rebecca

It was a bleak evening at the Crawley mansion in Vanity Fair. Satisfying her curiosity, Rebecca Sharp revealed to the unwelcome guest, Sir Pitt, a letter she had stumbled upon. The letter was addressed to Rawdon Crawley, Rebecca's beloved husband, from an unheard-of admirer. Inviting Sir Pitt into the antiquated drawing room, Rebecca handed over the envelope, her heart sinking with the weight of a terrible truth.

I arrived at Manderley, the estate's grandeur took my breath away, its opulence a stark reminder of the wife who once adorned it. Within those walls, I felt the presence of the late Rebecca de Winter, whose name was etched into every corner of the house, every whisper of the wind, every gaze of the staff. It was as though the ghost of the ebullient Rebecca hovered, casting a shadow on my joy.

As the sun spread its golden glow across the verdant meadows of Sunnybrook Farm, Rebecca was already up and about. She thanked her lucky stars for the beautiful morning, not knowing that the day held a unique adventure for her. Rebecca was an imaginative child; the smallest things could send her mind on exciting journeys. The farm, her loving family, and the school she attended in Riverboro were her entire universe. But now, she was venturing into the unknown territory of neighbor Mirandy's farm, where she was specifically forbidden to go.