Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“Congratulations, my dear.” Alice brushed past Clara to envelop Della in a hug.
She was so warm and comforting, Della almost started to cry again.
That wouldn’t do. All of that negative emotion was exhausting.
It simply wasn’t good for her to be so overwrought.
“I am so deeply sorry about your parents.” Alice spoke as if they were dead, and Della supposed in a way, they were.
Her lavender gown seemed all too appropriate.
“I cannot credit what they’ve done to you.
As a mother, to want anything less than the best for your child .
. . I simply don’t understand.” She shook her head.
Her arms still held on to Della, and she seemed unwilling to let go.
“Supper is—” Andrew stuck his head around the corner, his voice abruptly stopping when he saw Della.
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d woken up. Did you sleep well, Lady Kinloss?
” His grin was impish and almost shy. Della nearly swooned at the sight of those dimples.
Her heart had been through too much today.
She truly couldn’t handle anything more.
“Not you, too,” she groaned.
“Supper is ready.” He smiled again, instead of answering. His mother left the room heading toward the kitchen. She patted his cheek as she passed him. Clara and Harry followed, the rhythm of conversation and laughter picking back up.
“You didn’t answer me,” Andrew murmured as she stepped toward him. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did.” She nodded. “I cannot believe how exhausted I was.”
They walked toward the kitchen. Della took a daring step to her left, sliding into a path far too close to him.
She felt empowered by it. Sometime in her sleep, she’d made a decision.
Rather than focus on what she’d lost, she would think only of what she’d gained.
She may suddenly have a title, a home, and a new purpose, but at this moment, what she treasured most was this new closeness to the man next to her.
Everyone filled their plates, and they settled around the small kitchen table.
There wasn’t a formal dining room, and Della found that she liked the comfort of eating in a more casual setting.
She ate quietly, absorbing the pleasant conversation happening around her.
It was a relief to not be the center of attention, to have everyone discussing mundane things like the weather and how polluted the air actually was in the heart of London compared to the countryside.
After a day of being spoken over and having her future decided for her, Della appreciated the uneventful dinner talk.
She was so busy in her own thoughts and tucking into her delicious roasted vegetables—Andrew really was an excellent cook—that she only noticed the lack of conversation once they’d abandoned the table and retired to the front room.
As she sat, she began to feel everyone’s eyes on her.
“What?” Della looked around the room. They were all looking at her curiously, as if waiting for something. An answer to a question she hadn’t heard anyone ask, perhaps. Maybe there was just a bit of food on her face. “What is the matter?”
Across the room, Andrew sighed. He crossed one ankle over his other knee. His mother’s furniture in this room was so delicate, he seemed out of place. Like a horse lying down in a bed meant for a pampered dog.
“They were speaking to you,” Andrew said. His brow was furrowed and his posture tense. She’d thought it was just the discomfort of the chair, but now she sensed the discomfort of the situation. “About a ridiculous idea of theirs, which they decided to enact without your knowledge or permission.”
Della looked directly to Clara. If there were any preposterous ideas, she would always assume they came from her.
Clara sat on one end of the sofa next to Harry.
Her legs were crossed over one another and she wore a pair of those flowing trousers she favored and a bodice Della had never seen before.
It was like the top half of a gown, fitted to her waist and highlighting her collarbones.
It seemed to be made out of a damask-patterned silk in a deep midnight blue.
Not dissimilar from the elegant upholstery they sat on.
Now that she thought about it, Della realized she hadn’t seen those trousers before, either.
They were a matching navy blue in a diaphanous linen.
Despite the fact that she wore trousers, Clara had never looked so ladylike.
It made Della deeply suspicious. She could feel her eyes narrow as she looked at them.
“I’m afraid it was my idea, dear,” Alice spoke up, holding a glass of water she’d carried in from the kitchen to Della as if in a toast. “I took your friends on a tour of the town, and we did a bit of shopping. We stopped into the modiste’s.
She always saves her scraps for me, and I used to work with her mother. ”
Alice continued speaking, and Della listened, although she had no idea what any of this had to do with her. She spared a glance at Andrew, and he looked to be full of trepidation. He kept rubbing the skin above his eyebrows, like he was trying to soften the lines forming there.
