Chapter Twenty-Five
Della slept fitfully.
She and Clara had shared the lovely guest room, while Harry was across the hall and she assumed Andrew and Mrs. Lockhart were in their usual chambers.
All of that would’ve been well and good had Clara not been so violent in her sleep.
She’d relaxed into slumber immediately, and Della had lay awake, staring at the ceiling and absorbing repeated kicks to her shins underneath the blankets.
In the middle of the night, she realized if she cared to confirm that Clara and Harry were intimately involved, all she had to do was check Harry’s calves for heel-shaped bruises.
When she awoke, she was stiff and aching.
That was not unusual, especially after all she’d put her poor, fragile body through in the past few days.
She spent long moments stretching, ultimately rendering her body mobile again while Clara snored.
Once she could stand, she paced slow laps about the room.
Della dressed quietly, only running her warm fingers through her hair in an effort to tame it.
Clara was the only one capable of such a feat, and Della didn’t want to wake her.
She figured she could see to herself for one morning. Clara more than deserved her rest.
It was nice, actually, to walk down the hallway of the Lockharts’ home with her hair flowing freely down her back.
Even if she looked a fright, the breeze fluttering about her neck was calming.
She tried to walk on the tips of her toes to be quiet, but her feet were tragically unable to sustain that effort.
She quickly realized that she hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going.
Everything about the house looked different in the light of day, and all she knew to do was head toward the front room she’d been in the day before.
Within a few steps, she began to smell something.
This was another pleasant sensation, walking through a house small enough for the aromas of breakfast to waft throughout all the rooms.
Della followed the scent, thinking that she’d at least find someone to direct her elsewhere.
Instead, she found Andrew. He appeared to be cooking, creating those very smells that had led her there.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man cook before.
Della didn’t even know how to do so herself.
Her body froze for a moment, as if she couldn’t process what she saw.
Her stomach grumbled. Her mouth ran dry.
She had the oddest urge to lick her lips.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t. She had the sense that it was inappropriate, somehow. Even if she didn’t know exactly how or why. Della cleared her throat, making herself known.
He didn’t hear her. He was too busy humming a strange tune as he worked.
“Good morning,” she said finally. Her voice was overly loud, and he dropped whatever he’d been holding.
A tea towel, it seemed. It was charming, how his penchant for disorder extended into the kitchen.
There were potato peelings everywhere. Scraps of vegetables lined the counter he worked on.
It seemed he’d taken every utensil from its place along the wall in front of him.
They all lay scattered about in a path between him and the hearth.
A natural born mess, her Andrew.
If she thought she’d enjoyed the simple pleasure of walking around with her hair unkempt, she vastly underestimated the impact the rest of the morning would have.
Even watching the expanse of his shoulders flex under a flowing navy shirt was a wonder.
The way he moved held her in rapt attention, and when he turned around to face her, he did the most dangerous thing in the world. He smiled.
His curls were falling all over the face that his grin absolutely took over.
Since they’d become reacquainted, Della had thought most of Andrew’s smiles to be shy.
They were gentle expressions of feeling.
Little gifts he’d bestow upon everyone. This wasn’t that.
This was the smile she remembered from her childhood.
There was no shyness there, only an open and free kind of joy that she’d been missing for so long.
It wasn’t gentle, either. Della’s heart raced away from her.
It was such a swift departure that she nearly fell over.
She felt like she could almost see it, beating out of her chest in an effort to be closer to him.
“Good morning,” he said.
There was a silence as Della tried to collect herself. She didn’t know why it all felt so important, she was just seeing the man occupying his own home. It was hardly revolutionary. She couldn’t understand why it seemed to be.
“Something smells delicious,” she finally managed to say. She was still standing awkwardly near the middle of the room. She hadn’t managed to move a muscle since she’d walked in.
“I’m starting a stew for dinner,” he told her, looking around as if seeing the half-destroyed kitchen for the first time. “That’s the reason for all of the . . .” He gestured to the debris around him.
“Mess?” Della suggested.
“Yes,” Andrew smiled. “The mess.”
