Chapter Five
When Andrew received the letter, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Even if it turned out to be a stunning rebuke, she’d written him back.
He’d been so nervous he hadn’t been able to sleep.
Not without dreaming of her—this faceless, shapeless silhouette of someone he hadn’t seen in years.
It was less about what he saw in those dreams, and more what he heard: her laugh.
As he spotted the letter on the corner of the sideboard, he was so overwhelmed with relief that he forgot to temper his reaction in front of his mother.
“A letter came for you, my dear,” she said, a smugness in her voice that Andrew was sure meant bad things for him. “Must be an interesting topic of conversation. Your Miss Harris has written back rather expediently.”
Della had written back quicker than she normally would.
Andrew knew precisely how long it took her to write back, and that average was much more than the few days since he’d sent his letter.
That his mother also seemed to keep track of their correspondence should’ve bothered him. It didn’t, particularly.
It was the price he paid for living with her, and he didn’t mind. Most men had found their own bachelor’s lodgings well before his age, but after so long abroad, Andrew was quite fond of getting to see his mother each day.
“Miss Harris belongs to no one, as far as I’m aware.” He reminded her and himself. He took off his coat and loosened the cloth at his neck.
“Pity, that,” said his mother. She sat in the middle of her sitting room, ensconced in fabrics. Mending clothes, or making them. Her skills as a dressmaker were highly sought after, and she seemed to always be carrying around some bit of her sewing, even though she had a studio for that purpose.
“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting down on the sofa opposite her. His mother was a remarkably progressive woman, and he knew she detested the notion of women belonging to anyone but themselves, as common a notion as it was.
“It’s a pity what they’ve done to that girl.” She put down her sewing, her hands falling to her lap that was still covered in loose pieces of muslin. “Stowing her away in the country like she’s something to be ashamed of. As if once she fell ill, she didn’t belong to them any longer.”
So that’s what she meant. A different kind of belonging. One Andrew definitely couldn’t claim, no matter how much he might want to. No matter how often he did mistakenly think of Della as his.
His mother picked up her needle and began sewing stitches with a sense of indignation.
“She’s always seemed well,” Andrew said, and she had. During all of their correspondence, she seemed bright and positive and like the Della he’d always known. He’d hardly known her to say a negative word.
“I hope that she is, but she must be lonely out there all by herself.” His mother made sure to meet his eye as she said this, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.
Surely she was not implying what he thought she was implying. As fundamentally progressive as she was, he could never imagine her suggesting such impropriety.
He hadn’t told her he’d already suggested the very same, and he might have Della’s answer in the palm of his hand. Despite their close relationship, there were some things his mother didn’t need to know.
“Well, go on then.” His mother flicked her wrist in his direction.
“I suppose I’ve distracted you enough.” She sent him another smug smile, and he really should have refused.
He shouldn’t have confirmed her suspicions.
He should’ve sat there for another hour chatting about the weather and what they might have for dinner, just to prove to her that he didn’t care so deeply about the contents of the letter in his hand.
Instead, he rose to his feet and bid her a good afternoon.
“Give your young lady my regards,” she shouted after him.
He chose not to justify that remark with a response.
On his way to his study, Andrew shifted the letter from his left hand to his right.
Back and forth, over and over again. It felt weighty.
Somehow more meaningful than all of her other letters, even though he’d treasured each one.
He’d taken an immense risk when last he wrote her, letting the underlying disquiet plaguing his life show through his pen.
It was more vulnerable than he’d been with anyone in years.
Thinking about the last time he’d shown that vulnerability sent an ache through the middle of his chest. It was eight years ago, and for the very same woman whose letter rested in his palms.
Andrew sat behind the heavy wooden desk that had been his father’s.
He had many memories of the man they’d lost when Andrew had been just a young man, but he always felt most connected to him in this room.
They shared a profession, and being surrounded by his law books and old notes filled Andrew with strength. Just enough to tear open the letter.
He was never so aggressive with her words. Even the paper she wrote on was important to him, but he’d spent enough time in the purgatory of waiting for her response.
