VICTORIA VANCE — THE LOST HEIRESS

Ashbourne Hall came into view after the final bend of the gravel drive, a grey Georgian stone manor with twenty-two rooms, a walled upper garden, and a line of staff standing to greet us on the front steps.

I stepped out of the car feeling as though I had walked into a film for which I had never been given a script.

Edward Vance stood at the main door.

He was tall, salt-and-pepper haired, dressed in tweed, and when he saw me, something flickered across his face that I could not immediately read — was it guilt?

“Victoria,” he said, his voice stiff, as if reciting a prepared speech.

“Welcome home.”

I shook his hand. I did not embrace him.

He did not object.

Standing beside him was a tall young man, about twenty-three, wearing a navy wool coat, his face cold as marble.

“This is Julian, your brother,” Eleanor introduced him.

Julian looked me up and down, his gaze openly assessing, then gave a single curt nod.

“Hello,” he said, clipped, and turned away.

And then, descending the grand staircase, came a girl in a pale pink silk dress, her golden curls falling softly, walking as though the floor had been laid with a red carpet just for her.

“Oh,” she said, her voice sweet as honey but her eyes sharp as knives.

“So this is… Victoria.”

“Angelina,” Eleanor said, her tone somewhat cautious.

“This is your sister — well, more precisely, the family’s adopted daughter.”

The words “adopted daughter” made Angelina falter for a moment, but she quickly recovered her smile.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Angelina said, stepping forward to give me a hollow embrace, thick with the scent of Chanel perfume.

I let her hug me. I did not return it.

That evening, as the housekeeper led me upstairs to see my room, I stopped in front of a carved oak door in the attic — a room with a balcony overlooking the entire garden, the afternoon light streaming through stained-glass windows.

“Whose room is this?” I asked.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchins, hesitated.

“This… is Miss Angelina’s room, miss.”

I stood before that door for a long time.

Not because the room was beautiful — though it was, indeed, the most beautiful room I had ever seen — but because I suddenly understood: this room, according to every family record, every tradition of House Vance, should have belonged to the eldest daughter.

To me.

After putting my things in the temporary room Mrs. Hutchins had arranged — a small, pretty sitting room in the west wing, clearly not meant for the eldest daughter — I wandered the manor alone before dinner, trying to acquaint myself with the space that was to become my home.

I passed the family portrait gallery, where oil paintings of past Dukes and Duchesses hung along the long corridor, their painted eyes seeming to follow every step I took.

At the end of the hallway, I stopped before a smaller portrait than the others — a young woman holding a newborn, painted, it seemed, only a few months before the fire.

The small brass plaque beneath it read: “Duchess Eleanor Vance and Lady Victoria, 2006.”

I stood in front of that painting for a long while, realizing it was the only image in the entire manor that recorded my existence before everything had been stolen away.

No one had taken it down in twenty years — perhaps because Eleanor never allowed it, though it must have broken her heart every time she walked past.

That evening, at our first dinner together, I set my teacup down and looked straight at Edward.

“I want the attic room,” I said, my voice calm but firm.

“The room that, by family tradition, belongs to the eldest daughter of House Vance.”

The whole table fell silent.

Angelina set down her fork, tears welling in her eyes within seconds — so fast that I nearly had to admire her acting skill.

“But… I’ve lived there since I was eight,” Angelina said, her voice breaking, turning to Edward.

“Father, I don’t mean to fight with my sister, but that room… it holds so many memories for me.”

Edward opened his mouth, seemingly about to offer some conciliatory compromise, but Eleanor spoke first, her voice not loud, but sharp enough to cut through every other sound in the room.

“Victoria is right,” Eleanor said.

“That is the eldest daughter’s room. Angelina, you will move to the east wing. That room is lovely as well, and you know it perfectly well.”

Angelina parted her lips as if to protest, but seeing the look in Eleanor’s eyes, she swallowed her words, murmured a soft “yes,” and bowed her head, two tears sliding down her cheeks at the exact moment the chandelier light struck her face most flatteringly.

