Chapter Forty
Della had never been so overwhelmed in all her life.
Kinloss was a massive, sprawling estate, and she was suddenly its owner.
Clara had worked miracles assuring all of their belongings made the journey safely, and she continued to work them as they unpacked it all.
Where Clara and Harry were methodically sorting everything out and Mrs. Goldsmith had already taken off to assemble the kitchen, Della stood in the hall in a daze.
It felt as if the home spun around her, so awash with activity, and she stayed stagnant.
She wasn’t necessarily immobile in a physical sense.
She could move, she supposed. She simply had no notion of where to go.
“I took the liberty of . . . preparing some things. Just dusting off the furniture and airing out the rooms. Perhaps I should not have, but I arrived—” Andrew spoke lowly, as if he didn’t want to be overheard.
“Andrew.” Despite the sinking discomfort in her chest, Della smirked. “Do not apologize. Please do not make me say it again.”
He smiled, too, and some of the weight fell off of her shoulders.
She didn’t know how to do this—to talk to him.
Even the confrontation with her parents hadn’t felt so high stakes.
Nothing had ever been as important as this moment, this second chance with him, and she had no idea where to start.
She could tell him not to apologize, though, so that’s what she did.
“How did you arrive so early?” she asked him. It was the shock of her life to find him standing there right outside her coach, but she hadn’t stopped long enough to think how such a thing was even possible.
“I left shortly after you did.” He chuckled, a dark, self-deprecating sound. “As soon as I could, really. Nearly ran out of the house without my trousers on.”
Della shook her head. While the mental image was undoubtedly funny, she was puzzled. Her letter had made it clear that whatever they were to be, it was up to him. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that she was his, and she didn’t see a reason for him to rush across the country to find her.
“Why?” Della asked finally. She felt her brows knit up in confusion. Behind her, up the stairs, she heard Clara and Harry shouting something unintelligible back and forth. She heard a laugh, so she assumed it wasn’t something too serious.
“What do you mean, why?” His own brows met in the middle of his face, and he leaned in closer, as if they were whispering secrets in the middle of the grand hall.
“I . . . I needed an explanation. You left, without saying goodbye, and I needed to know why. And I had these plans to bring flowers and call on you, ask to begin a courtship with the lady of the house.” Andrew rolled his eyes.
She didn’t know if that bit of rudeness was for her or himself.
“But that felt so forward, to turn up to the home of a baroness uninvited and attempt to court her. I am not nearly that bold, but I wanted to do this properly, Della. Everything except asking for your father’s permission.
I would sooner fall on my own sword. And I don’t even have a sword—”
“Wait,” Della interrupted. She put her hands up in front of her as if in defense.
He was speaking too fast. Her calm, staid man had become intensely frazzled.
She almost didn’t recognize him, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening here.
What was he talking about? “I did leave without a goodbye, and for that I am so dearly sorry.”
Andrew tried to protest. She knew it was about their rule against apologizing, but this one was warranted. She’d never needed to apologize more for anything else in her life.
“I left, but I did give you an explanation.” Della felt her own brows knit up in confusion. “Or at least, I thought I did. I thought it was an explanation. I thought it was enough. And you must know by now, Andrew, that I do not require courtship . . . or even propriety.”
Andrew stood in silence for long moments, and Della knew there were things happening around them, but neither moved.
She was stagnant again, but this time, he was with her.
Right in front of her, staring with a quizzical, perplexed expression that she didn’t often see.
He was such a deeply intelligent man. He could predict novels’ dramatic endings and anticipate the outcomes of court proceedings.
She always felt he was one step ahead of everyone else.
Now, he was at her side, both literally and figuratively, and they were both dumbfounded.
“I believe we need to sit,” he said, taking her arm and steering her in a direction she’d yet to go within the house.
They came to a large sitting room outfitted in dated but classic damask wallpaper in a light rose gold.
It was distinctly feminine, and Della took a moment to appreciate her late mother’s taste.
It was an odd thing to do, to come to appreciate someone she’d never truly had a chance to meet.
