The Homecoming
The rain had not stopped for two days.
Eleanor Whitethorne sat stiffly in the rattling carriage, her gloved fingers clasped tightly in her lap. The road leading to Whitethorne Hall was half-mud, half-memory — familiar, yet foreign. Every tree, every bend in the road whispered of a life she had once known, long before ribbons and embroidery replaced the sting of childhood grief.
The estate came into view at last, rising like a wounded beast from the moor. Once, it had stood proud with ivy-wrapped towers and golden windowpanes. Now, the ivy had turned black, and the windows were dim. The manor looked like it was holding its breath, waiting to be mourned.
“Miss Whitethorne,” said the driver softly, opening the door with a bow.
She stepped out, her boots sinking into the wet earth. A servant she did not recognize took her coat with a nervous glance, and no one else came to greet her.
“Where is my father?” she asked.
“In the study, Miss. He doesn’t take to company.”
Of course not. Not since Edward died.
She walked the halls in silence. Portraits stared from dusty frames — her mother, with a painted smile. Edward, in his military blues. Herself, age ten, forever frozen in time.
The study door creaked as she opened it.
Her father sat by the fire, face drawn and eyes sunken. The once-commanding Lord Whitethorne now resembled a ghost more than a man.
“You’ve come back,” he said, not looking at her.
“I was summoned.”
He finally met her gaze. “Then you know what’s expected. The estate is failing. You must marry.”
Eleanor inhaled, slow and sharp. “To whom?”
“Lord Somerset. He arrives Friday.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.”
Outside the window, the rain kept falling, like the sky itself wept for what was to come.
