Chapter Twenty-Three

Charles’ room was shrouded in darkness. Like they were in mourning already.

The curtains were drawn, and the fire banked low. Low, but still filling the room with stifling heat. Eleanor guessed that her father was cold. His bed was piled with blankets, and only his head poked out.

When had he gotten so old?

“Papa?” Eleanor whispered.

He reached out a trembling hand. “Come here, my darling girl. Louisa has already been in.”

A flash of resentment surged through her. She swallowed it down. Louisa was her sister, Jonathan her brother-in-law. Resenting them would do her no good.

She moved over to Charles’ bedside, pulling up a stool set aside for that purpose, and took her father’s hand.

His skin was dry, and too hot.

“You know it all, then,” Charles rasped. “I’m sorry I hid it from you.”

“Why did you do it, Papa?”

“Because I know you, my girl. There would be no Season, no husband. You’d devote yourself to taking care of me and the business both. That’s not the life I envisaged for you.”

“But it’s the life I would have chosen .”

Charles wasn’t listening. He shook his head, pillow rustling under his head.

“I want to see you married and settled, like Louisa. All this business with sketching and managing the offices has gone far enough.”

Eleanor swallowed hard. “Papa…”

“It’s time you heard it all. Please, don’t argue with me. Jonathan tells me that my heart can’t take it. I’ll recover, he says, but each attack will be worse than the last. I talked this all over with Jonathan and Louisa when the diagnosis was first made, and we all agreed it was for the best. For your best. ”

Frustration and indignation surged through her. Eleanor closed her eyes briefly.

“Go on,” she managed at last. “Tell me.”

He drew in a breath. It rasped and gurgled in his throat, until Eleanor wanted to cry.

“We decided long ago that you, Eleanor, were going to have to be persuaded into the right course. I don’t want you shackled to the business. If Jonathan had had more interest, then maybe… but that’s by and by. I always intended to see you married, because you will not be wasting your life in the pottery business. I’m sorry, my darling girl. It’s decided. I didn’t want you to know I was dying…”

“Papa!”

“Well, what would you have done about it? I wanted to see you enjoying your life. I don’t want your last memories of me to be all misery. I wanted to see you dancing and having fun, with suitors aplenty. I didn’t want you to think of me ill until it was too late to avoid it.”

She squeezed his hand. Tears were coming thick and fast now.

“Papa, you can’t imagine…”

“So, I decided, when Jonathan told me that my days were numbered,” Charles ploughed on doggedly, “that my will must be adjusted.”

A twinge of fear jolted down Eleanor’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I will leave you and Louisa just less than a fifty percent share in the business. Twenty-five percent for you, and twenty-four percent for Louisa. The shares will provide plenty of money, along with what you’ll get from me when I die.”

“I… but… I don’t understand, Papa,” Eleanor stammered. “I thought I would take over when you weren’t able to. That’s what I wanted.”

“Well, I want you married and settled.”

“Who will get the other fifty-one percent?”

Eleanor knew the answer even before Charles spoke it. He sighed, closing his eyes. In that moment, he looked ancient .

“I will leave the remaining fifty-one percent of the business to Lord Henry Willenshire. The changes to my will are already made.”

Eleanor got unsteadily to her feet.

“You… you’re leaving the business to Lord Henry?”

Charles looked a little guilty, not quite meeting her eye.

“He is a good man, and a clever one. You needn’t worry about him forcing you out – he’ll let you have a say in the business; I know he will.”

“Yes, but Papa…” Eleanor bit off her protests. Charles looked ill and would only get more ill if she argued with him.

The decision has been made. It was made over a year ago, and they all knew.

They all knew. They all kept it from me.

Eleanor’s chin was wobbling. She knew she was only moments away from ugly, noisy tears.

“Tell me that you accept this,” Charles pleaded, squeezing her hand weakly. “I only wanted what was best for you.”

Eleanor swallowed down all the outrage, the frustration, and the simmering feeling of betrayal.

“I know you do, Papa,” she managed at last. “I… I need a moment to collect myself, though. Excuse me.”

