In the dimly lit drawing room of Thornfield Manor, Miss Eleanor Blackwood meticulously cleaned the expensive Persian rugs with her prized possession - a modern vacuum cleaner. The device, though efficient, possessed a delicate constitution much like its owner, prone to faltering at the slightest provocation.

“My dear Eleanor,” Lady Regina’s voice cut through the mechanical hum, “do cease that dreadful noise. One would think you were raised in a factory rather than a respectable household.”

Eleanor straightened her back, her fingers trembling slightly on the vacuum’s handle. “Forgive me, my lady. I merely wished to ensure the house remains presentable for this evening’s gathering.”

“Ah yes, the gathering.” Lady Regina’s lips curved into a calculating smile. “Mr. Harrison Whitmore shall be in attendance. A man of considerable fortune, I’m told.”

The vacuum sputtered suddenly, as if sharing Eleanor’s internal distress. She had heard much of Mr. Whitmore - his wealth, his achievements, his ruthless business practices that had left countless factory workers destitute.

“The machine appears unwell,” observed Lady Regina with unveiled disdain. “Much like its keeper, it seems ill-suited for its purpose.”

“The vacuum may be fragile, my lady, but it serves with more honor than many who claim greater strength,” Eleanor replied, her quiet voice carrying an edge of steel.

That evening, amidst the glittering chandeliers and forced laughter, Eleanor watched from the shadows as the wealthy guests paraded their superiority. Mr. Whitmore, a tall figure with cold eyes, dominated the conversations with tales of his latest industrial triumph.

“Miss Blackwood,” he approached her later, glass of port in hand. “I couldn’t help but notice your fascinating little cleaning device earlier.”

“Indeed, sir? Most find it beneath their notice.”

“On the contrary. I’m always interested in mechanisms that can replace human labor. Though yours seems rather… delicate.”

Eleanor met his gaze steadily. “Not all strength lies in brutish durability, Mr. Whitmore. Some lies in the willingness to continue despite one’s fragility.”

“Charming philosophy,” he smiled condescendingly. “Though hardly practical in our modern world. Speaking of which, I’ve recently acquired several factories in Manchester. Perhaps you’d care to visit them as my wife?”

The vacuum cleaner chose that moment to emit a terrible screech from where it stood in the corner, startling the nearby guests. Eleanor felt an odd kinship with the machine’s protest.

“I fear, Mr. Whitmore, that like my vacuum cleaner, I am too fragile for such an industrial arrangement. We would both shatter under the weight of your… practicality.”

The evening ended with whispers and scandalized looks, Eleanor’s reputation as damaged as her beloved vacuum cleaner. Yet as she sat alone in the quiet dawn, running her fingers along the machine’s dented frame, she felt an inexplicable sense of triumph.

Lady Regina never did find another housekeeper who could operate the temperamental vacuum cleaner quite like Eleanor. And Eleanor? Well, some say she opened a small repair shop in London, fixing broken machines and broken spirits alike. Though that might just be idle gossip, of course.