My name is Elizabeth Geldart. While my position in society isn't a major concern to me, I am reminded of it daily. Not feminine enough, not fashionable enough, and my hair too red for society's standards. My family's standing in society is higher than what it was when my father was my age. Somewhere in the upper middle, you would say. However, my trivial matters were also matters to those outside my head. I intend to do something someone of my status hardly ever does. There was much work to be done.

  The carriage wheels rumbled over the uneven path, the rhythmic jostling a constant reminder that I was nearing my destination. My stomach twisted with anticipation as I clutched my gloved hands in my p. The towering trees of the forest blurred past the window, their branches swaying gently in the warm morning breeze. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns onto the dirt road. I was close now—so close to the house I had heard about all my life.

  Ezra Geldart’s house. My father’s house.Or rather, what was now my home.

  It was a strange thing, to think I was about to step into a pce so heavily wrapped in history. A house where my father had lived, where my aunt Eliza still resided, where so many secrets had been kept. My fingers brushed the locket around my neck as I took a steadying breath. I had always been fascinated by the past, drawn to the whispers of history in old walls and forgotten relics. And now, I was about to live within it. The carriage slowed as the house came into view. Nestled between ancient trees, its grand stone facade glowing warmly in the te morning sun, it was a world away from the bustle of London, standing like a solemn guardian at the edge of civilization. My pulse quickened. This was it. This was the beginning of my life of independence.

  Edwin Lockhart, the butler, stood at the entrance, waiting as the driver pulled the carriage to a halt. He was a stern man, his posture rigid, his expression stoic. As the footman opened the carriage door, I gathered my skirts, smoothed down my wool cloak, and stepped onto the sun-warmed ground. The scent of earth and fresh pine filled my lungs, mingled with the distant aroma of untouched grass and wood smoke curling from the house’s chimneys.

  “Miss Geldart,” Mr. Lockhart greeted me with a polite bow.

  I swallowed the shyness away that had settled in my throat. “Good morning, Mr. Lockhart.”

  A movement in the doorway caught my eye, and then she appeared—Aunt Eliza. She looked much as I remembered, small and elegant, her dark hair streaked with silver, her piercing blue eyes so much like my father’s. But her face softened into a radiant smile as she stepped forward with open arms. “Oh, my dear Elizabeth,” she said warmly, pulling me into a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

  I felt myself melt into her embrace, the tension in my shoulders easing. “I’ve missed you too, Aunt Eliza.”

  She pulled back, holding my face in her hands for a brief moment, studying me with a soft, affectionate gaze. “You are even lovelier than I remembered. And so very grown up.”

  A lump formed in my throat and my vision became blurred by tears, but I smiled. “It has been too long.”

  She looped her arm through mine. “Come inside, darling. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

  Mr. Lockhart and the footman oversaw the unloading of my trunks. I stepped inside, my boots clicking against the polished wooden floor. The air inside was thick with the scent of old books and used candles. The house was bright with the golden glow of morning light streaming through the windows, illuminating the richly carved paneling.

  “This is the Morning Room,” Aunt Eliza said as she led me past a door on the left. “And this, the Drawing Room. Your father still spends some time here, when his duties allow.”

  I slowed my steps, my fingers itching to reach out and touch something—some remnant of him left behind. But I held back. I had known my father as a man of quiet authority, but since Grandfather’s passing two years ago, he had been burdened with the responsibilities of the family. This house was no longer just a home; it was the heart of our legacy.

  Eliza squeezed my arm gently. “I know this house holds so much history for you. But I hope, in time, it will come to feel like home.”

  I nodded, grateful for her kindness. “I think it already does.”

  She beamed and continued leading me upstairs. “You’ll be in the east bedroom. It has a fine view of the woods. I used to sit by the window and read for hours. I imagine you’ll do the same.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  We ascended the staircase, the house settling into a peaceful hush around us. The grand staircase was lined with portraits, some of them ancestors I had only heard about in passing. When we reached the nding, Eliza turned to me with an appraising but gentle expression.“You truly mean to do this?”

  I lifted my chin. “Being a nurse at King's? Yes.”

  Her lips pressed together, but there was no disapproval in her eyes. Instead, a glimmer of pride shone in them. “I admire your determination. You have your father’s stubborn streak, that’s for certain.”

  I chuckled. “That is what everyone tells me.”

  She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, a motherly gesture that sent warmth through me. “It is a good trait to have. And I believe in you, Elizabeth. More than you know.”

  A smile spread across my face. “That means a great deal, Aunt Eliza.”

  She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll do well, sweetheart. I have no doubt.” Then, with a slight nod, she gestured to the room at the end of the hall. “This will be yours. Your dy’s maid arrived yesterday and will unpack for you. Take some time to settle in. But if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

  I hesitated before stepping into the room, the reality of my new life settling around me like a heavy cloak. But now, with Aunt Eliza’s warmth surrounding me, the weight did not seem so heavy. As I closed the door behind me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I was here. And my journey was just beginning.

