Chapter Twenty-Four
Andrew thought he might be having some sort of episode.
As he followed his mother and Della into the front room, he again blinked several times and attempted to set his world to rights.
The scene before him was so strange it could not possibly be real, hence the episode.
His mother and Della were not in the same room.
Della was not in London. He hadn’t extorted a doctor on her behalf today. None of that was happening.
“Perhaps I should have shown you earlier,” his mother said, sitting down behind the small desk she used for writing and cutting fabrics for her dresses. “And perhaps I should not even be showing you now . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Andrew stepped forward, as he’d been lingering in the doorway, waiting for himself to wake up from this strange dream.
“What is it?” he heard himself ask. Della stood at his side, warm and welcome, and he was so intensely grateful that it felt as if every piece of him wanted to reach out and close the distance between them.
“It’s your father,” his mother said. Her tone was grim, and this wasn’t the way she usually spoke of his father. She spoke of him fondly, usually with a touch of longing. She was rarely still visibly or audibly sad. Instead, she preferred to treasure his memory, as did Andrew.
From one of the desk drawers, she produced a stack of letters. They were held together by a piece of fraying twine.
“I told you I’d finally cleaned out his study. To make another guest room. I thought we might have guests once you got back out into the city, you know.” His mother nodded, and he nodded back. “I found these. They are your father’s, and I’d forgotten about them.”
She sounded ashamed of that. A despair he rarely heard entered her voice, and it haunted him.
“He’d told me, when he fell ill, to give these to you, but only under certain circumstances. You went abroad, and I thought you’d never need them. Never need to know.”
She looked up at him, at them both, with tears in her eyes. Now she appeared haunted herself. In her face, he saw the same guilt he’d felt after he left the doctor’s office today. It was spreading like wildfire, somehow.
“What is it, Mother?” Andrew found himself repeating. He hated this, being the last to know something. He couldn’t stand not having all of the information.
“Maybe I should . . .” Della mumbled, already twirling on her indelicate feet and making a move to flee.
He grabbed her arm. It was instinctive. He feared it would always be that way, him reaching out to stop her from leaving.
“No,” he said, threading his fingers through hers and tugging her gently back to his side. “Stay.”
She stayed. Thank God, she stayed.
“These,” his mother picked up the hefty stack of letters, “are for you. Your father wanted you to have them.”
Andrew felt the weight of the papers in his palm. Della squeezed his other hand. His heart skipped a beat, and he didn’t know if it was from fear or elation.
“But you said,” Andrew thought back to just a minute ago, “there were certain circumstances.”
Alice hung her head. Andrew sensed that she’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t know him very well if she thought he wouldn’t.
“He told me to make sure you read them if you were to ever get involved with the Harrises.”
Della let out a gasp, and her hand fell from his.
“No,” he almost growled. He didn’t know why. It was all he could think when he felt Della pull away from him. Just no.
“No,” his mother repeated. She rounded the desk with her arms raised and picked up the very hands that had just slipped through Andrew’s fingers.
“No, I didn’t mean you, dear.” They were silent for a moment, and Andrew felt the weight of those letters as if they were made of stone. “I know my husband didn’t, either.”
Andrew wondered what Della must be thinking.
She appeared horrified, her face ashen and her posture tense.
She must assume anything his father had to say about her family was some stunning reproach.
Something that would make him despise her by association.
As if such a thing were possible. These letters could say Della herself was a man-eating succubus, and Andrew would still willingly walk to his own doom at her hand.
“I’ll give the two of you some privacy.” His mother looked between them both, patting Andrew’s shoulder as she walked by him out of the room.
Then they were alone. In his mother’s front room.
He was still having trouble processing all of this, but those letters felt like they were burning his hands.
Andrew sat. His mother’s desk chair was short and small and not fit for a man full grown, but he felt as if he needed to be sitting for this.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t go?” Della asked. Her head was turned, looking at the vacant space his mother had left behind. “Shouldn’t I—”
“No.” It was a complete sentence. He knew he shouldn’t interrupt her. All anyone had done since they’d arrived was interrupt her, and it was terribly rude and a touch disrespectful, but damn it, she had to stop assuming everyone wanted her to leave.
Andrew tore open the stack of letters, spreading them out in front of him in the way he hated to see everyone else do.
For a moment, he just ran his fingers over the old paper.
What a gift, he thought. So many more of his father’s words than he ever thought he’d have.
No matter what they were—even if they had the potential to ruin his life—those words were precious.
As they spilled across the table, he realized they weren’t all letters.
They were all sorts of papers. Ledgers and receipts and notes.
Andrew had no idea what he was looking at.
