The Clayrfield Papers

Climbing the stairs was never quite the same. Sometimes she saw things in her mind that weren't there, relived memories. Her mother, telling her in a whisper that they must be elegant, and then walking in a stately way down the grand staircase, or her father, hushing her, insisting that she be seen and not heard, then greeting his guests in a false, familiar way. When she was alone she liked to pretend that it was just herself and her mother, with no father at all to control them. When she was alone her life was simple and peaceful.

One finger trailed up the long banister that ran up the side of the staircase. Eleanor took small, graceful steps until she was out of their sight. Thirty-three steps to the landing of the floor her room was on. She climbed farther than that, preferring the third story of the house. Her room seemed like a place a child should be. A child that never played, laughed, enjoyed herself. The third floor of the house was less frequented, and it was where Eleanor went when she wished to be alone with her thoughts and devices.

The heavy tapestries that lined the walls seemed to close her in, she longed for the solar, enclosed entirely by windows and feeling completely open. But Eleanor had been sent away from the company, and that meant that the ground floor of her home was completely off limits. Eleanor reached the landing of the third story and took slow, measured steps down the long corridors, her skirts swinging gently as she moved. Two door lined corridors, a full arch, a set of twin doors, another corridor, and there she was at the French doors that opened into her most private place in the entire house.

The private library that she had begged and pleaded for for months was on this floor. Every piece of furniture, every book, and every decoration in this room she had chosen herself. The huge windows in the wall faced Clayrfield's large park. Sometimes Eleanor would sit at this window for hours, just staring out onto the grounds, the park she was forbidden to walk in.

Why she was so very enclosed here, they never told her. Then, she had never asked either. She never questioned a word out loud. Eleanor's rebellion was in her mind, her dancing, her writing, and her books. Her nature, her whole self existed in this one room, and she protected it from all else. No one in the house had a key to this room. She cleaned and straightened it for herself when it needed it, and not another soul ever saw the inside of the Library after the moment it had been furnished and decorated.

What her father would say if he knew what this room saw in his absence was absolute. The instant he knew she had any enjoyment in anything, it was taken from her. Her mother... that was harder. The Lady Eleanor was never exactly all there. She seemed sometimes as if she was brainwashed when her husband was at home. Never did she have a mind of her own in the presence of the master of the house.

Fortunate for all was the fact that Clayrfield rarely saw its male owner. One or two visits a year and then he would be gone, all obligation in -his- eyes, complete. Eleanor was always happiest on the days her father departed from the estate. She even managed to show the daughterly affection he demanded of her in public, at these times.

Eleanor's father would be leaving tomorrow, just after the midday meal. The gathering would be more of a farewell party for him, in essence. With the exception of his immediate family, and the servants, nearly everyone in the parlour was dismayed at the prospect of his impending departure. The Lady Eleanor however, remained enigmatical to the last. No one really could profess to know her true feelings on any subject.

Eleanor knew better than to enter the Library now, she would be called to dress for dinner and the following dance in half an hour. Eleanor touched the door with just the tips of her fingers, and then walked in the opposite direction, to the tearoom down the hall. She knew what her father expected her to do; still she debated for a moment, before seating herself at the instrument the room contained. Her mother would appreciate the music; her father’s expectations didn’t matter.

Within a few moments of her fingers beginning to move over the keys of the piano, a servant opened the tearoom’s door, stepped inside and stood silently beside it. Eleanor’s eyes flashed as she realized the purpose of the young servant’s presence. A chaperone, sent by her father, no doubt. A chaperone when she was alone in a tearoom on one of the private floors of the house. What could her father possibly think she would do here she would never know. Asking had no point to it, and never would; straight answers were not something that the family tended to give easily.

Eleanor purposely stayed at the instrument until she had finished the piece she was playing. Then, rising with practiced grace and apparent ease, she quit the room.

Dressing was simple, easy. Quickly done and over with. As Eleanor made her way down the grand staircase, she braced herself for the company. Secretive little smile, blushing cheeks, smooth hair, charm, slow grace, small steps, and lady's manners.

She took a deep breath and started toward the dining room, knowing the act as well as she knew herself.