Dearest Andrew, he read. Even her greeting had him smiling. He took a moment to enjoy that, being dear to her.
I miss you.
His smile swiftly faded. It was something she’d never said. Their distance, both the physical distance between them and the difference in their places within society, had always been unspoken.
He’d never considered the idea that she might miss him.
Not after the way they’d left things eight years ago.
After the way she’d left things. He was simply happy to have their friendship.
Happy to have the ability to write her and receive a response.
The idea that she’d want anything more than that was almost too much for his mind to process.
It was too bright a light for his eyes to behold.
I fear I’ve found myself in a state. My parents are in residence.
I’m certain I don’t have to explain further, as you well know how their presence here dampens my spirits and those of the people I care so deeply for.
Truly, an unexpected visit from them, and the accompanying silence and the berating of everything in sight would be bad enough.
But there is unfortunately something more.
It appears my parents have been lying to me, Andrew.
For all of my life, it seems. I don’t know why, or how.
Clara overheard something she almost certainly shouldn’t have.
I suppose Clara could have been the one telling the untruths, but if given the choice between trusting Clara or my parents, we both know I would choose Clara every time.
I have been given that choice, and it only just occurred to me in this moment that Clara could’ve been lying, but I could never believe it of her.
I have an inheritance. A difficult concept to believe, to be sure, but I can only assume it to be true.
I am not certain if you remember, or if you ever knew in the first place, but the woman I call my mother is, in fact, my stepmother.
I was so young when my own mother passed that I have no recollection of her, and Esther and I look so strangely alike that most have forgotten my mother entirely and have always assumed Esther’s place in my life.
I had, of course, never considered there might be an inheritance on my mother’s side.
My parents have withheld this from me, and they continue to do so.
Perhaps they will forever, and take this secret to both of their graves.
I’m of two minds about this. I cannot understand why they could keep this from me, but I also know exactly why.
I have felt that exact type of cruelty from them before.
Despite this being a fresh hurt, it’s also horribly familiar.
I miss you, because the last time I saw you, things were simple.
When you would stand outside the schoolroom window and make faces at me behind my governess’s back.
When you’d climb trees just to show me how high you could go.
I was always so scared you’d get stuck up there.
I think it’s me who’s stuck now. I’m stuck with this information I was never supposed to know, and for the first time, I actually feel stuck here in this house.
I like to believe I live a very charmed life here, with people who care for me and anything I could ever ask for.
But to think that the very two people who brought me up, the people who were to protect and love me, have been holding me here like this.
It’s as if I’ve never known my own life at all, never known myself.
Except with you, I think. When I was a girl, looking up into the sky to spot you in the limbs of the tallest tree, I was myself.
I wasn’t thinking of illness or inheritance or how to apologize for someone else’s horrid behavior.
I was thinking of what I’d do if you got stuck. I’d have climbed up there after you.
I think I need someone to climb up into the sky after me, Andrew. And I think I’d like it to be you.
Somewhere in the middle of the letter, her tone had shifted. He felt it more than he read it. Her words took on a rapid pace in his mind, as if she were frantic. Almost panicked. And then, just as quickly as the frenetic outrage appeared, it faded.
And she was talking about him. About how they’d been as children.
Together. He had climbed all those trees just to impress her.
He had pulled the silliest of faces just to make her laugh.
He couldn’t believe she remembered all those things.
Lazy afternoons and runs through the garden, those leisurely aspects of their childhood that faded as they’d gotten older.
Turned into sneaking out to the stables and hiding from her parents just so they could speak to each other alone.
Would she really have climbed up those trees after him?
He hated to doubt her, but his mind flashed to the worst moment of his life. When she’d run and he’d tried to follow, only to be told she didn’t want him to.
He finished the letter. He read it once more. His gaze was stuck on the last line. For once, he didn’t know what she meant.
I think I need someone to climb up into the sky after me, Andrew. And I think I’d like it to be you.
He didn’t have to ask himself if he’d still climb up into the sky after Della. Of course, he would. He knew he’d climb down into the very pits of hell for her.
He also knew she’d never mentioned his invitation to visit her at Westfield Manor.