The Lady of Plenty

Chapter 1 - The Arrival at Whitethorn Hall

The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones, echoing against the high stone walls as the young girl inside clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She was scarcely seventeen, pale and slight, with wrists as thin as reeds and eyes made larger by the hollows of hunger in her cheeks. For days she had known little but cold broth and coarse bread. Now, as the iron gates of Whitethorn Hall swung open, she wondered what fate awaited her.
Lord Alistair Whitethorn himself was waiting at the top of the wide stair. A man of stature, his presence filled the doorway more than the carved arch above him. He had a reputation for generosity among his tenants, but he was not known for impulsive kindness. And yet, when her circumstances had been explained to him, an orphan, with no dowry and no family- he had sent his carriage without hesitation.
When she alighted, swaying on unsteady feet, he took her hand in his gloved one and felt the frailty of her bones. His eyes narrowed, not in displeasure but in something closer to pity… and calculation.
“You are too thin for this cold country,” he said, voice rich and deep. “We shall see to that at once.”
From that moment, her life changed. Servants guided her to a warm chamber lit by a fire, where a bath had been drawn and lavender oil poured into the steaming water. Her threadbare dress was taken away and replaced with a nightgown of fine cotton, its looseness disguising the meagerness of her form. Lord Whitetheon could not wait to see her grow into these clothes. And then, most astonishing of all, a tray was brought. Warm bread still fragrant from the oven, butter so rich it glistened, a silver pot of chocolate that steamed and its scent wafted through the room.
At first, she could only nibble, but Lord Whitethorn himself appeared in the doorway and urged her gently to eat more. “You must be strong,” he told her, watching as her thin fingers spread butter thickly upon the bread. “There is great work ahead of you, and you will need your strength.”
She could not quite understand what he meant, though she saw the way his gaze lingered on her face, not with desire, but with a curious mixture of patience and resolve.
That night, as she lay in a featherbed softer than anything she had ever known, her stomach full for the first time in years, she thought of his words. She did not know yet that Lord Whitethorn saw in her not a fragile orphan, but the promise of a future mistress of his house. One who with time, could be coaxed into abundance, softened into comfort, and prepared for the life he envisioned.