The rain tapped softly against the windows of Whitmore Cottage, a quiet rhythm that matched the steady ache in Eleanor Whitmore's chest. She sat curled by the hearth, her fingers trailing the edge of a worn book, though her eyes had long since drifted from the page. The flames flickered low, casting a warm but lonely glow across the small sitting room.
It had been nearly a year since her father's passing, and yet, the silence in the house remained a presence of its own loud, unrelenting, and deeply familiar.
A sudden knock at the door broke the quiet.
Clara, her maid of six years, entered the room with a silver tray in hand. "A letter, miss. From London."
Eleanor lifted her head slowly. "London?"
Clara offered the envelope. The paper was thick, the edges crisp, and the red wax seal bore a coat of arms she hadn't seen in over a decade Ashford Hall.
Her breath caught.
"Thank you," she said softly, taking the letter with careful fingers.
She stared at it for a long moment, tracing the seal, before finally breaking it open. The handwriting was formal, unfamiliar.
To Miss Eleanor Whitmore,
But that wasn't entirely true. Her father, though distant, had cared in his own way. Clara had been a loyal companion. Yet this journey… it would be hers alone.
She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Clara, please help me pack. We leave for Ashford Hall at first light."
As Clara left the room to prepare, Eleanor walked to the window and looked out into the grey rain-soaked fields. Beyond the mist, the past waited its secrets hidden behind high stone walls and locked doors.
She whispered, more to herself than anyone else, "Let the ghosts come."
And with that, she turned toward her old life, and the beginning of something she could not yet name.
*By the final will and testament of the late Lord Reginald Ashford, you are hereby summoned to Ashford Hall to oversee the closing matters of the estate. Accommodations have been arranged. Your arrival is requested no later than the 14th of April.*
*Respectfully,*
*Captain Thomas Ashford, Steward of Ashford Hall.*
She read it twice. Three times.
Clara watched her with quiet concern. "Miss Eleanor? Is it bad news?"
"I… don't know," Eleanor murmured. "My uncle has passed. I am to return to Ashford Hall."
Clara's expression tightened. "Ashford? But"
"Yes," Eleanor said, folding the letter. "I never thought I would set foot there again."
The name alone stirred ghosts of her mother's disappearance, of whispers in the town, of scandal and silence that tore their family apart. She had been just fourteen the last time she saw the halls of her uncle's grand estate. Her mother's eyes, red-rimmed, staring out the carriage window as they fled in the night, were burned into her memory.
"But you must go?" Clara asked gently.
"I suppose I must," she replied, her voice quiet but firm. "There are things I need to face. Perhaps it's time."
Clara hesitated. "Will you go alone?"
Eleanor looked into the fire. "I've always been alone.