Chapter 13 - THE ECHO IN THE BALLROOM
Six months after the storm at the Ashford Estate.
The grand mansion in South Kensington stood silent under a bright June sun. The high wrought-iron gates were unlocked, swung wide open to allow access to a fleet of large black moving vans and three dozen luxury automobiles parked along the circular gravel driveway.
The estate was being auctioned off by order of the high court receivership.
Every window in the grand house was open, allowing the warm summer air to blow through the halls, clearing out the lingering scent of old cognac, damp plaster, and decaying calla lilies. The interior was completely stripped: the velvet draperies had been taken down; the antique oil paintings removed from the walls, leaving pale rectangular silhouettes on the dark wallpaper; the oriental rugs rolled up and tagged with yellow auction numbers.
Clara walked slowly through the grand ballroom.
Her shoes—simple leather flats now—made a soft, hollow sound against the checkered marble floor. The room felt vast, empty, stripped of its glittering armor.
In the center of the ceiling, the monumental Bohemian crystal chandelier was gone, lowered by heavy steel cables and packed into wooden crates for transport to a museum in Paris. Only the brass ceiling hook remained, surrounded by intricate plaster roses that were peeling at the edges.
She stopped at the exact spot where the gold-framed glass display table had fallen.
The floor had been scrubbed clean months ago. There were no bloodstains left; no slivers of broken crystal glass hidden in the seams between the marble tiles. But if she looked closely, she could see a faint, white scratch on the surface of the black tile—a mark left by her glass wedge on the night she stabbed Julian Vance.
"It looks smaller without the furniture," a voice said from the doorway.
Clara turned around.
Eleanor was standing under the mahogany archway, wearing a simple summer dress of yellow linen, holding a straw hat in her hand. She walked into the ballroom, her footsteps echoing softly beside Clara’s.
"I thought it was a palace when your father brought me here thirty years ago," Eleanor said, looking up at the empty ceiling hook. "I thought these walls were thick enough to keep out the entire world. But it was never a palace, Clara. It was a museum for things that didn't belong to us."
"Are you sad to see it sold?" Clara asked.
Eleanor walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the sprawling lawns where prospective buyers were strolling with auction catalogs in their hands.
"I felt sad when I lost my husband," Eleanor said quietly. "I felt terrified when Julian locked Adam in the vault. But today... today I feel like a woman who has finally stepped out of a dark room into the sun."
May you like
She turned to Clara, reaching into her pocket, and pulled out a small silver key—the key to the front door of Seafoam Cottage in Cornwall.
"The moving van for our things left an hour ago," Eleanor said, handing the key to Clara. "The children are waiting in the car with Thomas. It’s time to go home."
