The Departure

The following Saturday, Aunt Margaret arrived at Whitmore Castle to stay and oversee Eleanor in her parents’ absence.

Lady Margaret Whitmore was striking in a different way—taller than Eleanor’s mother, with a rigid posture and a face that seemed carved from stone. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned tightly in place, and her gaze was sharp enough to unsettle even the most composed guest.

There was nothing warm about her.

Mr and Mrs Whitmore received her with polite, distant courtesy—nothing more.

Once formalities had passed, Mrs Whitmore turned her attention to Eleanor, her expression as composed and unyielding as ever.

“There are, of course, certain expectations to be maintained,” she said coolly. “You will not leave the house without permission. There will be no raised voices, no unseemly laughter, and no behaviour that might be considered improper.”

Eleanor stood still, her hands folded neatly before her.

“You will conduct yourself as you have been taught—your posture, your speech, your manner in all things.”

A brief pause followed before her mother added, her tone sharpening slightly,

“And most importantly—the forest is strictly forbidden.”

Eleanor’s gaze flickered for the briefest moment.

The forest.

She had only ever seen it from a distance—dark, quiet, and endlessly inviting.

If she had ever been allowed to leave the grounds, she knew exactly where she would have gone.

Not to the village.

Not to other people.

But there—on horseback, far beyond the reach of the castle.

“The forest, Mother?”

“It is not a place for you,” Mrs Whitmore replied. “Though, given that you are not permitted outside, I hardly imagine it will present any difficulty.”

Eleanor lowered her gaze. “Of course, Mother.”

As her parents’ car disappeared down the long drive, Eleanor was left standing in the quiet entrance hall with her aunt.

Aunt Margaret closed the door firmly behind them.

“Now, young lady,” she said crisply, “go to your room. And I do not want to hear a sound from you.”

Eleanor lowered her head slightly. “Yes, Aunt Margaret.”

Without another word, she turned and made her way upstairs.

At nine o’clock precisely, the bell for dinner echoed through the castle.

Eleanor hesitated for only a moment before hurrying down the grand staircase. Her steps quickened as she reached the bottom—

“Eleanor Grace Whitmore.”

Her aunt’s voice cut through the hall like a blade.

Eleanor froze immediately.

Aunt Margaret stood at the foot of the stairs, her expression tight with disapproval.

“Ladies do not run down staircases,” she said sharply. “Ever. I am aware your parents are not here, but that does not mean standards cease to exist.”

Eleanor straightened at once. “I’m sorry, Aunt Margaret. I only heard the bell and—”

“That is no excuse,” her aunt interrupted.

She stepped closer, her tone lowering but growing even more severe.

“You will return upstairs and come down again properly. Slowly. As you were taught.”

Eleanor blinked. “All the way back up?”

“Yes,” Aunt Margaret said coldly. “And you will do it correctly this time.”

For a moment, Eleanor hesitated—but one look from her aunt made her turn back towards the staircase.

“Do not run,” her aunt added. “I will be watching.”

Eleanor climbed the stairs again, slower this time, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

When she reached the bottom once more, Aunt Margaret gave a small, approving nod—though her expression remained stern.

“Much better. Now, perhaps you will remember how a Whitmore conducts herself.” 

Dinner passed in uneasy silence.

Eleanor sat perfectly still at the long dining table, her eyes drifting to the clock more often than she dared admit. Each tick seemed to stretch the evening further. All she could think about was returning to her room, where she could finally open her book and escape, even if only for a little while.

At the head of the table, Aunt Margaret set her cutlery down with precise care.

“I trust you have learned your lesson,” she said at last, her tone controlled but firm. “And that there will be no repeat of this afternoon’s behaviour.”

Eleanor nodded at once. “Yes, Aunt Margaret.”

A brief pause followed.

“Tomorrow,” her aunt continued, “a tutor will arrive. Your lessons will begin at seven o’clock sharp. I expect punctuality. No exceptions.”

“Yes, Aunt Margaret.”

“Good.”

Aunt Margaret rose from her chair.

“You will go to bed now. And there will be no running in the house. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Aunt Margaret.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Margaret.”

Eleanor gave a small, respectful bow before turning away from the table.

She left the dining room quietly, the sound of her footsteps soft against the stone floors as she made her way upstairs.