Phoenix and Ashes

Eleanor looked up, and held out her hands. It was obvious that she was holding a garment that wasn't her own—she didn't own anything white. Only those with leisure, whose work was all done by servants, could have white clothing. It was a fact of poverty that Eleanor had come to learn.

"Ah." Alison nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, that will be needed tomorrow. I trust you have dinner well in hand?"

Eleanor nodded. She did—thanks to cleverly putting together things that could be made well in advance. The only things left were the new peas and new potatoes on the stove.

"We'll be eating early, then we'll be going up to Longacre Park for the evening." Alison smirked. "Put supper forward to six. I trust you can keep yourself out of mischief while we're gone."

"Yes ma'am," Eleanor mumbled, dropping her head so that Alison wouldn't see her expression.

If the girls had had their way, they'd have gone up to the Manor in ballgowns, and Eleanor would happily have let them make that faux pas—but their mother was watching, and chose their gowns herself. "Slightly more elegant than your fine afternoon gowns, my dears, but not evening dress. If we had been invited to dinner instead of a card-party, it would have been appropriate, but otherwise, no." They looked stunning, Lauralee in mauve silk, Carolyn in blue.

If Eleanor had dared to look up, she knew they would have seen the hatred and anger blazing in her eyes, so as she fastened hooks and tied lacings, she kept her gaze on her own hands, or on the floor. Alison shooed her back down to the kitchen so that her own maid could see to the girls' hair. Eleanor was glad enough to go.

And she could scarcely wait for them to get out of the house.

She sat next to the fire in the kitchen, trembling with anger. The anger actually surprised her a little; it had welled up the moment Alison called her "Ellie."

That name seemed to embody everything that Alison had done to her. She had never been "Ellie" to her father, or anyone else. Servants were called "Ellie" and "girl."

And I am a servant in my own house. But the moment I show any signs of rebellion, Alison is going to look for what inspired the rebellion.

So she busied her hands, waited impatiently for them to go, and tried to remember where she had heard or read anything about revenants.

Whatever they were, Alison was using them for something, and if Alison was using them, it couldn't be for any good purpose.

For some reason the word was making her think of ghosts—and she was sure her recollection was of something that Sarah had said, not anything that she had read.

That would make things difficult, since Sarah was out tonight, doing whatever it was that witches did on the solar and seasonal holidays.

Finally the three of them left, and once again, the house was still. Eleanor expected to hear the sound of the motorcar starting up, but instead, she heard one approaching The Arrows. And in fact, she didn't think anything at all of this, until it pulled up to the front door and stopped.

The sound of a car door opening and closing echoed over area, and Eleanor had a sudden vision of Reggie himself come to pick them up.

But no. No, she realized even as the thought crossed her mind, that it wouldn't be at all proper. Not the "done thing." No, he'd have sent his chauffeur.

But it made her angrier still that they were getting all this fuss made over them. Would it have hurt Reggie, just once, to have offered her a lift back to the village? After all, he was always coming there himself, to go to the Broom Pub—which was just across the street from The Arrows.

Of course it wouldn't have inconvenienced him in any way. But she was hardly in his social class, now, was she?

He would scarcely wish to be seen with the likes of her.

In the back of her mind, a small voice protested that if Reginald Fenyx were seen giving a ride in his automobile to a young serving girl, people would assume the worst—and that he wasn't being snobbish, he was protecting her reputation.

But that voice was swiftly drowned in the clamor from the rest of her mind, which bristled with envy of her stepsisters, anger at her own situation, and bitterness.

She kept her head down and her hands steady in case anyone should look in on her—but no one did. With a soft swish of silk and laughter as light as their gowns, all three of the Robinsons hurried out the door. The sound of two automobile doors slamming echoed in the street, then the chugging of the engine faded away in the distance.

Eleanor counted to fifty before she got up and went into the library.