The morning sun, a painter of gold and rose, streamed through the windows of Alistair's study. Eleanor sat at the large oak desk, not unlike the one her father had presided over, but infinitely more inviting. Gone was the sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the Ainsworth study, replaced by the scent of old leather, beeswax, and the faint, lingering aroma of Alistair's pipe tobacco. She was no longer the haunted, fragile girl who had arrived at Blackwood Estate months ago, seeking refuge from the echoes of yesterday. She was Eleanor Blackwood, or perhaps, Eleanor Ainsworth-Blackwood – a woman forged in the fires of the past, tempered by resilience, and ready to embrace the future.

Before her lay a stack of papers, not financial reports as one might expect, but architectural plans. She had been working with a local architect, a jovial man named Signor Rossi, on designing a new wing for the Blackwood Estate. It wasn't an expansion for herself, but a vision she had – a space dedicated to art, education, and community outreach. A place where young artists could find mentorship, where children from the nearby villages could learn about history and literature, and where the elderly could gather for companionship and creative expression.