He turned fully from his workstation, looking her up and down as if seeing her for the first time. From her bare feet to the frizzed ends of her hair.
“You look lovely this morning,” he said.
There was the return of that shy smile, and Della realized she treasured that one, too.
That grin and his words really were a gift.
She felt her own mouth lift in return, and she looked away to stare down at her wiggling, swollen toes.
Della was quite sure she’d never received such a bewildering compliment.
Della thought she might be blushing, but surely that was another symptom of her illness. It was odd for only her face to feel fevered, though.
“Please, sit,” he gestured to the one wooden chair in the corner of the room. It was at that moment that she realized he was still wielding a knife. “I haven’t started on breakfast yet.”
“That’s all right,” Della sat, arranging the skirts of the gown she’d worn yesterday over her knees. “I’m not hungry. I don’t usually feel my best this early in the mornings.”
In fact, she was not usually awake. At Westfield Manor, she enjoyed the luxury of a late morning.
It was everyone else who rose early to begin their days.
The quiet and soft sunlight were peaceful, she realized.
Though the scene in front of her missed Clara’s vibrancy and Harry’s stoic presence by the door, Della felt a staggering sense of homesickness.
As if she were experiencing something for the first time that she should’ve experienced for years.
As if she’d been robbed of thousands of tranquil mornings just like this one. With him.
“When do you feel your best?” he asked, returning to his work.
Della watched him, as she always did. Though he created a monumental array of scraps and rubbish, his movements were sharp and thorough.
The thinly diced vegetables he tossed into the pot to his right were in pristine, uniform shapes.
It was fascinating to her, how he could be so chaotic and so precise all at the same time.
“Oh,” she tried to answer him when she realized she’d spent too long staring at his hands. “When I’m lounging in the sun, I suppose. It’s not particularly good for my condition, but I do enjoy it.”
He turned to face her. He even put down the shearing knife.
“I’m sure you’ll spend lots of time in the gardens at Kinloss, then.” His face had grown so giddy, almost overly excited. Della couldn’t be more confused.
“Kinloss?” she asked. She’d never heard the word before, and she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Oh, Della.” His face fell. “I am so sorry, I . . .” Andrew took measured steps toward her, extending a hand out in front of him as he reached the chair where she sat.
“I’ve been so wrapped up in all of this, I’ve forgotten myself.
I never meant for you to be the last to know anything.
I . . .” His voice halted. She wrapped her fingers around his.
“I suppose it feels like you know everything I know. You’re always the first person I want to talk about anything with.
I forget that I don’t always have that opportunity. ”
She wanted him to, so desperately. To always have the opportunity to talk to her, about anything that mattered and anything that didn’t.
“I thought we’d discussed this. No more apologizing.” Della squeezed his fingers.
That smile of his rose like the sun, and she was woefully unprepared for seeing it again so soon. She needed more time to recover.
“I promise I will tell you everything I know,” he told her.
He tugged on her hand, and she rose to standing, his other arm coming across her back.
It was a gesture of support, she told herself.
There was nothing overly important about him standing this close, where the hem of her gown brushed the toes of his boots.
There was simply nothing to the warmth he brought her or the sense of eternal safety she felt in his presence.
It was all friendly and relaxed, so she should be unaffected.
She should remain levelheaded and not let herself get swept away in the fantasy she saw in the haven of his arms.
“Della?” he asked.
Oh, right. He’d been speaking. She managed to interrupt her own focus while he was mid-sentence, drifting off into the haze of her over-complicated thoughts and feelings.
“Could you repeat that?” she responded. He was still holding her, their collective posture almost like they were dancing.
“I said I would tell you everything I know.” He suddenly looked much more serious, and she didn’t welcome the shift in his expression.
It didn’t align with the wonderful fantasy she’d been building as they stood here so intertwined.
“Everything,” he emphasized. “And then there’s somewhere I have to go. Would you come with me?”
“Of course,” she answered instinctively.
He tugged on her hand again, leading her out of the room. She didn’t care where they were going. Finally, finally, someone was going to tell her what was going on.