The Shadow in the Glass JJA Harwood (book recommendations for young adults txt) 📖

back up the servants’ staircase and slipped into her little room, trying not to wilt at the sight of the bare boards, the skeletal iron bedframe, her useless scrap of curtain hanging limp over the window. She crawled into bed, ignoring the smell of mildew from the blankets and holding the memory of the fairy stories like hands cupped around a tiny flame. When she slept, she dreamed of vast wings carrying her away, and she could not tell if they were her own.

It was hard to believe in fairy tales when you woke up to the smell of damp. Eleanor’s shoulders felt like a bag of rocks and her knees were already aching. Nothing felt magical in her little garret. Her chest of drawers was small, cheap and splintery; her jug and washbasin were chipped. The sloping roof came too close to her head and damp mottled the walls and ceiling. She might have been sleeping at the bottom of a well.

Eleanor pulled on her uniform – a hard-wearing brown wool dress, which still scratched no matter how many times she washed it – remembering the steady beat of wings she’d dreamed about. She’d tell Aoife about it later, and they’d list all the places they’d fly away to while they polished the silver.

As she did every day, Eleanor checked her money drawer before she left her room. She didn’t open the drawer properly, just dragged it out a few inches so that the purse lurched forward, coins clinking. It was a silly habit, but hope rekindled in her chest at the sound. She had almost twenty-five pounds now: nearly enough to rent clean and pretty rooms for a few months, but she would need to find a way to live after that. She wouldn’t be emptying other people’s chamber pots for much longer.

She crept along the corridor and knocked on Leah’s door.

Without her stays Leah’s stomach stuck out like a hillock among the valleys of sheets. Her dark hair was spread out across the pillow, long limbs sticking out from under the blankets. She twitched in her sleep, eyelids fluttering, wincing as the baby shifted. The rest of the maids had been pretending not to notice while Eleanor helped Leah let out the waistline of her uniform. Anger flashed through Eleanor like lightning. Eleanor would’ve pretended for the full nine months and feigned surprise when the baby came, but it was not up to her. It was up to Mrs Fielding, and everyone knew that the moment Leah could no longer hide her condition, Mrs Fielding would dismiss Leah without a reference. Leah knew it too. Her carpetbag had been packed for weeks, just in case.

Eleanor cleared her throat. ‘Leah?’

Leah started awake, her eyes flying open. ‘God above, Ella! I thought you were—’

‘I don’t think he’s back yet,’ said Eleanor, closing the door behind her. ‘I wondered if you’d like some help getting dressed.’

Leah flushed. ‘I’m only showing a little.’

Eleanor kept her voice gentle. ‘More than a little, these days.’

Leah eased herself out of bed and got to her feet, and when she was standing Eleanor felt a flutter of hope. Her friend had always been full-figured, and when she drew herself upright perhaps Mrs Fielding would think that Leah had only put on weight. Of course, there were other signs too – dark circles under Leah’s eyes from all the sleepless nights, a slight thinning in her face thanks to the morning sickness – but all the maids were tired, and Leah could always say she’d eaten something that disagreed with her. Perhaps Leah wouldn’t have to leave just yet. Perhaps things would be different this time.

There was no mirror in this room, which was as small and shabby as Eleanor’s, so Leah shook out a stocking and tried to wind it around her waist, to see how much she’d grown. The ends only just met. She threw the stocking aside, hands shaking. Eleanor picked it up and smoothed it flat, folding it up so she didn’t have to look at Leah’s face. It took longer than it should; a slow, desperate frustration made her clumsy.

‘Mrs Fielding might not have—’

Leah gave a hollow laugh. ‘If you noticed weeks ago, Little Nell, then there’s no hope for me at all.’

The old nickname had a sting to it, like a needle slid under Eleanor’s fingernail. She fought to keep her composure. ‘You never thought about … about bringing on your time a little early? There are women who can—’

Leah stared at her, her grey eyes full of disbelief. ‘I could never! Where did you hear about something like that?’

Eleanor flushed. Leah hadn’t been the first maid to fall pregnant at Granborough House. ‘Oh, of course, I couldn’t either,’ she gabbled. ‘But you don’t seem very happy and I thought I’d—’

‘Of course I’m not happy!’ Leah snapped.

Eleanor reached out a hand, but Leah batted her away.

‘You’d better get on.’

Eleanor went downstairs, leaving Leah to wrestle with her stays. The vast basement kitchen of Granborough House was still and dark; the street-level window splashed a thin slice of light across the floor. Eleanor filled the coal scuttle and lit the kitchen range after three attempts, before the rest of the servants came in. The coal smoke stung her eyes, but she stared at the flames until tears were streaming down her face.

Fetching the first lot of water was always the worst part of Eleanor’s morning. The iron bucket smacked into her shins as she walked up the steps to their little slice of garden. Grey light oozed over the high walls. The herb garden, the trees and the old coach house were vague shapes in the gloom. As she went to the pump at the end of their overgrown strip of grass, the broken windows of the abandoned coach house glittered.

The trough underneath the pump was full of water and a fine layer of dead flies. She wrenched the handle. The pump made a horrible sucking noise and spat water all