Sitting in this room, Della had a feeling she and the former baroness were somewhat alike.
She had a feeling that she would’ve liked her very much.
“This is a room for sitting, yes?” Andrew asked.
Della nodded. There was nothing else to do.
He continued to steer her in the direction of a large settee covered in a light-pink silk.
She sat. He paced. It was interesting for Della, watching someone else move about a room in an effort to calm themselves, in the way she and Clara so often did.
If she weren’t so exhausted, she’d stand back up and join him.
It would soothe her, matching his steps and tracing patterns in the carpet with their feet.
Mentally, it would calm her. Physically, it would further destroy an already-debilitated body.
She’d done too much of that already lately.
“I do not know what you are speaking of,” Andrew finally said. He marched laps around the room with one hand on his hip and the other chewing on the back of his thumbnail. Even though Della sat, she picked at her own nails in a similar motion.
“Well, about that at least, we have an understanding.” Della let out an almost rueful chuckle. “But how is it that neither you nor I know anything about a matter that’s exclusively between the two of us?”
Andrew sat, finally. He placed himself on the sofa opposite her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“I’ve no idea,” he muttered. His voice was muffled by those hands, and they drew Della’s line of sight. It wouldn’t do for her to be thinking about them. It wasn’t helpful or productive, but she couldn’t stop.
They sat in silence for what must have been half an eternity. Besides the building tension between them, it was quite comfortable. Della felt that overwhelming peace again, and she found that she liked the sight of him in this setting. This was home—in a room and a person and a feeling.
“So.” Andrew stood up again abruptly. He began to pace, walking closer and closer to her with each lap he took.
“Here is what I cannot grasp.” He took a deep breath, and he looked over at her in a quick, fleeting glance, as if to make sure she was paying attention.
That made Della want to laugh, the idea that he could ever be right in front of her and she wouldn’t be paying attention.
“You left.” He stopped walking. That fleeting glance turned into a soul-baring stare. “But you mentioned an explanation.”
“Yes,” Della nodded. “In my letter, I wrote—”
“Letter?” Andrew’s face tightened up even more as he interrupted her, and Della hadn’t thought that possible. “What letter? I know we’ve exchanged many, but—”
“Oh, no,” Della gasped. She stood up. Where he’d now stopped his frantic walking, she resumed hers.
“You did not get my letter.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.
Della had never felt such guilt or shame, even though those emotions were prevalent enough in her upbringing to symbolize them as part of the Morley crest.
“I don’t suppose I did.” Andrew leaned back, then he let himself slump against the sofa again. “You wrote me a letter? Before you left?” His voice had gone soft, almost broken.
“Oh no,” she repeated, just realizing all that this meant. “Your mother must think so little of me, to have left her home without a word.”
“You wrote my mother a letter too?” he asked, his brows shooting up nearly to his hairline.
“Of course!” Della despaired. She resumed her pacing. “I had to thank her for her hospitality and her support and her compassion. I would not have left without doing so. And I left the letters right on the writing desk. I assumed you’d see them. Someone would see them, anyway.”
“Ah.” Andrew’s head fell. Della couldn’t tell if he was blushing or if that was simply a shadow over his face. “That explains it. I’m sure she did find them, then. I simply did not . . . stop to look. I told you, my departure from the house was rather hasty.”
Oh. So he was blushing, then. He looked almost embarrassed. There was no reason for that. No reason at all.
“Wait.” Della halted her movements as soon as she realized. “So you . . . you thought I’d left without a goodbye, and you still came chasing after me?” Now her voice was broken, her eyes once again on the verge of tears.
“Of course,” he answered quietly. “Would you . . . would you tell me what you wrote? In the letter?”
She took one step closer to the window, away from him.
She turned her head to face the fading sun.
Somehow, all of that had been so much easier to write than to say.
Her heart was so much better at expressing itself in writing.
But all she’d wanted for weeks was one more chance to actually speak to him this way.
He was giving her an opportunity she felt she did not deserve, but she would absolutely take it.