He nodded, letting her go.

Eleanor walked calmly out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. She walked down the hall, ignoring Louisa when she popped out of the parlour door. Down the stairs, bonnet on, out the door.

When Eleanor reached the street outside, she began to run.

People stared curiously after the strange young lady, racing down the street as if someone was after her. Some even peered back up the street, to see if she was being pursued by something.

Eleanor was aware of the notice she was attracting, but she didn’t care.

She skidded to halt in the marketplace just outside the Fairfax offices, nearly colliding with a dirty-looking man with patched coattails.

“Careful, missy,” the man leered, winking. “Care for an escort somewhere? ”

She gave a gasp of disgust and dodged around him, racing across the street into the office building.

The foreman blinked as she hurried past.

“Oh, Miss Fairfax, I didn’t know you were coming in today. No one is in the office today, as far as I know. How is Mr. Fairfax? Any better? I heard he took a turn.”

She didn’t answer.

Eleanor stumbled up the stairs, lungs burning, and tumbled into her office. She didn’t even look at Charles’ office, the door firmly shut.

Her things were piled up everywhere – sketches, ledgers, future plans. Every one of them was a waste.

Eleanor slammed the door so hard the room echoed. She burst into noisy tears, crumbling to her knees.

All for nothing. All a waste. Why had she even bothered working so hard? Why had she tried to be taken seriously? Their clients had been laughing at her behind their hands this whole time, hadn’t they? They must have been. They would have known all along that Eleanor’s officious helping would come to an end when Charles died. No wonder he’d been so keen to find a partner.

They’ve all been laughing at me, she thought wildly, hot tears running down her face. They knew they didn’t need to bother about me, because I was too stupid to see that I wasn’t necessary.

She tried, and failed, to conjure up some anger towards Lord Henry.

It didn’t work. After all, it wasn’t his fault. She kept remembering his wide, hurt eyes when she lashed out at him only hours ago, shouting at him to get out, to go away, to leave her alone.

And he’d gone, hadn’t he? She drove him away.

That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted him to leave you alone.

No matter how firmly she thought it, Eleanor couldn’t convince herself that she had wanted Lord Henry to leave her alone.

He’d gone, though, and she had nobody but herself to blame.

Eleanor stayed where she was for a few more minutes, or perhaps an hour. It was hard to tell. She sobbed until her stomach hurt and she felt drained, cheeks sticky and itching with drying salt tears.

When it seemed that all the tears had gone, she dragged herself up and staggered over to her desk.

It was covered with her most recent sketches – scenes and flowers that would look beautiful on a teacup. Her newest one was a watercolour, a red-and-white speckled mushroom sprouting up from the grass, a miniscule mouse peering around the stem.

She’d worked on it for hours. Charles had said it was pretty, very pretty, all the while knowing that it would never grace one of their tea sets. Never.

With a cry of rage, Eleanor tore the picture right down the middle. In a frenzy, she tore it again and again and again, until hours of work were reduced to a few handfuls of confetti. She picked up another picture, grabbing handfuls of paper and tearing, until her desk was littered with scraps of crumpled paper, and it was drifting over the floor like snow.

When there were no more sketches left, Eleanor collapsed into her seat, folding her arms on the desk and burying her face there.

She had been sitting like that for about half an hour when she first noticed the smell.

Eleanor sat up warily, sniffing.

Smoke.

She saw it then, the first tendrils of smoke curling under her door. Ice cold fear closed its fingers around her heart.

Eleanor stumbled to her feet, rushing to the door. She had the presence of mind to test the doorknob before gripping it.

Warm, but not hot. She opened the door to a hallway choked with smoke.

She could just about make out Charles’ office at the end of the hallway, smoke billowing out from underneath, flames glinting behind the door.

Eleanor’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“Fire,” she mumbled, and then again, louder, “Fire! Fire ! Fire!”

Her weak voice wouldn’t carry, of course. There was a bell on the landing, a heavy iron one designed for such a moment as this, but Eleanor would have to move away from the stairs and escape to ring it. Cursing, she bent down to tear a strip of fabric from the bottom of her gown, soaking it in a half-drunk glass of water. Wrapping the makeshift mask around her face, she darted along the hallway towards Charles’ office, feeling along the wall for the bell.

