opinions.”
Eleanor hesitated. This was familiar ground—the request for performance, the expectation that she display her accomplishments like a well-trained trick—but there was something in the Dowager’s manner that felt less like condescension and more like genuine curiosity.
She selected a passage from memory: the opening of Petrarch’s Sonnet 35, which she had always admired for its quiet melancholy.
“Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi
vo mesurando a passi tardi e lenti,”
She recited, letting the words flow with the cadence they deserved.
“Et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
ove vestigio uman l’arena stampi.”
“Alone and filled with care, I walk through deserted fields,”the Dowager translated quietly, “measuring my way with slow and weary steps, my eyes fixed on avoiding every place where the sand bears the mark of human tread.”
“You know it.”
“I knew it. Once. Before age rendered my memory less reliable.” The Dowager studied her anew. “You have a pleasing voice for it. Most English speakers slaughter the vowels.”
“My governess was Florentine. She was… exacting.”
“Clearly.” The Dowager paused, then added, with reluctant candour, “You are wasted here, you know. Translating trade correspondence and entertaining elderly women with poetry.”
Eleanor’s practised smile faltered briefly. “I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service.”
“Grateful.” The word fell between them like a stone. “Yes. I imagine you must be.”
Before Eleanor could respond, another voice broke through the moment—bright, social, and entirely oblivious to the subtleties of the exchange.
“Miss Finch! How delightful!”
Mrs Thornbury, one of Lady Rutledge’s particular intimates, descended upon them with the enthusiasm of a woman who had discovered a new source of diversion.
“Lady Millbrook, you must hear this—Miss Finch speaks three languages. Italian, French, and German. Is that not remarkable?”
“She has just been demonstrating her Italian,” the Dowager replied dryly.
“Oh, wonderful! Do say something more, Miss Finch. Something romantic. Lord Thornbury was just lamenting that no one could translate that French poem he has been puzzling over—”
“I should be delighted to assist Lord Thornbury with his translation,” Eleanor said carefully. “If he would care to show me the text—”
“Oh, no, no—we require a performance.” Mrs Thornbury clapped her hands, drawing the attention of several nearby guests. “Do recite something. Something passionate. Show everyone what you can do.”
The room was turning toward them now. Eleanor could feel the weight of curious, amused, faintly patronising gazes settling upon her like a physical pressure.
“I am certain the guests would prefer—”
“Nonsense! Everyone enjoys a little culture.” Mrs Thornbury’s smile was broad and entirely impervious to refusal. “Come now, Miss Finch. Do not be shy.”
Eleanor was not shy. She was tired, and irritated, and acutely aware that refusal would make her appear difficult, while compliance would make her appear eager for attention.
Neither option was acceptable. Both were inevitable.
