The Glass Anchors

The fog had not lifted from the Dover cliffs since Eleanor Whitfield arrived at Woldingham Manor, and she suspected it never would. It clung to the hedgerows like wet wool, to the stone walls like a second skin, to the memory of her father voice like a thing both precious and unbearable.

Three months. It had been three months since the funeral, three months since the solicitor quiet words about creditors and contingencies, three months since Lady Ashworth invitation arrived on cream-colored parchment and Eleanor knew, with the certainty of a woman who has counted every shilling in a dwindling purse, that this summons was not a social call. It was a transaction.

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