She found it. Rough rope scratched her fingers, and Eleanor gripped the rope and hauled with all her might.

The rusty old bell tolled out sonorously, carrying stronger and farther than any shouts could have done. The noise echoed through the building, and Eleanor vaguely heard shouts of alarm. Somewhere below, an answering bell rang out, alerting the factory floor to the danger.

Coughing and choking, Eleanor turned away and began to crawl towards the staircase. Behind her, she could hear Charles’ door groaning and cracking, unable to stand up to the heat and fury of the fire. Fire that wanted to escape and go rushing down the hallway and down the staircase.

I won’t make it, Eleanor thought, her head reeling.

She reached her open office door, feeling it rather than seeing it. The smoke was too thick to see anything at all. She hauled herself in side, slamming the door.

Just in time.

Charles’ door caved with a groan and a tremendous whoosh of flames. She crawled away, seeing the glint of fire seeping under her closed door. Would it hold? Not for long.

Eleanor stayed low, pressing the rag to her face. She was disoriented, with no idea where she was and which way she was facing. She banged her head on the underside of her own desk, sending a spasm of pain through her head, competing with her burning lungs.

The window is this way.

Of course, Eleanor knew she would not be able to climb out of the window. A drop from this height would likely kill her, shattering her fragile bones on the paved courtyard below. Climbing down seemed impossible, she was as weak as a kitten. Her limbs had turned to jelly.

Moving away from the sturdy surety of the desk, Eleanor crawled towards the window, moving from memory rather than anything else. The smoke was thicker and thicker every minute, and the heat was intense.

She bumped into the wall, feeling along it for the window sash.

There! There .

She fumbled with the sash, rising to her knees. She pushed open the window, and cool, fresh air rushed in.

Not for long, of course. The smoke rushed out , choking the air right outside the window. There was more and more of it, billowing.

Peering out through streaming, stinging eyes, Eleanor could see a commotion going on down in the courtyard. The factory workers had got out, she noticed with relief. They were gathered underneath her window, pointing and talking frantically to each other. A few were hurrying towards the burning structure with buckets of water, but of course it was too little, too late.

“Help,” Eleanor rasped feebly. Nobody heard her, of course. She tried to wave her arm, but her strength gave out and she tumbled to the floor.

Lying on her back, she could see the thick layer of smoke above her, curling and roiling like the worst storm in the world. Was it her imagination, or could she breathe easier now?

Either way, Eleanor was losing consciousness.

Twice in one day, she thought wryly. Just my luck.

Darkness nibbled at the edge of her vision. She was vaguely aware of the door creaking and groaning, the fire longing to burst through the wood and come flying out through the window, swallowing air in its wake.

That would be the end of her, certainly. She hoped to be unconscious by the time the fire whooshed through.

Louisa can have my whole share, Eleanor thought, with a pang of misery. What difference would it make, really, if I died? Nothing would change. Nothing.

She closed her eyes. Her headache had gone. She felt oddly light-headed now, and ready for sleep. She was so, so tired. The factory workers had gotten out.

In the back of her mind, Eleanor knew that she should haul herself to her feet and stick her head out of the window. The air would be a little fresher there, and she would attract attention, and maybe receive help.

Nobody saw me, though. Nobody ever does. I’m not meant to be here.

The noise from outside, the shouting and panicked cries, began to fade away, as did the crackling and groaning from the fire.

None of it mattered anymore. Eleanor began to fade away, drifting unconscious. She felt as though she were floating. It was almost pleasant, actually. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was dying, that every breath was killing her, even before the fire could get to her.

It didn’t matter. That was a relief.

I worked so hard, fought so long, but in the end, none of it mattered. All my hard work, gone to nothing.

It occurred to her then that her sketches, already torn to pieces, would be nothing but ash in a very few minutes. This struck her as remarkably funny and began to laugh. She was still laughing when consciousness drifted away from her.