Chapter Twenty-Three
Della thought she could sense a change in the air.
It was subtle, but everything became stiffer and more congested the closer they got to London.
She tried to assess her own feelings on the matter, but she came up short.
They were too complicated to navigate. There was joy, for she thought she’d never return to the place she’d once called home.
There was fear, for everything it meant that she was here.
There was, more than anything, a longing.
London represented so much for her, and returning after so long away was beyond strange.
Some part of her longed to be the girl she was when she’d last left.
So full of youth and promise, only to be swept away into a banishment she’d grown to love.
The more dominant part of her, though, simply wanted what she always had.
Andrew. He brought about an even more overwhelming deluge of emotions, and the thought that she’d get to see him again was the only thing getting her through the last of this arduous journey.
Across the carriage, Clara practically vibrated with excitement.
At their last stop, Della had begged Clara to change into clothing that the good people of society wouldn’t find immediately reprehensible.
She had, but she was wearing it all wrong.
Her day gown hung loosely from her frame, and she was still wearing those men’s boots she always had on.
Her hair was escaping its pins, and she wouldn’t sit still.
Harry didn’t seem to mind. He was gazing out the window and tapping a beat with his hand against his knee.
They seemed rather at peace, actually. As if the tumultuous feelings raining over Della had escaped their notice entirely.
“I believe we are almost there,” Harry muttered. He leaned in closer to the window, trying to see all he could like an eager child.
“What will we do first?” Clara asked. She climbed onto her knees and peered over Harry, resting her palms on his broad shoulders for balance.
Della thought she should discourage that kind of disregard for her own safety, but that would be like trying to tame a wild horse.
Recklessness was an integral part of Clara’s character.
It was quite possibly the reason they were all here in this carriage.
“I am not sure,” Della sighed. Not for the first time, she realized how impulsive and ill-advised this trip was. “I’ve told the coachmen to take us to Andrew’s house, but I do not know what we are to do if he is not home. Or not receiving visitors.”
Della knew most weren’t so formal, even in London.
Those of the working class didn’t require things like public drawing rooms for guests and specific hours of the day for calling.
She couldn’t help it, though. She could feel her genteel manners overtaking her once again.
Something about the London air made her posture straighter and her accent sharper. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.
Harry laughed. She’d been so caught up in her own musings that she almost hadn’t heard it. She couldn’t credit why he’d laughed, and he looked less than proud to have done it.
“I am sorry, Della.” He shook his head. “But I cannot credit the idea that he might turn you away at the door.”
She didn’t know what was more surprising, his assessment of the situation or the fact that he used her name. That may very well have been the first time. It was almost as if they were becoming friends.
“You must admit it is possible,” she tried to tell them—both of them—as they were smirking and giggling at each other in much too close proximity.
It was usually very charming, watching them flit around each other like birds.
She didn’t particularly find it so now. “We haven’t sent word that we’re coming, and we haven’t been invited.
He left our home abruptly, and I’ve heard very little from him since. ”
“I know, Della, but—” Clara began to say, but then the carriage rolled to a stop. She abandoned her sentence and practically dove past Harry out the door as soon as it was opened. She didn’t wait for the help of the coachman or Harry or anyone else, even the stairs.
“Good lord, Clara,” Harry fussed as he followed her into the fading sunshine. “You could’ve injured yourself.” He continued to grumble at her, and she argued back. That was something that wouldn’t change, then. That was a slice of home she’d brought with her.
Della sat right where she was. She needed a moment to unfreeze her limbs.
They were stuck, almost completely immobile.
With no one on the other side of the carriage, she could extend her legs out in front of her.
That was a start. She leaned forward and rocked back, stopping as it began to feel like the bones in her hip were ripping apart.
This happened sometimes, her entire body locking up.
Each time, Della considered her surroundings.
If she had to live forever in the bathtub or on the second stair or at her seat at the dinner table, then so be it.
This place didn’t seem so awful, a rented carriage.
She could still be mobile, then. She cracked her knuckles.
Rolled her shoulders. Tried to shift some weight onto her knees.
She was in the middle of this exhaustive process when she heard a voice.
“Della?” he said, and suddenly he was there. In the open carriage door, backlit by the sun. Beautiful and golden and disheveled. All messy curls and a stern brow. His mouth hung open in what appeared to be shock or awe, and it was enough motion to remind her of that dimple in his cheek.
“Andrew.” She smiled back, and she hoped. That’s what this uncomfortable swelling inside of her chest was. Hope. It was intense and terrifying. She felt it like nausea in her stomach, like the tingling of pins and needles running down her spine.
He extended a hand into the carriage, and she suppressed a shudder of delight when his palm met hers.
In another world, this would’ve been her life.
Traversing the city with her friends and coming home to a man helping her down from the carriage.
It seemed important, even in this fantasy she’d suddenly made up, that Andrew be that man.
Della took exactly one step toward the edge of the carriage platform, and the effort was considerably painful.
All at once, she wasn’t bearing her own weight anymore, and she was flying through the air with Andrew’s hands pressed against her waist. It was an all too brief journey to the ground.
Once her feet were under her again, she felt considerably lighter.
With her own hands against his shoulders and his still resting just above her hips, Della truly realized what a torment this trip could turn out to be.
She’d never again know contentment if she couldn’t have this man.
“What are you doing here?” Andrew finally asked, after they’d spent entirely too long staring at one another.
He looked around in confusion, as if he’d never seen his own home before.
Clara and Harry had begun unloading the meager belongings they’d brought with them, little more than a traveling bag each, and talking to the hired coachmen.
“I came to see you,” she told him. Her fingers flexed against the collar of his coat. “We . . . we came to see you. I kept thinking of you doing all of this—God knows what you’ve been doing—for me, alone, and I couldn’t take it.”
