Chapter 1: The Train to Ashvale
The countryside stretched endlessly on either side of the train, green and gold under the fading light. The sky was a dusky pink, scattered with wisps of cloud that looked like pulled cotton. Eleanor Hartwood sat quietly in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her gloves were a little too warm, but she didn't dare remove them. She was painfully aware of how out of place she looked — dressed in gray traveling wool, hat neatly pinned, spine straight despite the jostling of the carriage.
Her first time alone.
Her first time away.
Eleanor pressed her lips together as the train rattled on. Across from her sat an elderly woman nodding off, and a young boy too absorbed in his toffee to notice the strange girl staring out the window as if she were watching the edge of the world.
She pulled a letter from her reticule again and unfolded it for what must've been the hundredth time. Its handwriting was sharp and elegant, the paper thick, with an Ashvale seal pressed deep into the envelope flap.
> "Dearest Eleanor,
The time has come for you to experience life beyond Surrey. I expect you at Ashvale Manor before the 5th.
Yours,
Lady Catherine Ashvale"
No warm greetings. No affection. Just an invitation that sounded like an order. Eleanor barely remembered her aunt, except for the faint memory of perfume and cold hands that once patted her head.
Still, her mother had smiled at the letter, relieved by it. "You're of age now," she had said, "and it's time someone took you seriously."
Eleanor wasn't so sure that was true. She was twenty, yes. But what did she know of society, of people, of expectations and sharp-eyed noblewomen?
She just wanted to be free of expectations — to breathe somewhere new. Ashvale, whatever else it was, offered that chance.
The train let out a high-pitched whistle and began to slow. Eleanor sat up straighter, peering out the window. A worn wooden sign appeared: ASHVALE STATION.
This was it.
---
Eleanor stepped off the train and immediately felt the bite of early autumn air. The station was small and quiet, the platform nearly empty. A stone bench, a few oil lamps flickering with early evening light, and a single waiting carriage.
A tall man in a gray livery coat stood beside it, glancing at a pocket watch. His posture was precise, his face unreadable. As she approached, he removed his hat and offered a small bow.
"Miss Hartwood?"
"Yes," she said, barely above a whisper.
"I am Thomas. Lady Ashvale's coachman. Allow me." He gestured to the carriage.
Her trunk was already being loaded behind them. She hadn't even noticed the porter.
Inside the carriage, everything smelled faintly of leather and lavender. The cushions were softer than she expected. Eleanor sat stiffly, clutching her handbag like it might disappear.
As the horses set off, she leaned slightly to one side to watch the landscape unfold.
Ashvale was beautiful in a wild, quiet way. Trees lined the road like a silent procession, their leaves already tinged gold. Far-off hills rippled under a pink-gray sky, and patches of mist hovered over the fields.
It was nothing like Surrey.
It felt untouched.
Sacred.
And a little sad.
---
The sun had dipped low when the carriage finally crested the hill and Ashvale Manor came into view.
Eleanor gasped.
The house was vast — a mansion carved of gray stone, its roof steep, its windows tall and dark like watchful eyes. Ivy climbed one wing of the house like it was trying to pull it back into the earth. The grounds were perfectly kept, but strangely still. No dogs barking. No laughter. No movement.
It looked… frozen in time.
The carriage came to a stop on a gravel path. Thomas opened the door and offered his hand, which Eleanor accepted only briefly.
She stood, adjusting her skirts as her boots sank slightly into the gravel. Her heart thudded loud in her ears.
No one came to greet her.
Not a soul.
Thomas gestured to the large wooden doors. "They'll be expecting you inside."
Eleanor nodded, throat dry, and climbed the stone steps. She hesitated only a moment before lifting the heavy brass knocker and letting it fall once.
The sound echoed.
Then silence.
The door creaked open.
She stepped inside slowly, the weight of the manor pressing around her like a thick coat. The entry hall was vast — high ceilings, pale stone walls, and a grand staircase at the far end. Everything smelled faintly of age: lavender polish, faded roses, and something else beneath it… like candle smoke.A painting of an austere gentleman loomed above the mantel. His painted eyes followed her as she stood frozen, unsure of where to go.A maid appeared from the left corridor. Dressed neatly, dark-haired, and likely no older than Eleanor herself, she dipped a quick curtsy."Miss Hartwood? Welcome. Lady Ashvale is in the drawing room."Eleanor gave a tight nod and followed silently down a corridor lined with curtained windows and aging portraits. Her footsteps were nearly silent on the carpet.The maid opened a door and stepped aside.Eleanor entered.The drawing room was warm, at least. A fire burned in the marble hearth, and oil lamps cast a soft golden glow on the tapestry walls. Bookshelves lined the edges, and a grand piano sat near the window.Lady Catherine Ashvale sat in a high-backed chair, wearing pale blue with silver trim, her silver hair coiled in an intricate knot. Her fingers rested on the armrests like she was holding court.Eleanor stood uncertainly.Lady Catherine looked up and assessed her with eyes sharp as glass. "You're thinner than your mother," she said. "And paler."Eleanor said nothing."I suppose it cannot be helped." The older woman gestured lazily. "Sit."Eleanor obeyed, perching on the edge of the sofa."You've never been to a proper estate before," Lady Catherine said, voice smooth as marble. "You'll learn quickly — or you'll struggle.""I'll do my best," Eleanor replied softly.Lady Catherine gave a dry chuckle. "Your best will not always be enough."There was a long silence before the older woman continued. "There will be guests. Men. Women. Watch them. Listen. Do not speak unless you are certain your words are worth hearing."Eleanor's spine straightened slightly. "And if they're not?"Lady Catherine's lips twitched, just barely. "Then say them with confidence, and no one will notice."A knock came at the door.Lady Catherine's expression didn't change. "Ah. He's early."The door opened.Eleanor turned.The man who entered was tall, dressed in a fitted waistcoat and dark coat, his presence quiet but commanding. He looked no older than thirty. His hair was thick and dark, curling slightly at the edges, and his eyes — gray, nearly silver — swept over the room before settling on her."Eleanor," Lady Catherine said,