Eleanor
After luncheon, still annoyed at Greybourne’s request that she teach art to boys, instead of him doing what he did best, Eleanor slapped a stack of freshly copied pages on her maddening employer’s desk. “If you will leave these pages alone, we might finish this book before next July. Send at least this half of the book to your publisher, out of harm’s way.”
His earlier remark about her gown still irked. It had clawed at the back of her mind all morning, along with her other grievances. She knew she had no fashion sense. Sitting at a desk all day, she had never needed one. She loved what she did and had no other purpose. She’d worn men’s clothes since her twin had started at the university and simply never had reason—or interest—to want more.
She wasn’t telling his lordship that. He was the one sitting on an apparently explosive document he would not finish—or even protect by sending partials to his publisher.
Greybourne dismissed her suggestion, again, and carelessly flipped through the clean pages, apparently searching for something, which he would inevitably tear apart and require re-copying. “I thought you wished to stay in this house of horrors.”
“It is a very nice house, and yes, if you mean to rewrite forever, staying here would be lovely. But I thought you wished to finish by December so you might plan your trip to Italy. I doubt Gravesyde is the best place for acquiring a fashionable valet or arranging transport.”
“I wish to finish by December because my publisher expects it. The rest is irrelevant. Go on. Prepare lesson plans for your students.” He waved her away.
Eleanor didn’t know why she was angry with him all the time these days. They’d had a very proper, businesslike relationship when she dressed as a man.
Why should he irritate her now that she wore skirts? He was paying her far more than her worth. She had no expenses. She enjoyed this new home. She had nothing to complain of. But she was simmering with fury.
He had called her shapeless.
What difference did that make? Returning to her room, she gazed at her reflection in the small hand mirror she had brought with her. She refused to wear the hated corset. It wasn’t as if a round gown required an hourglass figure. She concealed her breasts behind neckerchiefs, as was only proper. The black was ugly, but practical. Her young maid wasn’t experienced in keeping hems clean.
Peg was so bored with El’s wardrobe that she spent the better part of the day in the kitchen.
Perhaps, now that she needn’t worry about rent for a while, she might indulge in something a little less practical. She’d show the oaf that she wasn’t shapeless.
Having no idea why she should care what Greybourne thought, she seized on the decision and proceeded full speed ahead. Gathering up Peg, donning her one bonnet, Eleanor stepped out well before she was expected at the gallery. She would be doing the small modiste’s shop a favor by spending a few coins. She had enjoyed talking with the shop lady. She swallowed hard, trying to talk herself into this excursion.
Peg chattered happily all the way into town. Mr. Bradford did not emerge from the abandoned cottage to terrorize them when they took the shorter path. Not even the goats and chickens on the green inhibited them from traversing the length of the village to the inn shop.
Eleanor thought she might be more afraid of buying a new gown than of Mr. Bradford or teaching perspective to boys.
But Mrs. Morgan—Kate—made fashion simple. The modiste was there, also, examining a new shipment of fabrics. Young, blond, and gowned in exquisite lace and muslin, Miss Marlowe wasn’t a terrifying ogre but delightfully excited at El’s tentative request for a second-hand gown.
They set Peg to rummaging through chests, while they measured and held colors up to El’s face, as if color made any difference to her plainness.
“The primrose, I think,” Miss Marlowe decided, taking one of the totally unsuitable fragile muslins Peg had set out. “I know the color is currently out of fashion in London, but it is appropriate for your coloring. I think some gold trim to bring out the gold in your eyes. . .” She wandered off to examine another trunk of treasures.
“I will destroy anything so beautiful with ink,” El protested. “Really, only black is suitable.”
Kate laughed. “Black is suitable for mourning and naught else. We will teach Peg how to clean ink spots. Surely you do not carry ink to dinner.”
“And we can add a spencer that you may wear on Sunday for church, so the gown serves two purposes.” Miss Marlowe shook out a gold, embroidered kerchief that did not look at all suitable for church but was quite pretty.
El touched it warily, fearful it would disintegrate. “Two purposes? I have ever only worn a gown to cover myself. What other purpose is there?”
That produced gales of laughter.
Bewildered, El watched them lay out an assortment of delicate gowns and sashes and ribbons for which she had utterly no use. “Is this what I must wear if I am to do copy work for Mrs. Huntley?” she asked in dismay. Her wardrobe might cost more than she earned, if so.
“The primrose for Sunday and dinner.” Miss Marlowe laid out the gown on a table with the pretty gold scarf. Peg and Kate laid out a corset and chemise.
“Dinner? No one invites a clerk to dinner,” El scoffed. “You misunderstand my station.”
“Your station is what you make of it. Lord Greybourne holds a place of respect. If you dine with him—and I know you do—you cannot look like a ragpicker. He is accustomed to dining with ladies.” Kate set out a white muslin sprigged with blue-green flowers. “You are not quite past the age of girlish whites, but this will suit for morning calls. I have a spencer the perfect color to match.”
Past the age of whites? Morning calls. Bewildered, El admired the lovely frocks but could see no purpose in them. Her mother had never worn more than dull colors when she taught. “Perhaps a brown?” she suggested tentatively. “That would hide dirt.”
“Why waste your youth and beauty looking like an old hen?” Miss Marlowe exclaimed. “We can fit these to suit you for little money and almost no time. Lord Greybourne shall be in for a shock.”
