Chapter Three
The viscount and viscountess descended on Westfield Manor with a flourish of aristocratic indulgence, arriving just as evening settled.
Della watched from the chaise longue in the corner of the front parlor as their carriages approached.
She counted them by the lights illuminating their way.
Three carriages was excessive, quite frankly.
One carriage for the viscount and viscountess, another for their servants, and the last appeared to be exclusively for their belongings.
Their note hadn’t indicated how long they had planned to stay, or the reason for their rare visit to the country house.
That bit of excess suggested a lengthy stay, and Della felt her spine tense up at the thought.
She sat alone, all of her household having been consumed by the fervor of her parents.
It was not a particularly great day for her pain, and all of her joints felt fevered.
She wore one of the day gowns her mother insisted on sending in the newest fashions each season.
The fabric was starchy and uncomfortable, and the style restricted her movement.
She supposed she didn’t need to move much with her parents in residence.
She’d be expected to ring for Clara should she need even the slightest thing, and her walks about the garden would be put on hold until they left.
There was a stark dichotomy between the way Della lived and the way her parents thought she did.
There were times where she was able to forget how fundamentally they misunderstood her, but today was not one of those times.
“Adelaide, my dear.” Her mother entered the parlor with as much flare as they’d approached the manor. Her gown was more fit for the evening than for traveling, an abundance of bright-pink silk and garish gold trim, but Della would’ve expected nothing less.
Della blanched at the sound of her full name.
She heard it so rarely, and it seemed so ill-suited.
Della rose to her feet to greet them, the heavy skirts of her gown getting tangled around her legs.
She hated the blasted thing, as pretty as it was.
She might be a young lady, but she was a young lady in a great deal of pain, and she had no patience for the discomforts of the finery her mother preferred.
“Oh, don’t get up.” Her mother approached the chaise longue and waved her hands in Della’s general direction.
Della braced for a hug or a kiss on the cheek in greeting, but nothing came.
This was what hurt the most about her mother, that she’d loved her dearly as a child, and their mutual mission to see Della well married had provided common ground in her adolescence.
When Della had fallen ill, Esther had exhausted herself in trying to make her better.
She’d summoned doctors from all around. They’d tried experimental and downright harsh remedies.
Her mother had even spent many nights sleeping in a chair beside her bed.
But one day, she’d come to the realization that Della’s condition would never improve, and the beauty of their connection was lost forever.
As was Esther’s sense of compassion, it seemed.
She’d become as harsh as the treatments they’d tried, and Della could hardly recognize the woman who sat in front of her now.
The viscountess lowered herself gracefully into an armchair opposite Della, and she looked around as if she’d never seen their front parlor before.
It had once been a familiar place for her, when they were a young family.
But they had made the journey out to the countryside less and less over the years, as her mother became more involved in the ton, and now Della wondered how the room appeared through her mother’s eyes.
Della knew she’d find something lacking.
A speck of dust or a scuff in the gilded wallpaper.
Perhaps a chair that was not placed at exactly the right angle in relation to the door.
The dimming fire making the place too warm.
“I often forget why we do not travel to the country more often. I’m reminded now that the journey is simply exhausting,” the viscountess said. She looked around once more. “And I rang for tea and cakes ages ago. Where could that cook be?”
Della wanted to rage. Mrs. Goldsmith was but one person, doing her best to meet the downright unreasonable expectations held by the lady of the house.
“I still find it quite unusual that the cook has her daughter here. A young lady of her station should be working in her own position.”
Mrs. Goldsmith entered the parlor at that moment, delicately balancing a tray full of refreshments. Mr. Stanton opened and closed the door as she came and went. The formality of it all was so exhausting to Della. If she had to live out all of her days like this, those days would number very few.
“I’ve been teaching Gwendoline. We’re starting with simpler things, like her numbers and letters. She’s doing quite well.” Della tried to defend them—all of them, Gwendoline, Mrs. Goldsmith, and herself.
“I’m so pleased to hear that.” The viscountess’s face pinched as she leaned over the cart to pour tea.
Her words were achingly artificial, and her pink garnet necklace fell away from the skin at her throat as she hovered.
“Your former governess would love to know there was some use for your education after all.”
She handed Della a teacup and saucer, and Della thought her fragile hands might drop the delicate china and ruin the plush, green carpet.
Behind that worry in her mind was a childish desire to drop the damn thing on purpose.
If she thought she could do so effectively without some sort of skeletal malfunction, Della might make a scene, leaving the room and stomping her feet the entire way.
She’d done things like that in the past. Her early days at Westfield Manor were rife with those kinds of tantrums, but they’d borne dire consequences.
Clara wasn’t her first maid. Back when Della had first been sent away, her mother had abruptly dismissed the lady’s maid she’d brought with her from London.
She’d always suspected her mother had done so just because Della liked her.
It was a sign that rebellion wouldn’t be tolerated, and Della had never forgotten.
She couldn’t risk anything like that happening now, not to the people who had since become the closest thing she had to family.
“Have you been quite well, dear?” her mother asked. Having returned to her own chair, she sat so close to the edge that Della thought she might tip over. This was in an effort to keep control of her skirts, even though there was no impropriety in accidentally baring an ankle to one’s own daughter.
“I’ve been fine, thank you.” Della nodded. With her mother, her manners were reflexive, as was the sentiment. Della wasn’t sure what it meant to be well, in her case. Under the circumstances, sitting upright and enjoying tea in the parlor would be quite well indeed, if only she had better company.
She knew that the standards of politeness would have her ask the same question of her mother, but Della could not be bothered to do so.
At certain times, the falseness of it all was more than Della could speak through.
Silence reigned, and the only sounds were the movement of other people about the house and the light clanging of their teacups against their saucers.
Even in the stifling awkwardness, Della hoped. She hoped her mother would acknowledge the day’s importance. She hoped someone would. It was foolish, that reckless faith Della still had in everyone around her.
“I should like to take a bath,” her mother huffed, dusting invisible dirt off of her sleeve. “And I believe I’ll take my dinner on a tray in my room. Goodnight, my dear.”
The viscountess departed the room without another word, only stopping in the doorway so Mr. Stanton could bow toward her feet. A mix of disappointment and relief sailed through Della. Relief that one evening with her mother was over. Disappointment that they’d shown up at all.
Della rose slowly, the aches traveling from her feet up to her shoulders, then back down her arms. She climbed the stairs with the aid of her walking stick and the banister, and she thanked the heavens that her mother preferred rooms in the home’s other wing.
She opened the door to her own chambers, and Clara was seated behind the writing desk in her sitting room.
“Clara.” She startled at seeing her rooms already occupied. She would’ve toppled over without the stability of her walking stick. “Goodness me.”
“Oh, do come in!” Clara stood, pulling back the desk chair and patting the padded back.
“I didn’t know I needed an invitation.” Della smiled. Clara’s excitement was obvious, and she wondered what could have changed her mood so significantly. There was hardly much to be excited about with her parents in residence.
“I have a gift for you.” Clara stood with her hands behind her back as Della sat behind the desk.
This was all very ceremonious, and for absolutely no reason.
“But first, I must apologize for today. We had plans to all have dinner together, and Mrs. Goldsmith was going to make your favorite chocolate cake, but—”
Someone had recognized today. Clara had.
They had. Her entire household had planned to make today special for her, and her own parents could only be bothered to ruin it.
There was no room on her mother’s delicately selected menu for chocolate cake, and there was certainly no room at her mother’s table for servants.
Della felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and for a moment, she was completely without words.