Chapter 2 - The House on the Hill
An hour later, a heavy black Bentley pulled up to the curb outside Maple Crest Cemetery.
Arthur’s private driver, a broad-shouldered retired police detective named Thomas, stepped out and opened the rear door. His eyes widened slightly when he saw his employer—one of the most powerful men in the city—walking down the path carrying three bunches of damp flowers, flanked by three frail, poorly dressed little girls.
"Thomas," Arthur commanded smoothly. "Turn the heat up in the back. Set the climate control to seventy-two degrees."
"Right away, Mr. Vance," Thomas said respectfully, holding the door open.
Clara hesitated at the step of the vehicle. The leather interior smelled of cedar and fine wool, cleaner and warmer than any place she had ever stepped inside.
"Where are you taking us?" Clara demanded, holding her sisters close to her sides. "We live with Mrs. Gable down on Ninth Street. She gives us soup if we sweep her porch."
Arthur looked at Clara with a mixture of heartbreak and pride. "You don't have to sweep anyone's porch ever again, Clara. I am taking you home. To my house. Where you can eat a warm meal, get dry clothes, and where no one will ever push you or make you feel small again."
"We have to get our things," Anne said softly. "Mom’s old journals are under the floorboard in the closet on Seventh Street."
Arthur’s eyes sharpened. "Under the floorboard?"
"Uncle Richard didn't find them," Sophie grinned proudly, though her tummy gave a loud, empty rumble right at that moment. "Clara made us sit on the loose board whenever he came to search the room."
Arthur felt a lump in his throat. He looked at Thomas. "Thomas, call my legal team. Have David Sterling meet us at the main estate immediately. And tell him to bring an emergency injunction against Richard Green."
"Understood, sir," Thomas replied, stepping onto his hands-free earpiece as he drove the large car smoothly onto the highway.
The ride to the Vance Estate took twenty minutes, moving from the drab, gray brick buildings of the lower East Side up into the quiet, wooded hills overlooking the coast.
When the car turned into the long stone driveway of the Vance Manor, Sophie gasped.
Rising through the mist was a massive three-story estate made of dark river stone and slate, surrounded by gardens, fountains, and rolling green lawns. A tall iron gate opened silently as the car approached, its lanterns casting a warm, golden glow against the morning fog.
"Is this a castle?" Sophie whispered, pressing her small face against the glass window.
"It’s a house," Arthur said softly, reaching over to gently adjust the frayed collar of her coat. "It was built by my grandfather. And it was meant to be your home from the day you were born."
The car stopped before the grand front steps.
The front doors flew open, and a middle-aged woman in a crisp black dress and white apron stepped outside, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her name was Mrs. Higgins, the chief housekeeper who had worked for the Vance family for thirty years.
When she saw the three girls step out of the car—wearing faded hand-me-down dresses, thin socks, and scuffed shoes—she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes drifted from Clara’s face to Anne’s, then to Sophie’s.
"Mercy of God..." Mrs. Higgins gasped, clutching her chest. "They... they have Miss Elise’s eyes."
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"Prepare the guest suites on the second floor immediately, Mrs. Higgins," Arthur ordered, his voice steady and resolute. "Draw warm baths. Bring out the wool blankets. Order the finest children's clothes from the city, and have the chef prepare a full hot meal."
"Yes, Mr. Vance! Right away!" Mrs. Higgins cried, tears springing to her eyes as she rushed down the steps. "Come inside, sweethearts! Come inside out of the cold!"
