Free The Chandelier Ballroom by Elizabeth Lord Page B

down the main stairs leading straight into this huge room, with its elaborate chandelier which he now switched on just to see how it looked, the room immediately flooded with light despite the bright sunshine flowing in through each of the five tall, beautifully curtained windows.
    ‘I suppose,’ Joyce replied a little begrudgingly, still staring about her. ‘I must say I do like the house. But we’ll definitely have to wall off these stairs. And,’ she added as he switched off the chandelier, ‘we’ll have to get rid of that ridiculous thing – it’s far too garish for my liking.’
    He made no comment but secretly knew he was going to leave that lovely thing exactly where it was no matter what she said, as they went on through what would become a hallway again if they bought the house, to look at the lounge, then into the narrow wood-clad passage with its doors to the sitting room, the library, the dining room with the kitchen and utility room at the far end.
    ‘We’ll have to do something about this passage too,’ she remarked as they entered it. ‘Not much natural light at all.’
    It was the only drawback, but impossible to alter. ‘We’ll put doors between the lounge and the three other rooms, make them interconnected,’ he offered, ‘so you won’t have to use the passage except to go to the kitchen, the downstairs cloakroom and the main hall when we rebuild that wall.’
    For the first time since coming in, Joyce smiled. He was encouraged.
    ‘Shall we put a deposit on it then?’ he asked as they came out to the trim Morris he had left standing in the wide drive, gratified to see her nod in agreement.
    The house was theirs. It hadn’t been easy reaching a mutually agreeable price. Loathing any kind of haggling, Joyce had left it to Arnold to do the talking, the vendor, Mrs Butterfield, a forbidding adversary, small in stature though she was.
    In her mid-fifties, tight-faced, tight-lipped, as if having gone through a hard time of some sort, she had probably once been quite plump, the sagging flesh of her forearms conveying that fact. Now she was thin rather than slim. Her blue eyes brittle, she had glared up at Arnold as if bearing him an intense grudge. It almost turned Joyce off, she only wanting for the negotiation to end and for them to walk away, except that she had fallen in love with the place, other than the need for a few alterations.
    She was glad Arnold had taken charge of haggling and hadn’t once included her in the negotiations, assuming her to be in full agreement with everything he’d said. Indeed she had been. There’d been more on her mind at the time with her wedding drawing ever nearer, all the arrangements still only half complete. Nor was she one to enjoy standing out, which as the bride she would have to, and the nearer the day approached, the more her nerves had mounted.
    Now the wedding was behind her, her nerves had fallen back into their rightful place. Yesterday the keys had been handed over and today they’d finally moved into their new home.
    Some of the furniture belonging to Mrs Butterfield having been taken out and their own installed this very morning, everything placed exactly where it should go, the van men having left, it felt that the house was theirs at last. And at a far lower price, Arnold said, than he had expected.
    To celebrate he suggested taking a stroll around the area, maybe ending up in one of the two local pubs in the village for a quick drink, and later that evening they’d go out for a celebratory meal somewhere nice.
    In the Baker’s Arms, the middle-aged couple at the next table, each with a half pint of light ale in front of them, kept glancing their way until finally the man whose complexion was almost nut brown, addressed them directly, a broad, cheerful smile lighting up his large face.
    ‘Forgive me for asking, you must be our new neighbours,’ his tone was jovial. ‘We have the house on the corner to Rye Lane, you know. We wondered