The Fall from Grace Part 2
Father sat behind his mahogany desk like a king whose kingdom had been reduced to a single room. Except kings, I imagined, probably didn't have that particular shade of gray in their complexion, or the way his hands trembled as he reached for the crystal tumbler that definitely didn't contain tea.
The smell hit me before anything else—that sharp, medicinal scent of gin that had become his preferred cologne over the past few months. It clung to everything in the room now: the leather-bound books he no longer read, the burgundy curtains that hadn't been opened in weeks, the very air we were supposed to breathe.
"Catherine. Eleanor." He didn't look up when we entered, just gestured vaguely toward the two chairs positioned across from his desk like we were clients seeking legal advice. The irony wasn't lost on me—we'd become strangers in our own home, formal and careful with each other in a way that felt like playing dress-up in someone else's clothes.
Mr. Hartwell, the solicitor, sat in the wingback chair to Father's right, a briefcase open on his lap and papers spread across the desk like tarot cards predicting financial doom. He was younger than I'd expected—maybe forty, with prematurely silver hair and the kind of expensive suit that suggested he was doing well enough to absorb the loss of our account without missing any meals.
"Miss Montgomery, Mrs. Montgomery." He stood when we entered, a gesture of respect that felt increasingly rare these days. "Please, sit."
Mother took her chair with the same grace she'd brought to every social function we'd ever attended, spine straight and ankles crossed. I followed her lead, though inside I felt like a child playing at being an adult, the way I had when I used to sneak into her closet and try on her evening gowns.
"I was just explaining to your father," Hartwell began, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who delivered bad news for a living, "that the liquidation of assets will cover approximately sixty percent of the outstanding debts."
Sixty percent. The number hung in the air like smoke, heavy and poisonous. I watched Father's jaw work as he processed this, his fingers tightening around the tumbler.
"And the remaining forty percent?" Mother's voice was steady, controlled. The same tone she used when discussing the weather or the garden with visitors.
"Will be forgiven as part of the bankruptcy proceedings," Hartwell said. "However, that does mean that all remaining assets—including this property—will be surrendered to the creditors."
This property. As if our home was nothing more than a line item on a balance sheet. As if the ballroom where I'd learned to waltz wasn't losing its chandeliers. As if the library where I'd spent most of my childhood wasn't being stripped of its first editions. As if the rose garden where Mother had taught me the names of every bloom wasn't about to belong to strangers who probably didn't know a David Austin from a hybrid tea.
"There is, however, one option," Hartwell continued, and I caught the way Father's head snapped up, hope flaring in his bloodshot eyes like a match struck in darkness. "Your late uncle's property in Ravenwood."
"Edmund's place?" Father leaned forward, suddenly more alert than he'd been in weeks. "But that's been empty for years. It's practically wilderness."
"Indeed. But it's been in your family for generations, held in trust. The creditors have no claim to it." Hartwell shuffled through his papers, producing a document that looked older than the rest. "It's not... grand, by any means. A modest house, perhaps fifteen rooms. Basic utilities. But it's habitable, and it's yours free and clear."
Fifteen rooms. In our current state, that probably qualified as a cottage. But it was something. It was a roof over our heads and walls to keep out the wind, which was more than we'd have otherwise.
"Where exactly is Ravenwood?" I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know.
"Northern Wales," Hartwell said. "Quite remote. The nearest village is about twenty miles away."
Twenty miles from civilization. Twenty miles from everything I'd ever known—from the city, from my friends, from the life I'd been building before it all fell apart. It might as well have been the moon.
Father was nodding, though, his head bobbing with the desperate enthusiasm of a drowning man who'd spotted driftwood. "Yes. Yes, that could work. We could... start over. Fresh air, clean living. It might be exactly what we need."
The way he said it, like he was trying to convince himself as much as us, made something cold settle in my stomach. This wasn't a fresh start. This was exile. This was the difference between falling from grace and being pushed.
"The property does come with certain... peculiarities," Hartwell added, and I didn't like the careful way he chose that word. "Your uncle was something of a recluse in his later years. There are stories about the area—local folklore, you understand. Nothing that should concern a practical family such as yourselves."
Stories. In my experience, when lawyers mentioned stories, they usually meant the kind that kept property values low and insurance companies nervous.
But Father was already reaching for the pen, his signature a shaky scrawl across the bottom of documents I hadn't even had time to read. Hope was a powerful drug, and he was overdosing on it.
"Excellent," Hartwell said, gathering his papers with the efficiency of a man eager to close an unpleasant chapter. "I'll have the transfer documents prepared. You should be able to take possession within the week."
Within the week. Seven days to pack up twenty-two years of life and pretend we were choosing this. Seven days to say goodbye to everything that had made us who we were.
As Hartwell left, I noticed how Father's shoulders sagged the moment the door closed, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The hope was already fading, replaced by the familiar gray despair that had become his default expression.