Chapter Three #2
“There is no need for apologies, Clara. I’d hoped you’d know that by now.” Della looked at her, and she did seem almost unbearably apologetic. Her face was so earnest. She’d tried so hard, and it almost hurt Della how much Clara cared.
“In fact,” Della grimaced, “have I apologized yet for the atrocious things my mother will surely do?”
Clara laughed. She nodded.
“I’ll accept no apologies from you either.
Though I did hear her warn poor Mrs. Goldsmith on her way in against over-sweetening the porridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. She hasn’t even been here for breakfast in a year, but of course, she remembered that the porridge was too sweet.
She said they weren’t wealthy enough to be eating in such splendor every day, and you don’t need such rich food.
It isn’t good for your health, she said.
As if they care about your health. As if they care about you at all. ”
Della flinched at the brutally honest statement. Life with her mother was full of little hurts like those, and nothing hurt worse than the truth.
Clara stepped forward, leaned against the solid wood desk.
Her brown hair was escaping the pins she despised wearing.
Della wondered if her head had started to ache yet.
The gray, plain dress she wore was so uncharacteristically boring.
She looked every bit the respectable lady’s maid, but Della didn’t want to be speaking with any respectable lady’s maid.
She wanted to speak with her best friend.
“This was delivered for you this afternoon, just after your parents arrived. I was able to convince Mr. Stanton to allow me to pass it along personally. I thought you’d rather he not present it on silver in front of your mother.”
Della’s cheeks flushed with warmth. She knew exactly what Clara held so tightly behind her back.
Perhaps this day wasn’t a lost cause after all.
That instinct of hers never failed. That very morning, she’d unearthed some of Andrew’s old letters, even some of her own early drafts she’d never sent.
Andrew’s were pristine and well-preserved, except for the natural wear and tear of being read over and over again.
Hers were scribbled out, ripped in half, and occasionally stained with tears.
There was no particular reason she was doing this, Della told herself.
She was simply feeling nostalgic. Something about her milestone birthday, she assumed.
That the previous part of her life she felt most nostalgic for was her correspondence with Andrew was of little importance.
“Convinced him, did you?” Della arched one eyebrow. “I’ll ask that you protect my delicate sensibilities and spare me the details.”
Clara’s exasperation was a fun thing to play with, but Della was getting a bit impatient herself.
“I assure you it was nothing untoward. Harry truly did not want to alert your mother to your correspondence.”
For that, Della was immeasurably grateful. She hardly thought a series of chaste letters was anything to fret over, but society did so love to fret.
“Thank you, Clara.” She meant it sincerely. “And please thank Mr. Stanton for me. But please do so discreetly. I know that he makes you giddy, and I would hate for my mother to witness it.”
The viscountess had a sixth sense for other people’s happiness. She knew how to find it, how to exploit it, and how to destroy it. Della couldn’t bear it if she let that harm Clara or Harry or anyone in her home.
Clara simply nodded. Her eyes still held that strange excitement, but her face was composed. As if no secrets had been shared.
“I suppose I should leave you to your reading, unless you should need me for anything else?”
Clara handed over a letter. Della recognized the paper and the wafer and the scent wafting from it immediately. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she told herself it was simply a rebellion of her ribs after so much time spent in restrictive clothing.
“If you could return to assist me out of this infernal contraption some call clothing, that would be much appreciated.” Della hated to ask.
As much as she loved Clara’s company, she despised relying on her help.
She never wore gowns and undergarments like this that required delicate hands to take on and off.
“Of course,” Clara glided toward the hallway with a smile, and Della heard the soft snick of the door close behind her.
She ran her fingers over the letter. It was a preposterous thing to cherish so fervently.
How ridiculous that something as simple as a piece of paper could tempt her heart into such feeling.
After holding back everything that made her herself today, most of all her deep emotions, it was such an indulgence just to feel.
To touch the paper that he’d touched and run her fingers over the dried ink and imagine being this close to him somehow. Della broke the seal.
She’d kept them all, eight years’ worth of correspondence sat at the bottom of a trunk in the corner of her rooms. She always kept the latest one within arm’s reach.
Many of them were creased and weathered from her fingers running over each line of script.
That was how she savored them, how she kept their conversation going.
Today, that didn’t feel like enough. Her fingertips and his words weren’t enough to banish the loneliness that made her ache in a way her illness never could. Or maybe it had. Maybe her illness was an integral part of that loneliness.
Dear Della,
Thank God, she thought. Someone used her real name.
It was a familiarity that she shouldn’t allow, being that they hadn’t seen each other since she’d come to Westfield Manor over eight years ago.
She should be Miss Harris to anyone in her acquaintance.
Her Christian name was perhaps even a step too far, but to shorten it even further was really far too casual.
If I’ve managed my timing, and the post has cooperated with my plan, this should arrive on the anniversary of your birth.
Oh, Andrew. He’d remembered.
I’m told it’s a recently established tradition to celebrate the anniversary of one’s birth like a holiday. The idea sounds rather fanciful and is perhaps better suited for the children of the world, but I do think you are always worth celebrating.
Della’s breath clutched in her throat, and she could no longer pretend it was the fault of her stays. She ran her fingers over those last words before she kept reading. Just to remind herself that he thought she was worth something.
There is no other reason for my writing, I’m afraid.
I’ve no meaningful new pieces of my life to share.
My work in London continues to drag on. It does so whether I am mentally present or not, oddly enough.
I’ve settled a bit more since my last letter.
Returning to England after so long abroad was a shock to the senses, and I think perhaps I need a break from the fast pace of town.
I know it to be impolite to assume an invitation for myself, especially to the home of an unmarried young lady, but our clandestine correspondence has always been on the wrong side of propriety.
So, do you think you might have room for a guest at Westfield Manor?
Della gasped out loud, so taken aback at the mental image of him walking up to her front door.
Sitting in her parlor for tea. She could barely picture it.
It had been so long since she’d seen his face.
He’d have changed so much over such time.
She wondered if he’d still have that slightly long hair that curled at the ends.
If his smile was still as breathtaking. If he still had those deep dimples on his cheeks she’d always wanted to kiss.
Della wondered if he was still the same man she’d always adored.
I’ll stop my rambling, but please consider my terribly rude proposition. I do certainly miss you. I hope you’ve had a lovely birthday, Della.
Yours,
Andrew
She ran her thumb over those last words, just one more time. He hoped she’d had a lovely birthday. And suddenly, she had.