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)
‘When did your mouth become so sharp?’ he slurs. ‘Why must you pain me so, Eliza?’
‘Why must you pain me?’ I retort, doing a fine job of disregarding the pleading look pointing my way from Mama. ‘Frederick Lymington, Papa? Of all the––’
‘He is a fine match.’ He aims a fork at me, but I refrain from pointing out that such a move would be frowned upon by his fancy new friends. No, father, we are no longer in the countryside.
‘I beg to differ,’ I breathe, glancing around the table at Mother, Frank and Clara, who are all silently, and quite carefully, spooning soup into their mouths. I shrug and Mother shakes her head.
‘He’s worried,’ she explains.
‘About what?’ I ask. ‘He has everything he’s ever wanted.’ Money. Power. Recognition.
‘All at a price, my dear,’ she says, so quietly, as if she didn’t want me to hear. But I did hear. Father didn’t, however, as he has fallen asleep in his soup.
‘Oh, Papa,’ I say over a sigh, shaking my head in despair along with Mother.
Dalton gallantly and patiently coaxes Father up and supports him while walking him out of the dining room, and Mother is silent and contemplative as she follows. When we lived in the country, if our father overindulged at the inn down the lane, she would give him a piece of her mind and make a point of clanging every pot and pan in the kitchen at the crack of dawn while encouraging us children to be as raucous as we should like. Our lives have changed beyond measure, and I hate it. I think Mother secretly hates it too, Clara is too young to understand the ramifications of this move, and Frank? He is too loyal to our father to speak up. To me, this house is a beautiful cage, and the moment I marry Frederick, I will be transported to Cornwall to live in another cage. Dread engulfs me. I try for a moment to reason with myself. At least I do not hate Frederick. At least he is somewhat kind.
All at a price, my dear.
‘What do you think Mama meant?’ I ask, looking to Frank. ‘All at a price.’
‘Why is it you ask him and not me?’ Clara asks huffily. ‘I may be the youngest, granted, but I am not daft. It is obvious.’
‘What is?’ Frank and I ask in unison.
‘The price.’ Clara stands, exasperated. ‘It’s freedom. I found Mama in the kitchen baking bread at four o’clock this morning.’ She points her eyes to me. ‘I know you’re writing articles again for the newspaper, and you,’ she says, turning her stare to Frank, ‘are cavorting with too many females. Everyone is hiding.’ Leaving her chair messily away from the table, like she would have in the countryside, she departs, making a point of stomping her feet.
‘Well, that told us,’ Frank says on a laugh, getting up from his chair too, leaving. ‘What she didn’t mention is what she’s sneakily doing.’
I hum, pouting, and as soon as I am alone, I make haste, escaping to my room, dressing for comfort and, more importantly, disguise. To be recognised would be disastrous, especially after dark, especially alone. I pull the hood of my cape over my head and check myself in the mirror in the dim light. The shadows across my face are perfect.
I creep through the house like a mouse, holding a finger to my lips when Cook spots me, and leave the candlelit space in favour of the outside darkness, with not even a lantern to help me navigate my way to the other side of the square, but the sky is clear, blessing me with moonlight.
I cut through the gardens, thinking it wise – no sensible person would frequent such a quiet, dark space at this hour. So perhaps I am not sensible. I should laugh at myself. My lack of sensibility in this moment is discernible. In fact, I must be stark raving mad like the King himself.
As I exit the gardens on the other side, I hear the distant sound of horses trotting and the wooden wheels of a carriage bumping across the uneven cobbles. I stop just shy of the gates, waiting, my breath held, as a coach rumbles into Belmore Square and comes to a stop in an extremely unfortunate place, right outside the gardens.
‘God above,’ I mutter, stepping back into the shadows, out of the moonlight, pulling the hood of my cape in some more. I very nearly take a tumble when I see Lady Dare stepping down from the coach. Why on earth is she stopping here, when she lives on the other side of the square? This is a far safer place than most areas of London, but still. No lady should be out alone at this hour. I pout. ‘You are not a lady, Eliza,’ I say to myself.