Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next day was devoted to preparing for the ball, something that Della hadn’t done in nearly a decade.
She hadn’t remembered it being so fun. With her mother, it had always been about rigid posture and impromptu quizzes on how to handle increasingly ridiculous hypothetical social situations.
With Clara and Alice, it was a much louder affair.
They selected fabrics for her gown, they debated on the most comfortable footwear, they contemplated the merits of floral embroidery versus intricate lace for the trim.
It was quite the whirlwind. Della couldn’t believe how fast Alice worked. She thought people must slow down as they age, but Alice was a master of her craft who only seemed to speed up. She spoke as she created, not even watching the motion of her hands. As if it were instinctive.
“Are you sure about this, dear?” she asked, looking Della in the eye. “I don’t want to pressure you. It was only an idea, I can write to Lady Kittredge and—”
“I am sure,” Della answered. They’d had similar conversations at least three times today, and Della said the same thing each time. “I assure you that you did nothing wrong. There’s nothing to feel guilty for. You apologize far too much, as does your son.”
Now that she’d mentioned him, the thought of Andrew weighed on her.
She hadn’t seen him much today, outside of meals where they were immersed in the larger group.
He wasn’t looking at her as he had been before, and she couldn’t pinpoint what was different or why it felt like such a loss.
It seemed she and Alice were both thinking of him. They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Clara burst through the door. She was always so adept at breaking up any bit of lingering quiet.
“I found them!” She proclaimed, jingling a bowl of mismatched buttons. Alice collected them, and she’d sent Clara to her room to fetch some for Della’s gown.
“Thank you, dear.” Alice took the bowl and began sifting through the buttons.
Her evening gown was taking shape around her.
She stood on an old wooden box in front of the looking glass.
Her skirt draped over her waist and hips, flaring out just slightly until it fell over her feet.
It was made of the most beautiful light-pink silk.
Della ran her fingers over the fabric. She didn’t think she’d ever felt something so soft.
The bodice fell over her chest, waiting to be assembled and attached to the skirt.
The neckline was wide, hitting her collarbones and sloping downward.
The sleeves hadn’t been formed yet, but they were short, leaving only a bare expanse of flesh above her matching white silk gloves.
“I am still quite fond of the lace,” Clara said, holding up a strip of ivory bobbin lace in a floral motif. She placed it along the neckline of the gown, though it was structurally unsound and still unsewn.
Della had no jewelry, so they’d set out to make the gown a gem of its own.
She could see the beauty in the lace, but it made her feel too young.
As if she were a debutante again, trying to appear delicate and soft.
It reminded her of her mother, and all the times she’d been told to silence herself rather than contradict a man’s opinion.
It was the last thing she wanted to think about.
“Oh, I know!” Alice jumped up from her seat, setting down one of Della’s in-progress sleeves. “I’ve got just the thing. Excuse me, just one moment.” She left the room in a hurry, and Della took the time to temporarily hold her bodice together, just to see how it might look.
“Are you nervous?” Clara asked. She looked at Della, met her eyes in the looking glass.
Della stepped off the rickety wooden box she’d been standing on.
The uncertain ground had been dangerous to her knees and her lower back.
She carefully extricated herself from her bodice, making sure not to dislodge any of Alice’s hard work.
She unhitched the one temporary button holding her skirt up, and the light fabric fell from her waist. It made a liquid whoosh as it pooled on the floor.
Clara picked it up, laying the dress out on the bed in their guest room.
Della picked up her nightgown and threw it over her head.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Her new gown may be gorgeous, but the thin cotton nightshirt was so much more comfortable.
“I am nervous, yes,” she finally admitted. “I cannot credit why I even want to go, if I am honest with you. I don’t wish to see them or speak to them. I don’t even wish to hold power over them. I have no desire to make them pay for what they’ve done to me.”
Clara sat on the bed, facing the wooden chair they’d dragged in from the kitchen. It seemed to follow Della around the house, and she never noticed why or how, but it was undoubtedly convenient.
“Why, then?” Clara asked. “I want to make them pay. I do not understand why you do not.”
In her mind, it was easy to explain. She couldn’t accurately verbalize it, but it was about her own perspective.
Her own mood. She had a short life to live, and she didn’t want to waste it on negativity.
She had limited energy within each day, and things like hostility and revenge would take so much of it.