“Did you make this, then?” Della asked, gesturing to Clara’s new ensemble.
“I did,” Alice smiled.
“It’s beautiful,” Della complimented. She’d never noticed, but the dark blue was a lovely color on Clara. “And you made it all in one afternoon? That’s quite impressive.”
“Well, thank you, dear.” Alice smiled again. “Clara was telling me about these trousers she wears so often, and I’d been wanting to see if I could make some myself. It’s not so difficult. I could make you a pair if you’d like.”
“Mother,” Andrew chastised. His cheeks were blushing as if she were embarrassing him. Della was unfortunately still confused. Surely this grand idea of theirs was about more than making her a pair of trousers?
“Yes, sorry.” Alice leaned forward in her chair, turning her body to face Della. She placed her glass down on the side table between her and where Clara sat on the edge of the sofa. “I may have done something foolish. And you have every right to be cross with me.”
Oh, dear God. Della sat her own plate and glass down, just to prevent her from dropping them in shock or outrage or whatever other emotion the next few moments were about to invoke.
“Clara and I were roaming about the milliner’s, and we happened to overhear Lady Kittredge discussing her upcoming ball.
She was looking for a hair ribbon to match her gown, and I stopped to offer my help.
I made the gown, you see. She is the only one I make ball gowns for anymore, because the other modistes love to put her in the worst things. ”
Della nodded, though she still had no earthly idea where Alice was going with this.
“She’s newly married,” Alice continued. “A young lady like yourself, and she’s not of noble birth.
This is the first event she’s hosted, and she’s very eager to make a good impression on society.
I’m sure everyone will be in attendance in an effort to ridicule her for the crime of being born a part of the working class.
” Her voice took on an indignant air. Della had never known Alice to be so . . . forward.
“With all due respect, Mother, you are taking an awfully long time to get to the point.” Andrew seemed agonized, and his anxiety magnified hers. It wasn’t that she wasn’t enjoying the story of their trip through Mayfair; Della was simply scared of the turns it would take.
“You’re right, darling.” Alice sighed. “I may have . . . suggested . . . that inviting a newly minted Scottish baroness who was once a debutante who disappeared from society years ago might make the Kittredge ball a bit more . . . memorable.”
“Oh, no.” Della gasped. “You didn’t?” That was truly a ridiculous idea if she’d ever heard one. Absolutely ludicrous. There was simply no way.
“Imagine it, Della.” Clara leaned so far forward she nearly fell off the sofa.
“I’m sure your parents will be there, leading the charge to find fault in Lady Kittredge.
Something wrong with the dinner napkins, or the waltz played before the reel.
But when you walk in, everyone will be talking about them.
About how they haven’t mentioned you and why you arrived on your own.
They could be the object of society’s ire for once. ”
At Clara’s impassioned speech, Della’s mind flashed back over eight years, to the way her parents had spoken to her once they’d realized she wasn’t going to get better.
Della had hardly processed the doctor’s emphatic statement that she’d be ill as long as she lived when they’d told her she had to go.
They hadn’t implored her to understand. They hadn’t cried or expressed any sort of emotion at all.
It was as if it were a foregone conclusion.
Della was sick, so she couldn’t stay. Her illness was not something they could subject polite society to.
Della herself could subject them to it, though.
Even if Della couldn’t, the Right Honorable the Baroness of Kinloss very well could.
There was power in her name now, in her presence.
She would make a scene as soon as she was announced, and perhaps that would make Lady Kittredge’s life a bit easier.
Perhaps it would allow her parents to feel some of the shame they’d put her through for years.
She hadn’t wanted revenge, but now that she was being offered the opportunity on a silver platter . . .
“What would I wear?” Della asked.
“Come with me,” Alice jumped out of her seat. Clara followed, clapping her hands and emitting a sound of excitement that didn’t sound quite human.
They each grabbed one of Della’s hands, pulling her to her feet and sweeping her out of the room. She chanced a glance over her shoulder at Andrew. His gaze caught hers.
He appeared oddly devastated.