Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
All rumours, of course, and nothing at all new for me to enlighten potential readers on. Yet still I have scribbled down my thoughts, penning endless theories while wondering if perhaps one day someone may invent a quill with a never-ending supply of ink, because it is utterly tiresome having to constantly dip the damn thing.
Unfortunately, today I cannot write, ponder, or dip my quill endlessly. I must meet Frederick Lymington in the royal park with my mother and we must promenade. Courting begins, as does my imminent death. I have never imagined being in love, and I certainly have never imagined pretending to be.
In my finest, most uncomfortable dress coat and an understated hat decorated only with a few pleats, I join Mother and Clara downstairs at just past noon. Emma hands Mama her gloves, and she pulls them on as she takes me in from top to toe, ensuring I am suitably dressed for a lady who is about to promenade in the royal park. Unlike my own, Clara’s bonnet is embellished with an array of colourful dried flowers, and Emma is staring at it adoringly, her own mobcap lacking shape and interest. I should offer a swap. I feel heavy with the burden of this frock.
Stepping outside the front door, I’m immediately hit with the constant and consistent bustle of Belmore Square, but my attention falls to the lone building across the gardens. Still with no occupants. I am, as the rest of the square, positively bursting with curiosity.
‘What’s got your sharp interest?’ Frank asks, joining me at the top of the steps.
‘Nothing.’ I quickly divert my eyes elsewhere. ‘And where are you off to?’
He looks at me in a way I do not like. With suspicion. Has done since the story I wrote and accredited to Porter was released last week. It’s exactly how my brother would look at me whenever I denied having a sneaky sip of Papa’s wine while he wasn’t looking.
His head tilts, and I tilt mine in return, fighting to maintain my stoic expression. ‘I am off to meet Porter.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Perhaps to see if he has another compelling story to tell.’
I clear my throat. ‘Wonderful for you.’
‘Or to learn where he sourced the facts that substantiated last week’s news.’
‘Good for you.’ I nibble my lip, looking away from Frank, no longer able to sustain his scrutiny. Of course, Porter never confessed to not being the author of my story. His ego was swelling too much.
‘Eliza, I––’
‘Come along, girls,’ Mother calls.
‘Must go.’ I dash down the steps and follow Mama as she floats her way down the street, Clara by her side. I fall behind, in no hurry to wander pointlessly around the royal park, or, more to the point, simply be seen in the royal park wandering pointlessly, but most certainly in a hurry to escape my brother’s inquisition.
At the edge of the square, Mother takes a right, and we arrive on Piccadilly. Carriages rumble up and down and men on horseback trot past, and just like Belmore Square, but on a larger scale, there are gatherings of people everywhere. I follow Mother’s path as she weaves through the people, increasing my pace to keep up, grimacing at the pinch of my toes from the horrid booties I must wear.
‘What is the hurry?’ I ask, moving aside to let a young woman pass, whose arms are full of hat boxes.
‘Pardon me,’ she says politely, her chin resting on top of the pile.
I stop abruptly because a name on one of the boxes catches my eye. ‘Just a moment,’ I say, making her slow to a stop, my eyes rooted on the handwritten label that says, quite clearly in an elegant script, Winters, Duke of Chester.
Looking alarmed, the woman withdraws, and the young man I now notice following her, a scruffy-looking boy with a dirt-smeared face, steps forward, looking both threatening and unsure. Her security, I expect, for a young woman, transporting expensive hats like this is quite a treacherous job, what with, as I have heard, although perhaps simply more whispers, highwaymen on the loose. I smile my reassurance at the boy, feeling quite reminiscent. That was me only a few months ago, smeared in dirt.
I motion to the hat box. ‘You are delivering this?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
I smile. ‘I am not a lady. Only by default.’ The poor thing looks mighty confused. I cannot lie, I am too. ‘Delivering to the Winters’ residence on Belmore Square?’ I go on, and she nods. ‘But the house stands empty.’
‘I do what I am asked, my lady.’ She bows her head and scurries on her way, and the boy follows, while I stand, thoughtful for a few moments, watching them take the turn towards Belmore Square. Winters. A long-lost cousin, perhaps? But what with the rumours shrouding the family name, I am confused as to why one would want to return. Like the house and the furniture being put inside it, I can only imagine the new owner, the new duke, is quite indifferent. The mystery deepens, and with it I have my next story.