Eleanor Calder Novels & Stories

Then, she turned and carefully helped another figure out of the car. Eleanor. She was a vision of carefully constructed frailty. She leaned heavily on an ornate walking stick, her other hand gripping Victoria’s arm as if she would collapse without the support. She was paler than usual, her posture stooped, every movement was a calculated performance of weakness. The Eleanor I knew was very strong. She never joked with her health. The cameras went into a frenzy, the clicking and flashing intensified. They ate it up. They bought her shit. Damien stood frozen, his earlier defiance evaporating as he watched the masterful play unfold.

Before he could respond, she brushed past him and whispered, “If Rosemary thinks she can come back, she’s wrong. You’re mine, Adrian. You always will be.” --- That night, Casandra called the same man again. “Burn it down,” she said simply. The man hesitated. “The boutique?” “Yes. The brand. Her name. Her hope. I want Eleanor by R.L. erased from existence.” “But what about Adrian—” “I’ll handle him,” Casandra interrupted, her voice like ice. “He’ll be too blind to stop me. He always is.” --- Meanwhile, miles away by the sea, Rosemary — or Eleanor — sat in her small studio, surrounded by fabrics, sketches, and unfinished dresses. The lamp cast a warm glow on her tired face.

That was all that mattered now. "Eleanor was a remarkable woman," the creature said, accepting the cup of tea with hands that had killed seven people in three days. "Her work was more extraordinary than anyone realized." Mrs. Patterson settled into her favorite armchair, a worn velvet piece that had been her husband's before the war claimed him. "I imagine Iris is finding all sorts of surprises in that greenhouse. Eleanor always said the right person would understand what she'd been trying to accomplish."

Lina inquired, probing for insights into Eleanor's past and passions. "Correction, Miss Lina. I am still an actress and model. I don’t have any plans of quitting my career," Eleanor asserted, her words carrying a tone of determination. In a world often dominated by the illustrious Knights, Eleanor emphasised her commitment to maintaining an independent identity. Mrs. Lina, though amused by Eleanor's steadfastness, admired her confidence. "You should pursue what you like doing. Having an independent identity should always be a priority. I myself teach the same to the people of my town. You must visit Las Vegas with Kayden. We would love to host you both there."

All I know is that Eleanor must have made herself really infamous here, for these people to laugh at her and make fun of her like this. Her whole face is red now. I can see splotches of color on her neck too. She turns to Heather like she’s asking for assistance, but Heather seems scared of being embarrassed. “You really don’t know me, huh?” Eleanor murmurs dangerously. I shrug. “I know you. Eleanor Walsh, the famous designer that won the contest late last year.” “Yes,” Eleanor says with fire. “I was the one who won that contest. The best designer in the city. And you— a complete loser and nobody—dare to question my taste?”

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that her carefully laid-out plan would receive such a critique. Even she, a seasoned member of high society, was momentarily at a loss, only managing a stuttered, "M-Mr. Xanth…" However, her quick wit soon prevailed, and she found a way to respond. "Please accept my apologies for the inadequate display. Her calligraphy skills are merely surface-level, far from refined. However, I do have another piece that might be of interest..." Since Eleanor could not use Lizzie as a pawn, she was ready to use her as a stepping stone instead. Aware that Clover had been searching for an authentic piece from The Lindisfarne Gospels for Elijah, Eleanor was certain