Chapter Thirteen
Hell, now she had to deal with the blasted stairs.
Della was immensely proud of herself for making it back to the house in one piece after her little stunt at the lake, but she’d somehow forgotten that just beyond the front door were those damned steps.
It was not always such an exhausting trip.
If it were, she’d have moved to a chamber on the lower floor long ago.
It was just on days like today, days where she felt as if her limbs were weighty and unyielding, that it became such a Herculean effort to move.
“Do you need a moment to rest?” Andrew asked, still holding her hand against his arm. He must’ve seen some anguish on her face at the thought of climbing back upstairs. Or perhaps he was just perceptive.
“Just a moment,” she admitted. “If you would hand me my shoes.” Della broke away from him and sat on the ivory velvet bench near the sideboard, the only pieces of furniture in their entry hall.
Andrew passed over her boots, and she sighed in relief as she slipped her stockings over her aching toes.
She did not even bother pulling them up or tying the ribbons.
Nor did she notice Andrew’s eyes widen at the sight of her bare ankles.
Della tied her boots as tight as the laces would go, just to prevent any swelling.
It was reckless, what she’d done, but she refused to regret it. She’d needed that dip in the water to wash away someone else’s sins.
“Shall we go digging for secrets?” she asked him. Della stood up on her own, without the help of her walking stick, just to test the stability of her legs. They seemed sturdy enough, even though her toes still throbbed.
“It seems this house is full of them, metaphorically speaking. Stands to reason there’s some physical proof somewhere.” Andrew once again offered his arm, and she took it in one hand and her walking stick in the other.
“Speaking of secrets . . .” Della started.
Something had been nagging at her since her conversation with Gwendoline earlier in the day.
She briefly wondered if she had the courage to ask him about it, but then she thought of the shock of cold water on her toes, and she decided just to dive right in.
“I was speaking to Gwendoline this morning, telling her about an old friend of mine. She disappeared, in the eyes of society. I realized that everyone in London must think the same of me.”
Andrew nodded. They took the stairs slowly and carefully, and the conversation helped pass the time.
“How did you find me?” she finally asked. “I thought I’d never see or hear from anyone again, but then your first letter arrived.”
He laughed, just a bright chuckle that was entirely too brief. Della thought she could see his cheeks blushing out of the corner of her eye.
“My mother. She often . . . overhears things, working in her position. You know how some pretend the servants aren’t there, capable of listening.
It took her a while, but she discovered where they’d sent you.
When I went abroad, she made me promise to write weekly, no matter where I was.
And she made sure your letters got to me, and mine to you.
” He was fully blushing now, and so was she.
Della tried to assure herself it was from the exertion of the stairs, but that was difficult to believe.
“I am grateful to her, then.” They’d reached the landing, and she led him toward the essentially abandoned half of the house.
The hallway had been dusted recently, because of her parents’ trip.
Otherwise, this wing existed in darkened silence.
Midafternoon light streamed through the windows, and all of the furniture and carpets were faded because the curtains were always left open.
At the end of the long hallway, Della opened a creaking door.
The bedchamber within was shadowed, but sparklingly clean.
She sat on a beautiful carved wooden chair near the door, exhausted from the walk.
Andrew threw open the curtains her mother had clearly left closed.
While she rested, Andrew searched. He opened the wardrobe, sifted through the trunk in the corner, and examined the drawers in the bedside table.
He was meticulously careful, and Della appreciated it.
No matter what they found, if her mother came back into this room and saw even a hair out of place, there would be consequences.
Della looked around, observing the dressing table with beautiful, old perfume bottles and expensive cosmetics—more than anyone could ever use.
There was a champagne silk dressing gown thrown over the privacy screen near where she sat, and a pair of pink slippers left abandoned beside the bed.
It was a startling combination of wealth and carelessness, just like her mother.
She tried to remember the mother she’d grown up with.
The one who’d truly loved her, cherished her like a parent should.
There was no evidence of that person left.
It was all gone, lost forever to the depths of caring for Della.
“I don’t believe we’ll find anything of use here,” Andrew muttered. He shut the last drawer and rose to his full height. He came to stand in front of her, then sat down on the plush and overly ornate bed.
There was something heady in this, sitting in a bedchamber with him. Alone. That overwhelming feeling wasn’t the goal of this adventure, but Della let it wash over her anyway. It amazed her, how he was all at once so calming a presence and so exciting an idea.
“In fact, I have another thought.” His voice was low and comforting and a tingle ran down Della’s spine that had nothing to do with the lingering cold from their walk. “I’ll go back to London, speak to a few people. See what I can find out.”
Della’s heart skipped an agonizing beat at the thought of him leaving, but she’d always known he’d leave.
He’d left her once before, and she knew he’d do it again.
His life was in London, hers was here. Men like him didn’t want women like her, anyway.
Not in the long term. Not to marry, and not to love.
She had his friendship, and his loyalty, and she told herself to be grateful for that.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his, no matter how hard she tried to appear unaffected.
“You did not ask, and I am more than happy to do it. There are many people I need to get reacquainted with in town, anyway.”
Della was silent for long moments. It seemed there was nothing more to say.
“Thank you, Andrew,” she finally murmured.
She forced herself to look up at him again, to memorize that face she held so dear.
Messy curls. Sharp jaw. Tensely held mouth bracketed by frown lines.
Those fathomless eyes she’d never be able to forget if she tried.
The ache in her toes spread throughout her whole body, and that cold took root in her chest.
Della didn’t know what she was thanking him for. His willingness to help? Or for being the one to leave?