  I stood in the room, allowing myself a moment to take everything in. The room was decorated in shades of light blue, from the paneling on the walls to the rug and even the bedding. The air was still, filled with the faint scent of burnt wood and aged paper. Stepping forward, I trailed my fingers over the carved wooden mantelpiece above the firepce. The surface was cool beneath my touch, smooth from years of polish and care. It was a space well-lived in, yet untouched in ways that made it feel frozen in time.

  Turning, I walked toward the window, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my steps. The drapes were already drawn back, allowing the te morning light to flood in. Outside, the rolling ndscape stretched before me, the woods beyond swaying gently in the breeze. This was where Aunt Eliza had spent so many of her days, gazing out at the world beyond, lost in thought or simply enjoying the quiet. I could almost picture her here, sitting near the fire on colder evenings, perhaps reading or writing letters.

  A knock at the door pulled me from my reverie. I turned as Harriet Davenport, the housekeeper, entered with a gentle smile. "Miss Geldart, luncheon is ready."

  I nodded, offering a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Davenport. I’ll be down shortly."

  As she departed, I took one st gnce around the room before making my way downstairs. The journey took me through the drawing room, its furniture arranged with careful precision, the delicate scent of vender lingering in the air. I imagined the many conversations that had taken pce here, the whispered confidences, the ughter, and perhaps even the quiet sorrows.

  Stepping into the dining room, I found Aunt Eliza already seated at the table, a teapot and a delicate spread of cold meats, bread, and fruit id out before her. "Ah, there you are, my dear," she said warmly, setting down her cup. "I trust you’ve had a chance to settle in?"

  I took a seat across from her, smoothing my skirts before reaching for the tea. "Yes, thank you. The house is just as I imagined, yet somehow... more."

  She chuckled. "It has a way of doing that."

  I hesitated for a moment, then said, "I suppose I have a few days to acquaint myself with it properly before I begin at the hospital on Monday."

  Aunt Eliza studied me with a knowing expression. "Yes, you do. And I hope you take the time to enjoy yourself before then. Once you start, I imagine your days will be quite occupied."

  I smiled, appreciating the concern in her voice while pouring myself a cup of tea. "I will be at the hospital every weekday from seven in the morning until eight at night. I intend to make the most of my weekend before starting."

  She reached across the table and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "Good. There’s no rush to shoulder the weight of the world just yet." She paused before continuing, "You remind me of myself when I was younger—determined, stubborn, and ready to change the world. Your father worries, you know.”

  I exhaled, shaking my head. “I know he does. But I want him to see that I can handle this.”

  “He will,” Eliza assured me. “He just needs time.” She tilted her head, studying me. “And what will you do until Monday?”

  “I thought I might explore the house, perhaps go into town,” I said, taking a sip of my tea and letting the warmth radiate through me.

  Her smile widened. “That sounds like a fine pn. Just don’t get lost in the past, my dear. The future is waiting for you.” After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, studying me. "And how are your siblings, my dear? Anthony and Caroline must be growing so quickly."

  I let out a small ugh. "They are. Anthony is just like Father—serious, determined, and already speaking of business and duty as if he were twice his age."

  Aunt Eliza smiled knowingly. "That does not surprise me in the least. And Caroline?"

  I sighed, shaking my head with amusement. "Caroline is shaping up to be a true debutante. She adores the social season, the dresses, the balls. She’s been practicing her dance steps endlessly even though she's not out yet. I believe Mama is quite pleased."

  Eliza chuckled. "I can imagine. It seems you each have your paths set before you, in your own ways."

  I nodded, feeling a quiet sense of contentment settle within me. "Yes, I suppose we do."

  After luncheon, I stepped outside, drawn by the quiet pull of the garden. The warmth of the noon sun pressed gently against my skin, though the breeze tempered it, cool and soft as it winds through the trees. The scent of earth lingered in the air, rich and full of life, mingling with the faintest hint of roses, though they have yet to bloom. The gravel crunched beneath my steps as I made my way down the path, trailing my fingers along the hedges, their leaves cool and waxy under my touch. The garden was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of branches or the distant call of a bird. It is a stillness that feels both comforting and heavy, as though the past itself lingers here, caught between the leaves and petals, waiting to be noticed.

  This was my father’s home for most of his adult life. His presence is woven into its very fabric—in the way the ivy clings to the stone walls, in the way the floors creak in certain hallways, in the way the garden thrives. He walked these paths long before I was born and still walks them when he can. I wonder if he still sees it with fresh eyes or if, to him, the house and its grounds have simply become another part of himself, so familiar they no longer require thought. I paused beside one of the benches, running my hand along the smooth wood before sinking into it, letting out a sigh. From here, the house stands tall in the distance, its presence both steadfast and looming, as if it has been waiting for me to acknowledge it. It has always been his home. But is it mine?

  I closed my eyes for a moment, tilting my face toward the sun. The breeze carried with it something delicate, something unspoken. The scent of roses, perhaps, or simply the ghost of them, clinging to the air long before their petals unfurl. I breathed it in, slow and deep, and wondered if my father had done the same a thousand times before. Maybe, in time, I will come to see this pce as he does. Maybe, one day, I will walk these paths with the same quiet certainty he does, feeling not like a visitor, but like I belong. Or maybe, without realizing it, I already do.