Proper Conduct

In the evening, Aunt Margaret summoned Eleanor to the drawing room for what she referred to as “a discussion on manners.”

“Yes, Aunt Margaret. You called for me?” Eleanor asked as she entered the room.

“Yes. Do sit down.”

Aunt Margaret gestured to the chair opposite her without looking up from her book until the very last moment.

Eleanor moved at once, seating herself carefully. Her posture was perfect—back straight, legs together, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Aunt Margaret observed her in silence for a moment.

“You are beginning to develop habits that are, frankly, unsuitable for a young lady of your position,” she said at last, her tone calm but firm.

Eleanor kept her gaze lowered. “I apologise, Aunt Margaret.”

“I am not interested in apologies,” her aunt replied coldly. “I am interested in corrections.”

A pause.

“Etiquette is not something you choose to follow when it suits you,” she continued. “It is constant. It governs how you sit, how you speak, how you walk. It defines you.”

Eleanor nodded slightly. “I understand.”

Aunt Margaret leaned back slightly in her chair, her expression still stern.

“You will also remember that your voice should never be raised, your movements never careless. Even when you believe yourself alone, you are still expected to behave correctly.”

Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap. “Yes, Aunt Margaret. I understand”

“Also, as a consequence of your behaviour, you will not be joining me for dinner this evening.”

Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap.

“Yes, Aunt Margaret.”

“Very well,” her aunt said finally. “That will be all.”

A brief pause.

“And Eleanor?”

Eleanor looked up.

“Do try harder.”

Eleanor nodded and excused herself. 

Later, back in her room, Eleanor sat by the window.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—perfect posture, neatly arranged hair, a face that showed nothing she truly felt.

She turned away from it.

Outside, children were still playing.

Running.

Laughing.

Free.

Eleanor rested her hand lightly against the cold windowpane.

“I can’t live like this,” she thought quietly.

The room remained silent.

No one came to call her for dinner.

The clock struck nine.

“I deserved this,” she whispered, though the words did not feel entirely true.