Weekly Prompt Writing

A fly buzzed at a distant window. Charlotte could see her breath as she drifted through the house. There was the chandelier still in the entryway, but it no longer illuminated the velvet furniture she had bounced in as a child. She pushed through the heavy double-door and into the old ballroom. Her breathing echoed, and she seemed to hear again the violins whining a tune during one of those noisy social evenings. A kind old face floated across her memory, two wrinkly hands stretched out to catch her infant fingers. The flickering candlelight and the draughts wafting in from the front door. Adults chattering, laughing, clinking glasses, and little Charlotte sitting in a corner having her cheeks pinched by some tedious relative or another. 

Strange that her memories of this house should be almost fond. Little Charlotte, who was destined to be a great lady. Little Charlotte, who must surely imitate her brother's princely virtues. Little Charlotte, just barely managing to make it through her childhood illnesses. Little Charlotte, running after Miles on her short infant legs and being scolded for going out of the nurse's sight. Little Charlotte, a mediocre musician and a disappointing artist. Little Charlotte, packed off to finishing school as a last hope. Little Charlotte, dismissed from the house as soon as decorum allowed.
A step echoed on the dusty wood floor and she swung round. Blaise took off his hat and gazed at the grandeur open-mouthed. "This is where you lived?" He ran his sinewy brown hand along the stair rail. "Why'd they leave?"
"Money." Charlotte came toward him and inhaled the scent of sharp autumn air coming off him. "Let's go."
"Wherever you like, dear. Are all the houses in England like this?" He kicked a corner of an ancient rug back into position.
She half-smiled and shook her head at his wondering dark eyes. "I like Harper's Rill better."
"Oh, that old place? Seems like a backwater western ghost town compared to this."
"But it's home."