The fog that November hung over London like a dirty wool blanket,...

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2026-05-04 07:22:20 -

The fog that November hung over London like a dirty wool blanket, damp and suffocating. Isabella Crawford pressed her palm against the windowpane of the Harrowfield Manor drawing room and watched it blur the garden into a watercolour of grey and brown.

She had been here three months. Three months of teaching arithmetic to a girl of eight who could not be bothered to learn it, of walking in the garden when the staff permitted it, of listening to the coal carts rumble down the lane at dawn and pretending it was music. "You are thinking too loudly, Miss Crawford." She turned. Julian Hartley stood in the doorway, a book in his hand, his dark hair...

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