He unfolded the letter that had been at the top of the stack. In front of him, Della paced the length of the room, one hand at her collarbone as if to calm her racing heart. She wasn’t even roaming in straight lines, she walked in chaotic swirls and loops.
“Darling, could you sit down, please?” he asked her, flattening the first letter. “I cannot read and watch you in motion at the same time.”
She looked exasperated. Her hand snapped up to her hip, the other still resting just where her gown met her chest. It was a more brazen posture than he’d ever seen her assume.
He wished it were under any other circumstance.
Maybe he’d left his socks on the floor again, or he’d forgotten about some social occasion they had to attend.
“Do not focus on me,” she huffed. “Read!”
He wished he could explain that his focus on her was not optional, nor was it anything under his control. She resumed her pacing, and he made an executive decision to do something he’d never done in her presence: look elsewhere.
My boy, the first letter began. His father had always called him that. He considered it a benefit of being an only child. His father had never had to refer to him by his given name. It was something he might’ve outgrown by now, if he’d been given the chance.
I’m writing this because it may be my last chance to protect you.
Andrew felt his heart clench. The sense of impending doom he’d felt all day came crashing over him like a thunderstorm.
Quick and bright and loud. It was no longer impending, then.
He didn’t want his father to have to protect him, not from this.
Not from her. Della had slowed her pace.
She was ambling near the door, as if she still planned to make a hasty escape.
Isaac Harris is a crooked man.
Andrew felt his brows rise up in confusion as he continued reading. He’d never heard his father refer to Viscount Morley without his title. He’d almost forgotten what his Christian name even was.
You’ll find all of the proof you need in these documents. I’ve been collecting it for years.
He must’ve gasped or flinched or something. Della stopped walking, and he felt her come closer.
I could never do anything about it without jeopardizing you and your mother, but he’s cheating people out of money.
Overcharging his tenants. All of his accounts are fraudulent.
I thought it was carelessness, or a case of misguided incompetence.
The viscountcy was so recently established, just by his father, and he never had a man of business.
It was a mess, son. I sorted it out, but these things kept happening. Too often to be a coincidence.
Andrew paused. He had to take a break. A breath.
A moment. He chanced a look at Della. She stood at the center of the room, her hands hung loosely near her waist. She was picking at her fingers, twiddling them back and forth.
A nervous habit she’d always had. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her everything would be well.
He wasn’t sure he could, though. Not yet.
I’m certain he knew that I was aware of his dealings.
He was so obvious. So arrogant. He knew that I couldn’t turn him in without losing everything I’d ever worked for.
I wanted to do the right thing, son. I did.
I hope you won’t think ill of me, but I couldn’t let go of everything generations of our family had worked for.
I know that other people suffered at his hand, and I did nothing to stop it.
That is the only regret I’ll take to my grave.
The letter slipped from Andrew’s hands as he choked on what might have been a sob.
Della rushed to his side. He thought she’d reach for the letter.
She reached for him instead. Her arms came around his shoulders, and he wrapped his fingers around her fevered wrist. Della leaned against him, her hip resting on the arm of the chair he sat in. Her head came to rest on top of his.
He’d never had the opportunity to hold her like this, and her swollen hands were the only thing capable of piecing his heart back together. He picked the letter back up and kept reading. He had to, for both of them.
I know you adore that girl, Andrew. That’s why I have to tell you all of this. If you decide that she’s what you want out of this life, you have to get her away from her family.
Do you remember that snake we found out in the garden once when you were just a lad?
Your mother was so worried it would swallow her little boy right up.
You asked me if it was poisonous, and I told you no.
It was venomous. I taught you the difference.
Now, I’m telling you all of this because you need to know that Isaac and Esther Harris are venomous.
No matter what, do not let them sink their teeth into you or anyone you love.
That was the end. Of that letter, anyway.
Andrew sat up straighter, and Della moved with him.
Her skin slipped through his fingers once again and it made him want to howl.
She stood up, leaning her hips against the desk and turning to face him.
Her palms found his shoulders. Her skin was burning, as usual.
He was never sure if that was actually the temperature of her skin or just his body’s fervent reaction to feeling her touch.
“What is it?” she asked. Her eyelids were heavy, dark lashes brushing her flushed cheeks.
“You haven’t been reading?” Andrew asked. He hadn’t been sure if she could, the way she’d left her cheek pillowed against the crown of his head.
“No.” She shook her head. “I was quite busy trying to comfort you.”
He smiled. Always, with Della, he smiled.
“I’m not sure,” he said, finally. His fingers sought out her wrist again, rubbing circles over her skin. “But I think . . .” He took a deep, heaving breath. “I think it might be exactly what we need.”