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)
‘He’s indulging himself in Clara’s latest piece,’ Mama motions to the china bowl of sugar and Emma is quick to fulfil.
‘How delightful,’ I mumble, unheard. Or ignored. But Frank hears me, and he nudges me under the table for my trouble. I scowl at him, giving him a look to suggest that I will not be abandoning our previous conversation. He knows who my suitor is. Suitor. It’s a ridiculous word to use, especially for me. Every member of my family would admit – not publicly, mind you – that there is possibly no man alive suited to me. The world outside these doors is led to believe that I am a perfect example of a lady. God help the poor gentleman who has been handpicked by Papa to take me on. I suspect he’ll expect a subservient female. Am I capable of that? Who is he?
‘It was wonderful, darling,’ Papa says, leading Clara into the dining room. ‘A beautiful piece.’
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she replies, indulging the world’s need for politeness and compliance. ‘Next week, I will learn Beethoven.’
‘Marvellous! Did you hear that, dear?’ Father beams at Mother. ‘Beethoven!’
I roll my eyes and sink into my chair.
‘Do sit up, Eliza.’ Papa directs a warning, albeit soft, look my way as he lowers himself to the chair at the head of the table. ‘You are all scrunched up.’
My brother’s persistent half smile is kept in check, naturally, as our staff serve lunch.
‘And what delights are we being blessed with today?’ Papa asks.
‘Beef sandwiches, sir.’
I look down at my plate. ‘I don’t feel like beef today.’
Papa laughs, Mama and Frank joining him. ‘Do behave, Eliza,’ he says, helping himself and sinking his teeth into a wedge of bread. ‘Everyone feels like beef.’
Do behave? I’m not in the least bit hungry. Not for food, anyway. ‘I don’t feel at all well,’ I say quietly, more to myself than to my family. I honestly don’t, my stomach is churning terribly. I’m unsure whether the constant sickly feeling is me mourning the carefree life I have lost, or dreading the stringent, shallow one I have gained.
‘Eliza?’ Mama says, and I look up.
‘Can I please be excused?’ I ask, standing before I am granted permission to leave the table. I do not relish the concern on Mother’s face. She may have become a little rigid and blinkered since becoming a member of the ton and feeling like she needs to fit in, but her love for her children has not been misplaced. She wants contentment for us all, even now when she knows contentment must come second to status. My father worked like a dog for twenty years, and that commitment has finally given him everything he ever dreamed of. He dreamed of money, respect, power, and a guaranteed comfortable future for his children. Sadly, our dreams are not aligned, for I dream simply of freedom. Even more so now that I no longer have it. I wished to travel and write tales of those travels. To educate readers of the world beyond our little island, although I always knew that dream was out of reach. Money, and a lot of it, would be required to travel to lands far and wide. Only the richest could indulge in such a luxury. Now, ironically, my family has the money that could see my dreams become real, and yet now I am a prisoner in my new life.
I turn and leave the dining room, feeling suffocated in this enormous house. This dress suddenly feels like one of those garments described in a book I have read. A camisole de force. And yet I am not insane. And I definitely do not want to be restrained.
I arrive in my bedroom, go to the window, and look out, seeing more beautiful objects being carried into number one Belmore Square, this time paintings. One is of a landscape of the rolling countryside. I tilt my head, the rugged terrain similar to where I often rode, galloping through the unspoiled land, free as a bird, as happy as a pig in muck.
The painting is a cruel reminder, so I divert my attention to the other piece, before it can torture me for a moment longer. I find a coat of arms, albeit indistinguishable from this distance, so I squint, moving closer, until my face is practically squished against the pane of glass. I finally make out two beautiful silver unicorns up on their hind legs, looking all noble and mystical. ‘Oh my,’ I whisper, my head tilting, my curiosity exploding. And to which family does that belong?
I look over my shoulder, hearing the front door close. Porter must have arrived, which means they will be in my father’s study.
Which means I will have to wait until later to raid it.
I waited for the rest of the day. Porter came and left, Frank was in and out, and my father only left his study for meals and to relieve himself, which left no window of opportunity. By nightfall he still hasn’t appeared, so I ready myself for bed, but sleep eludes me. I’m up and down, listening and waiting for Papa to finally leave his office. It’s the day and night that feels like it might never end.