Beyond the Glass

   From the tall windows of Whitmore Castle, Eleanor Whitmore—slender and pale, with long, straight dark brown hair that fell neatly down her back and soft blue eyes framed by long lashes—would watch the grounds stretch far beyond the gardens, right to the edge of the distant forest.

Sometimes, she barely noticed the other children at all.

What drew her gaze instead was the open land—the long fields, the winding paths, and the dark line of trees beyond.

She imagined what it might feel like to ride freely across them, the wind in her hair, no voice calling her back, no rules to follow.

She had seen the horses in the stables only a handful of times.

She had never been allowed to ride one.

“Miss Whitmore.”

The voice was sharp enough to cut through her thoughts. Eleanor straightened at once, folding her hands neatly in front of her before turning away from the window.

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs Whitmore stood behind her, tall and impeccably composed, her dark hair swept into a flawless chignon. Her features were refined and severe, her pale eyes cool and unreadable.

“Posture,” her mother said. “A lady does not slouch.”

Eleanor lifted her chin in obedience, standing perfectly still. But her eyes drifted back towards the window.

To freedom.

Ever since she was a child, she had not been allowed to behave like other children. She had grown up in a strict, aristocratic family where everything was governed by appearance, reputation, and tradition. Anything considered beneath their standing—anything “common”—was simply not permitted.

“Also, do come downstairs,” her mother said. “Your father and I wish to speak with you.”

Eleanor followed, careful to keep her steps quiet as she descended the grand staircase. Her mother did not look back, and Eleanor had to quicken her pace just to keep up.

In the dining room, her father was already seated at the long table, Mr Whitmore was a tall, imposing man, his greying hair kept short and precise, his sharp features set in a permanent expression of restraint. His presence alone seemed to quiet the room. His posture rigid, his expression unreadable. He rarely spoke to her unless it was necessary—and even then, only briefly.

Her mother gestured to the chair opposite them.

“Sit.”

Eleanor obeyed. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply watched her, as though measuring something she could not see.

At last, her mother broke the silence.

“Your father and I will be away for a fortnight. We are to visit Mr and Mrs Ashford in Cambridge.”

Eleanor nodded faintly. “I see.”

“We shall return in two weeks,” her mother continued. “During that time, you will be staying with your aunt—Lady Margaret Whitmore.”

Eleanor hesitated. “Aunt Margaret? I thought she—”

“—you are not to question it,” her mother interrupted sharply.

Eleanor lowered her gaze. “Of course. I only meant… I haven’t seen her in years.”

“That is hardly relevant.”

A brief silence followed before Eleanor spoke again, more quietly this time.

“Will I be allowed to go outside?”

Her mother’s expression hardened almost instantly.

“You will conduct yourself as you have been taught.”

“Yes, Mother, but I—”

“That will be all, Eleanor.”

The words were final—cold, precise, and leaving no room for anything more.

Eleanor pressed her lips together.

“Yes, Mother.”