She looked up at Clara, who had yet to shed that casual air. Della wondered how she could possibly not be roused by this, the best kind of emergency.
“Oh. Well.” Clara picked up the letter from the carpet. “You did not answer me before. Must I go change?”
Chapter Seven
This was quitepossibly the most impulsive thing Andrew had ever done. He was a calm, rational person. He considered the consequences of his actions before he did things. Especially significant things. Except for fleeing the country eight years ago and spending most of a decade abroad, but that had been about Della, too. Something about her made him impulsive, and something about his own impulsivity felt dangerous.
His journey to the countryside had been rather pleasant, as he was used to traveling and had seen much worse accommodations than traveling inns and the mail coach. It was only as he made his final approach to Westfield Manor that he began to doubt himself.
He took the stone stairs two at a time, and he waited at the door. Stared at the tops of his boots. Suddenly they didn’t feel shiny enough, even though they were brand new. Even in his own mind, he chastised himself. No one would give a passing thought to his boots. Nor should they expect him to be in perfect order after such a journey, but he wanted to be. He fiddled with his coat. Made sure his waistcoat was properly buttoned. He’d skipped a button exactly once in his life, but the embarrassment stayed with him, and the idea that he could look like such a fool in front of Della was unimaginable.
The door flew open. It was all very sudden, both the motion itself and the chaos that seemed to erupt out of the house in its wake.
“Bloody hell, Clara,” Andrew heard. It was a masculine voice. Certainly not that of the slight lady who appeared in the doorway.
Though she was small in stature, her smile was quite frankly terrifying.
“We have discussed this. You are not to open the door.Iopen the door,” the man’s voice continued. “There could be all manner of danger out there, and you’d run headlong into it—”
The man finally appeared, standing behind the woman. She was little and frightening. He was enormous and somehow still not as formidable.
“Terribly sorry, sir,” the man said, stepping back and pulling the woman with him by a gloved hand on each of her upper arms. He must be the butler, then. He didn’t know why anyone else would be so attached to the simple act of opening the door.
“You must be Andrew Lockhart,” the woman said, as she let herself be pulled away. Her eyes were wide with excitement, and it was only then that Andrew noticed how strangely she was dressed. He was almost certain that was a man’s shirt, and she wore a divided skirt, as if she were going riding. Her hair was unbound as well, and a bit of a mess.
“I am,” he agreed, because he was, but he had no idea what he’d just walked into.
“Wonderful!” She took his arm, as if they were taking a turn about the room at a London ball. The butler actually growled, which was objectively terrifying. It was enough to make Andrew take a half step in the other direction.
He did not want to be rude, but he would appreciate some context, or some idea of what was going on here.
“And you are?” he asked the both of them.
“Oh,” she laughed, patting his elbow where her arm was threaded through his. “I’m so sorry, we do not receive many guests. I suppose we are out of practice.”
She started to steer him toward the grand staircase, and the butler followed. It was entirely possible Andrew was being lured to his doom. Even so, he went willingly. There didn’t seem to be another choice.
“I am Clara, Della’s maid.” She took to the stairs, climbing each step so fast that Andrew struggled to keep up. It was deeply impressive for someone with such short legs. At some point, Andrew realized she wasn’t even wearing shoes or stockings. He was sure he’d never met such a lightning bolt of a person. “Oh, wait. You don’t call her something awful likeMiss Harris, do you?” she said, her tone shifting into something mocking as she said Della’s proper name.
“I assure you I do not call her something awful.” He laughed, just at the absurdity of it all. “She has always been Della to me.”
Clara nodded, as if in approval. They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Andrew hadn’t even a moment to look around. She dropped his arm, then turned around to face a closed door.
“And the large man towering behind me is Harry.” She gestured toward him, where he stood near the top of the staircase. He also nodded, this time as if in recognition. “Though you may call him Mr. Stanton if you wish. He values things like formality and politeness that I do not.”
Mr. Stanton nodded again. He stood there at the banister with his gloved hands folded in front of him. The picture of propriety. Andrew did not have significant experience with butlers, but he thought it was often their policy to make themselves scarce in situations like these. Instead, there he remained, watching Clara—Andrew really wished he knew her last name so he could address her properly—with a casual but intense interest.
“Now, I do fear Della might kill me for what I am about to do, but I have already decided to do it.” Clara was one for dramatics, apparently. He couldn’t imagine that—Della harming anyone—but he hadn’t seen her in eight years. Perhaps she’d become ill-tempered. Andrew turned his head toward Mr. Stanton. The look they shared assured himthat Mr. Stanton was remaining in the general area should any attempted murder occur. Andrew had a feeling that the butler would not allow even the slightest harm to befall Clara. Andrew was oddly jealous of that—knowing without a doubt you would always be there for someone you cared about. Even if they were about to do something ill-advised. He’d never had that ability. He’d never known he wanted it.
“And what are you about to do?” Andrew asked, hoping for some kind of warning, or any indication that this entire situation was not something his mind had concocted in the throes of a fever.
“Never mind that.” She waved a hand in his direction. Her other hand held the doorknob, as if she were poised to throw the door wide open. “Before we go in, Della is feeling poorly today, and I must ask that you not be difficult about it.”
“Of course not,” Andrew scoffed. “I assumed Della feels poorly nearly every day, and I hope I have never been difficult about it.”
Clara nodded in approval again. Andrew felt like he was in the middle of some impromptu examination, and he needed to pass in order to see what was behind that door. Who was behind that door, he should say.
“Forgive my boldness,” Clara said. “I only try to protect her. When I can. You know her family?” Her tone indicated that was a question, rather than a statement of fact.
