2. Eleanor

2

ELEANOR

“ M anners maketh man,” her uncle said from the head of the old oak dining table, glowering out the window. “And yet, despite our many teachings and tireless efforts of upholding tradition, every Hallows Eve we forget that saying as we hide ourselves away. Fearing something that has not been seen in years. The Headless Horseman,” he scoffed, “A plague on good society. A thief of women. A blood thirsty apparition.”

Eleanor looked up from her long-since empty plate, ignoring the tightening in her stomach demanding more food. The dining table that separated them could easily sit twelve, yet only two chairs existed in the room. His, at the top, and hers, at the very back, but not at the opposite head. No, she sat on the side of the table, furthest spot away. It was his way of holding his place in both the house and the world firmly above her.

Her uncle’s gaze fell from the window as he slowly turned his head to face her. He looked her up and down, chewing on his fatty cut of steak. “Without law and order, without rules and obedience, we are no different from the bestial beings that threaten to devour us,” he said. His calculating gaze analyzed her, but she knew better than to speak first. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she agreed, the words coming out promptly and quietly.

“About which part?”

“Pardon?”

“Which part do you agree with, Eleanor? Law and order or rules and obedience?”

She shook her head slightly, her brows furrowing. “Are they not one and the same?”

Mr. Carver clicked his tongue. “They are not,” he grumbled as he reached for his nearly empty glass of red wine. “Though I will not hold such things against you. You are not married yet. Your husband will give his good teachings to you.”

“Yes, Uncle. Though I am not sought after, I am afraid.”

Eleanor regarded her uncle’s unperturbed demeanor as he took a final sip out of his glass before carefully setting it down on the table. “Well, then you shall offer thanks to me very soon.”

“O-offer thanks?” she questioned, her blood beginning to chill as her back stiffened. “For what should I be offering thanks for?”

“You are aware of my many dealings with not just the mayor, but other civil officials, as it would be? I recently came upon a young baron who is looking to relocate his wealth—and family—here, to Autumntun. He has but one son.”

Eleanor’s heart began to pound against her chest as she desperately clung on to every word he spoke, hoping he was not truly cruel enough to sell her away.

“Does he?” she asked, forcing her words out at an even pace, refusing to show any sign of her unease.

He nodded his head, sitting back in his chair. “One son who is to inherit everything. He is only a few years older than you. A union between our two families is sure to breed prosperity. Among other things,” he added.

“Uncle,” she pleaded, worry seeping its way into her voice. “You cannot possibly be asking me to meet with him—”

“I am not,” he said, standing up from his chair as he began to walk towards her. “I am informing you that you are to wed him. The date has been set. You are to form a union on Hallows Eve.”

Eleanor stood up, pushing her chair back with enough force to send it crashing to the floor. “Uncle—please,” she begged, “I-I do not even know him, please, just this once, please listen to me!” she cried as she shot her arm forward, grabbing his hand as he passed her.

Spinning on his heel, he swatted her hand away as if she were a common housefly. “Just this once?” he asked, taking another step closer to her, his voice hardening as his eyes darkened.

“Just this once ?” He spat, slamming his fist down on the table. “I have raised you!” His hand came down on the able again. “I have fed you!” Slam. “I have clothed you!” Slam. “I have sheltered you!” He bellowed, his fist coming down one final time. “Without me, you would be a bumbling street rat selling your body for shelter and table scraps!” He grabbed her arm and yanked her forward so that her face was level with his chest. “This union is due and owed fully to me. You will wed and you will thank me for this opportunity that I am once again granting to you. You will rejoice at their family’s kindness and willingness despite your shortcomings!”

Before she could register what happened, a loud crack followed by a sharp sting on her lip took over her senses as she was dropped to the floor.

Cupping her cheek, she looked up to where her uncle was towering over her, smoothing out his suit as he calmed his breathing.

“Rejoice,” he repeated, “you have an opportunity to make yourself of use and pay back your dear uncle for his tireless work in raising you. Who would have thought,” he continued, “that an orphan would be fortuitous enough to have such a prospect presented to them.”

Eleanor’s vision blurred as her eyes watered, but she refused to cry. It would only anger him.

Her body trembled as she tried to blink away the tears. Though, her current state was caused by neither fear nor sadness. All she could feel was anger.

Surely. Surely , she had wished, her uncle would not cross certain unspoken lines. Marriage had never been a true concern of hers, as not even once, since being placed in his care after her parent’s death, had he ever regarded her as anything akin to a daughter.

Some things, such as marriage, were a fatherly duty.

But no. This was not about the prosperity of his family name, nor was it about securing her future for when her uncle eventually passed.

This was about control. And there was nothing he loved more than control.

Every man in this town. Money. Power. Control.

“Your answer?” he demanded, staring down at her with cold unforgiving eyes, barren of any hint of remorse or culpability for what he was sentencing her to.

There was hardly a chance that her soon-to-be husband was kind or gentle. If his opulent family was willing to look beyond her social standing, then that meant they were desperate.

Eleanor steeled herself as she held his gaze, refusing to falter beneath him. “Thank you, Uncle,” she whispered. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

He did not acknowledge her, instead; he backed away as he turned to leave the dining room.

The door closed behind him, leaving Eleanor to brew in her own indignation.

She listened to the ticking of the mechanical clock in the otherwise still room.

Seconds went by. Then minutes. Perhaps even an hour before she finally lifted herself from the floor.

“This is not my story,” she told herself as she walked over to the darkened window, staring at her own reflection. Her eyes fell to her bloodied lip as her fingers lifted to touch it.

Eleanor’s brows knit together as she grazed the cut, hardly touching it, yet still feeling its sting.

She knew she needed to escape. She needed to flee. But how?

Step one.

Mrs. Pencrook’s voice played in her mind.

Everything you do, do with grace.