I watched that performance and told myself: this is only the opening act.

That night, once everyone had gone to bed, I could not sleep.

I changed into training clothes and went down to the private gym in the basement that Mrs. Hutchins had shown me earlier, and began running through basic forms to steady my mind.

I did not expect an audience.

“Still keeping up this habit?” Julian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze curious rather than cold as it had been during the day.

“It helps me think clearly,” I replied, not breaking my rhythm.

“At the orphanage, this was the one thing that was entirely mine, that no one could take away.”

Julian was quiet for a moment, then unexpectedly shed his outer jacket and stepped into the room.

“I boxed at Eton,” he said, taking up a guard stance.

“Let’s see how good you really are.”

We sparred lightly for nearly half an hour, neither of us clearly winning, but it was the first time I saw Julian smile — even if only a fleeting one, when he dodged one of my punches by a hair’s breadth.

“Not bad,” he said, panting, sitting down on the mat.

“For someone who’s been living in this house for only a few days.”

“I’ve had twenty years to prepare for any kind of battle,” I answered.

“I just never knew that battle would take place inside my own house.”

Julian looked at me for a long moment, his expression complicated, as though weighing something, but in the end he simply stood, put his jacket back on.

“Goodnight, Victoria,” he said, and left, leaving me alone with a tangle of thoughts.

I did not know whether that night marked the beginning of something better between us as siblings, but at least I knew Julian was not entirely the wall of ice he tried to appear.

In the days that followed, Angelina changed tactics.

No more tears in front of her father — instead she waged a quieter, more subtle war — the war of the dresses.

Every morning she appeared in a different haute couture gown — Dior, Valentino, once an Elie Saab evening dress whose value I happened to know from reading fashion magazines in the Cambridge library to pass time.

“Victoria,” she said one morning, twirling so the silk skirt flared like a blossoming flower, “do you like this dress? It was a gift from Father to celebrate my acceptance into Kingsley Court Academy.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, continuing to eat my toast.

“Though a bit wasteful, wearing a six-thousand-pound dress to eat fried eggs.”

Angelina stiffened, her smile trembling slightly.

“You don’t seem used to… things like this,” she said, feigning pity.

“I understand. There probably weren’t many chances to dress up nicely at the orphanage.”

Julian, seated at the far end of the table, glanced up at me, as if waiting to see how I would respond.

I set down my knife and fork, looking straight at Angelina.

“You’re right,” I said, calmly.

“At the orphanage, people don’t measure someone’s worth by the price tag on their clothes. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never needed a six-thousand-pound dress to feel important.”

The table went silent.

Edward cleared his throat, seemingly about to say something conciliatory, but Eleanor had already set down her teacup, the corner of her mouth curling into a quiet smile.

“Victoria makes an excellent point,” she said.

“Angelina, you should learn a little humility. The Vance fortune is not meant for display.”

Angelina lowered her head, lips pressed thin, but I caught the flash of resentment in her eyes before she managed to hide it.

Over the following weeks, I gradually came to understand the true power structure of this house.

Edward, despite bearing the ducal title, was in fact the weakest of them all — he avoided conflict, always trying to soothe Angelina with gifts and praise, as if trying to make up for something I did not yet understand.

Julian was cold toward me, but strangely warm toward Angelina — driving her to school, listening to her stories for hours, defending her in every petty dispute.

And Eleanor — the slender, soft-spoken woman — was the only person in the house whom neither Edward nor the entire estate management team dared to contradict.

One evening, I happened to overhear a conversation between Eleanor and the family lawyer through a half-open study door.

“I want to review the entire share portfolio of Vance Holdings from the past five years,” Eleanor said, her voice cold and sharp as steel.

“Especially any transfers Edward signed without going through the board.”

I stood frozen behind the door, realizing that the gentle woman who had wept and embraced me in the Cambridge library hall was only a small fraction of who Eleanor Vance truly was.

She was not merely my mother.

She held the keys to the entire dynasty — and for some reason, she was quietly investigating her own husband.