Della felt him squeeze her waist. Pull her closer just slightly. It was blatantly inappropriate conduct for the middle of the street, but Della didn’t think anyone would pay them any attention over the commotion Harry and Clara were causing just by existing in their proximity.
“Della—” he started to say, but he was interrupted.
“What is going on out here?” It was Alice Lockhart, Andrew’s mother, and Della was mortified. Here she was, with her ragtag family and all their belongings, standing in front of this woman’s home with her hands all over her son. Della took an abrupt step back that hurt both her heart and her knees.
“Mother, you remember—” But Andrew was once again interrupted.
“Adelaide!” Alice nearly threw herself at Della, enveloping her in a hug so tight it brought tears to her eyes.
It was actually uncomfortable, the combination of the almost-maternal affection and the devastation it brought her.
Della had so missed this. Not just Alice herself, but having a mother to hug.
She was splendidly dressed, and that was no surprise.
Her gown was emerald green with gold finishings.
Her graying hair was upturned in a neat coiffure, and she smelled of some fragrant flower that Della couldn’t place.
It was all a bit much for Della’s senses, this kindness and warmth. She simply wasn’t used to it.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” Della said as soon as Alice let her go and she could resume breathing. “I . . .” She tried to explain, looking from Andrew to his mother, and she felt all of her capacity for speech drain away.
She had no idea what Andrew had been up to, or what he’d told his mother about all of this.
There was no way for Della to speak to Alice about her presence here without revealing herself to be someone leading her son on a path to ruin.
It seemed there was so much to apologize for that the words just wouldn’t come.
“Let’s all go inside, hm?” Alice said, grabbing Della by the arm and leading her toward the door. Everyone else followed, and they all shuffled into the charming home.
Della had never been here before. She’d never been allowed.
Andrew’s home was beautiful. Modest by the standards of society, but it was teeming with character.
Alice was known to have a rather eclectic aesthetic as a dressmaker, and it showed in their furnishings.
Nothing matched, there were jewel tones of all varieties everywhere.
A green velvet divan in the entryway and deep-purple curtains covering the front windows.
Beneath the veneer of Alice’s oddly charming design, Della could see Andrew’s natural sense of messiness.
She’d never told him that, how she adored the sense of disorder he brought to the world around him.
“Oh,” Della began, once she realized everyone was staring at her. “I’m so sorry, this is Miss Clara Fletcher, and this is Mr. Harry Stanton.” She gestured to them both. Clara was swaying back and forth on her planted feet like she just couldn’t help but move.
“Please, call me Harry. You’ve a lovely home,” Harry remarked. He was always such a gentleman.
“Come in, come in,” Alice gestured down the hall. “Please, put your things down.”
Clara and Harry looked at Della simultaneously. It was eerie sometimes, watching their innate connection play out. Della didn’t know what to say. She looked to Andrew.
“Please, go ahead.” He smiled politely and stepped aside, letting Clara and Harry pass him. They walked toward his mother, and she and Clara began a lively conversation that they could hear even as they disappeared out of sight.
“I really am sorry,” she started to say, as soon as they were alone. It had felt right, leaving Westfield Manor abruptly to see him. Now, though, it felt like she was being even more of a burden on his life.
“You apologize far too much,” Andrew remarked. It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say, and she was taken aback.
“So do you,” she told him.
“Well, what are we to do about it? Apologize?” He smiled, that full, big, open grin and she got lost in those dimples again.
Della laughed. She was heartsick and in pain and worried beyond belief, but she laughed. With him, it seemed she could always find something to laugh about.
Alice reappeared then, without Clara or Harry.
“They are lovely people,” she said. Andrew had her smile, and the laugh lines around Alice’s face proved she used it well and often. “They’re going to prepare the guest rooms for the night.”
“Oh, Alice, we don’t—” Della almost got her full sentence out this time. Almost.
“No, I’ll hear of nothing else.” Alice held up a hand. “It’ll be nice to have guests. We haven’t had a chance to use both rooms yet, and that’s why I converted Elias’s old study into another bedroom in the first place. For guests.”
“Thank you,” Della said sincerely. “I promise there is a reason we’re here, and a good one. We didn’t make the trek to London just to bother you.” It was a joke, but it was a weak one. If she couldn’t apologize, humor was the next arrow in her quiver.
Alice took two steps closer. Her face turned serious. Della recognized Andrew in that, too. It reminded her of the face he’d make when he first found her during all those hide and seek games. So serious at first, then his expression would melt into that dazzling smile.
“Is this about your family, dear?” Alice asked. She’d kept her voice low, but there was no need.
“How did you know, Mother?” Andrew asked. He’d leaned in, too, like the three of them were sharing a secret. Della supposed in some way they were. She looked between them, mother and son. She knew Andrew favored his father, but she could just feel Alice’s spirit in him.
“I wish I’d just assumed,” Alice sighed.
“Because they’re awful.” She nodded. Della nodded back.
“I’m sure I’d always assume if you were in any kind of trouble, it would be to do with your family.
But you have been acting strangely since you returned.
” She pointed to Andrew. “And something happened today. You won’t tell me what, but I know it was something. ”
Della flashed a look at him, and she’d never seen him appear so guilty. Unease churned in her stomach. Perhaps she’d been too late, and she really had let Andrew walk into ruin all alone. If she had, she’d never forgive herself.
“So it is about your family, then?” Alice asked, more gently this time. She was speaking to both of them, her gaze dancing back and forth. Della had never felt like this. Like she had someone literally at her back to help her solve a problem.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Then please follow me,” Alice turned on her heel, her green-and-gold skirts swishing behind her. “I need to show you something.”