“I suppose I’ve missed it,” Della sighed.
She felt vapid and shallow just saying it, admitting that this long-dead part of her life was something she felt deprived of.
“I never really got to have my season . . .” She began picking at her fingernails.
Her mother would be livid. “I thought it might be nice to be someone society cared about again.”
Clara nodded. They sat in silence for a moment, and Della didn’t know what to do. Clara was always humming or singing or talking. The quiet was overwhelming.
“Would you like to go?” Della asked her. “To the ball, I mean.”
“Oh good heavens, no.” Clara laughed. “Could you imagine? Me at a ball. I don’t think so. You know the aristocracy makes me itch.”
Della had thought as much. She did repeat that sentiment often, about being allergic to the rich.
She’d just wanted to offer Clara the opportunity.
Clara deserved her moment, too. In theory, she more than deserved to be introduced to the world and paraded around a ballroom.
In all reality, though, she would despise every aspect of that experience.
“Very well.” Della smiled. “Would you mind, then, if I asked you for a favor?”
“Of course not.” Clara leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Her new outfit made her look more formal, but her posture couldn’t be more relaxed if she tried.
“Would you and Harry mind terribly if I sent you back to Westfield Manor ahead of me? Just to inform everyone that they are more than welcome to come with us to Kinloss? They may also stay and remain employed by my parents, of course, but I would much prefer everyone join me.”
Della hoped she’d be a better employer than they were. It would be difficult to be worse.
“And you could prepare our things for the move.” It was a terribly big request, she knew. “Assuming you are planning to come with me,” Della stuttered. She hadn’t even thought about the alternative. “You do not have to, of course, I just hoped—”
“Of course I’m coming with you.” Clara said.
Della breathed a sigh of relief. “Once we make such a scene at the ball, I don’t trust my parents not to descend on the manor and try to ensure we leave with nothing but the clothes on our backs. If you and Harry could go ahead—”
“Oh,” Clara leaned back again, her spine straightening in what looked like surprise. “Me and Harry? Alone?”
“Is that a problem?” Della asked, gently. She wasn’t sure what was going on between the two, but she didn’t want to make either of them uncomfortable. “We can make other arrangements—it’s no trouble at all.”
“No, no,” Clara insisted. She stood up and began pacing their little room.
“I was just . . . surprised. Harry and I haven’t discussed .
. . well, we haven’t discussed anything.
I was always planning to go wherever you go, but I don’t know .
. .” She sank to the carpet at the foot of the bed.
“What do I do if he doesn’t want to go?”
Della heard what she wasn’t saying. She didn’t know how to respond.
“Just . . .” Della sighed. “Talk to him, all right? You must talk to him.”
Clara nodded. The door opened, Alice walking in at a much slower pace than Clara had. She walked much slower than she sewed.
“You must do the same,” Clara warned. That one brow of hers arched up in challenge.
“I found it,” Alice walked to where the half-finished dress lay on the bed.
She began placing little bits of beaded fabric here and there.
One piece draped across the hem of the bodice like a sash, another few scattered across the sleeves.
Each of the beads caught the low light they were working in, and it was dazzling.
The fabric itself was a nude lace, and the beads were a dark golden bronze.
“I made a wedding gown for the strangest young lady, years and years ago. She was an heiress of some kind. I don’t remember.
She must be old enough to have children of marrying age by now, if she were ever so blessed. ”
Della and Clara listened as she began to ramble. It reminded Della of Andrew, all the seemingly random things he’d said in the carriage just to make her feel better.
“Anyway, she had more money than God himself, and she wanted this strange gown of vivid orange silk with dark beading all over. None of the modistes would make such a thing, even for her and all of her riches. But I had a young son to feed, so I took the job. The gowns were much bigger back in those days, not these slim silhouettes you young ladies are wearing now. I sewed each bead on myself, and I couldn’t bear to throw away the scraps. ”
“They’re beautiful,” Della ran her fingers over the delicate beadwork. “But you cannot use them on me, surely if you’ve been saving them all these years you must use them for something special.”
“Oh, my dear,” Alice patted her cheek, as she’d seen her do to Andrew yesterday. “I promise, you are something special.”
Della had only moments to absorb that statement before Clara spoke.
“And you must use them, Della. They match your walking stick!”