The Taming of the Screws (Bedridden Bluestocking Barony #1)

Chapter One

Lady Adelaide Harris was content. Strangely so, some might say.

For the forever-ill daughter of a viscount to be content in her banishment to the country, most might think her mad.

But Della enjoyed the days she was able to spend out in the gardens.

The air was fresh after a new spring rain, and the damp grass was soaking through the wool blanket beneath her.

“You look at peace,” said her lady’s maid. Della had not heard Clara approach, as she often walked so silently because she was less than fond of shoes.

“Your feet will be muddied,” Della admonished. Though she loved Clara’s general lack of propriety, walking outdoors with bare feet seemed less improper and more foolish.

“I know how to bathe.” Clara lowered herself to the ground less than gracefully, as she did most things. After so many years, Della was more than used to Clara’s eccentricities, especially her untamable mouth.

Della tried to move, though it took considerable effort.

She knew better than to lie flat like this for so long, but she’d been so relaxed lying there with the afternoon sun on her face.

Her hips were now completely inflexible, and her knees were so swollen that she struggled to fully straighten her legs.

“Are you well enough to spend so long in the sun?” Clara asked.

She crossed her own legs underneath her effortlessly, brushing a bit of grass off her knee.

She wore men’s riding breeches with no socks or boots and a flowing men’s shirt with no cravat.

Della dusted off her own seafoam green day gown.

It was from several seasons ago, and more formal than she ever needed to be, but she felt like an afternoon in the gardens was an event for which to dress up.

“I am quite well, actually.” Della leaned back on her aching elbows and looked up once again at the sun.

It had drifted behind a cloud, basking them in shade.

An odd chill ran through Della. She was well enough to spend the afternoon outdoors, but perhaps not well enough to continue sitting on the wet ground.

Della looked out at the expanse of verdant grass, at the land that made up her home.

Little had changed about the landscape in the nearly eight years she’d spent here.

Little had changed about her, either. Since the doctors had determined her rheumatism was a lifelong affliction, she’d gone from debutante to invalid in a matter of weeks.

That was ages ago, and Della appreciated each of her life’s moments, whether they be in the brightness of the sun or the darkness of the silk curtains that canopied her bed.

“Have you begun to teach Gwendoline her numbers?” Clara asked. She’d started to pick blades of grass out of the earth and tie them in knots.

“I have.” Della tried to straighten her posture before her elbows refused to support her weight. “It seems I’ve taught you everything I know, so I’ve had to move on to someone else. She’s a bright young girl.”

“Oh, please.” Clara laughed. “You act as if you are an old maid yourself. Gwendoline is only a few years younger than you and I.”

Della moved again as her spine stiffened.

Gwendoline was the daughter of their cook Mrs. Goldsmith, and she was indeed only four years her junior, but Della felt as if she had worlds of experiences Gwendoline hadn’t had the chance to partake in.

Before she fell ill, Della had received the best education a lady of noble birth could, and she’d spent her early years here at Westfield Manor staving off the riotous emotions caused by her casting out from society by reading.

Now, Della taught all she could to whoever she could.

“She is only one-and-twenty, and she still has her chance at a decent marriage, if that’s what she wants. If she doesn’t, she’ll have at least some education to rely on.”

Della had been prepared for her come out into London society when her body began to hurt, and it hadn’t stopped yet. Even now, as she rose to her knees and stretched out her trembling arms, that pain still lingered. Today was a good day, but even good days were painful.

“And you?” Clara asked, supporting one of Della’s arms with both of hers. “What of you and marriage?”

Della stood, with the help of Clara on one side and her walking stick on the other. Clara shook the blanket they’d been sitting on to free the grass clippings.

“I cannot believe you would even ask,” she huffed.

“Why not? Is the notion of marriage at our age so impossible?”

They took several steps back toward the house. The terrain was uneven, and her feet felt like they were made out of stone. They were so heavy and ungraceful. Della looked toward the ground. She watched Clara’s bare toes sink into the grass.

With Della nearing five-and-twenty, and Clara a few months older, they would be considered spinsters in London society, but they were not in London society.

“You know it is not my age,” she murmured. Della didn’t know why they were having this conversation. She was happy, as was Clara, as far as she knew. “Marriage is still very much a possibility for you.”

This was her life. Days spent abed, nights dining at the table with her staff, and the extremely occasional afternoon in the gardens.

“Have you heard from your Mr. Lockhart lately?” Clara’s words were nonchalant, but there was an implied undertone of deeper meaning. This was not just polite conversation. Clara simply did not make polite conversation.

“You know I have not, but I expect a letter in the next few days,” Della allowed.

It wasn’t that Andrew was especially punctual in his correspondence with her, it was more that she always began to anticipate a letter just before it arrived.

It was the best kind of premonition. Della sensed it, as she always did.

It was like the rain or a particularly frigid winter—she had the innate power to see it before it happened.

Those letters were a part of her life, too. A particular joy she knew was improper, but an indulgence she could not deny. She was never more grateful for her distance from the ton than when she received one of those letters.

Clara had opened her mouth to speak when they heard a shout. It was a commanding tone, but one of urgency. Mr. Stanton, their butler, was standing near the doorway to the house, calling for Clara.

“Harry,” Clara sighed. Della couldn’t tell if it was a breath of fondness or frustration.

He called her name again. The shouting was rather rude, even by the relaxed standards Della held at Westfield Manor. There was no need for the formal etiquette loved by the rest of the nobility, but basic politeness was appreciated.

“Stay right here,” Clara did not wait for a response before taking off.

She nearly skipped to Mr. Stanton’s side.

Della should admonish him for shouting at Clara, but she had the notion that there was much deeper impropriety woven into that particular relationship.

Even from this distance, Della could tell they stood much closer together than was acceptable.

Clara’s body swayed toward his. He, so much taller and so much more stern.

She, small and boisterous and bright. They made a beautiful pair.

Marriage was certainly in the cards for Clara, and Gwendoline too, if she was so inclined.

But not for Della. She had to remind herself of that, sometimes.

Clara did not skip back to her side, she ran.

It was unladylike, even for her. Della knew there could only be one emergency that inspired this sudden rush of chaos.

Harry did not shout, and Clara did not run.

Unless . . . Clara reached her side with such force they both nearly toppled over into the grass.

Della would not have been able to get back up.

“It’s your parents, Miss Harris.” Clara gripped Della’s arms, already resorting to that sense of formality they both despised. “They’re on their way here.”

Clara sighed.

“Well, I suppose you had better find your shoes.”