The morning after her arrival, Eleanor rose early. A gentle breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of damp earth and lavender. Ashford Hall seemed quieter than she remembered, as if holding its breath.
She dressed simply and stepped outside into the overgrown garden. Ivy crept up the stone walls, and roses bloomed wild, untamed. It had once been her mother's favourite place a refuge from the stiff halls of nobility.
As she wandered the gravel paths, memories pressed in. Her mother's laughter. A broken teacup beneath the cherry tree. The hush of secrets spoken only in shadow.
"You're up early, Miss Whitmore."
She turned to find Captain Ashford behind her, sleeves rolled, boots muddied.
"I like to walk in the mornings," she replied.
He nodded. "The gardens could use a proper hand. Lord Reginald hadn't touched them in years."
She watched him for a moment. "You seem… familiar with the grounds."
"I served here once, before the war. As a stable hand." He gave a small smile. "Hardly the steward I imagine you expected."
"No," she admitted. "But I don't mind unexpected things
The hallway leading to the north attic was narrow, dust dancing in the sunlight from cracked windows. The door at the end stood heavy and gray, untouched.
Thomas slid the key in. The lock gave way with a reluctant click.
The air inside smelled of cedar and age. Dust coated everything. Old trunks. Boxes. Stacks of forgotten ledgers.
And then Eleanor saw it a portrait, leaning against the far wall.
Her breath caught.
It was a painting of her mother.
Younger. Smiling. Dressed in the Ashford family colors.
And beside her stood… Lord Reginald.
Her mother's hand rested on his arm.
Thomas stepped forward. "That's not possible. Your mother was married to your father."
"No," Eleanor whispered. "She was. But before that…"
Pieces clicked in her mind.
This room held more than dust it held the past, quietly waiting to be uncovered.
She turned to Thomas.
"I think my mother was part of this family... in ways no one ever told me."