“How are you this morning?” Della asked her, partially relaxed by the horrors of the day being over, and still partially angry at what hadtranspired. What had been said. Her muscles should be loosening, and instead, they were still held tight in frustration.
“I’m well,” Gwendoline nodded, the blonde hair framing her face jostling with the movement.
Della was about to send her to the library to retrieve the books they used in their lessons, when she had a better idea.
“Would you mind terribly if we skipped our lesson today? And we simply had a chat, instead?” she asked her. Della found that she’d never really spoken all that much to Gwen, not about anything that mattered, besides the lessons she taught her.
Gwen nodded again, this time hesitantly.
“I did not see the doctor today because I am unwell,” Della tried to explain. “Not acutely, anyway. I am ill, as I’m sure you know. I have pain all through my body that has lasted for years, and it will linger for all of my days.”
“I understand that,” Gwen said, wringing her hands together where they sat in her lap. She appeared uncomfortable, and Della hated to be the cause of it. She hated that even talking about these things made everyone so uneasy.
“So I see the doctor once a year. He attends me, makes his notes, and reports to my mother.”
“Your mother?” Gwen’s face twisted in suspicion. Della noticed she was rather pale, as she often was. She worried about her.
“Yes,” Della laughed, something bitter and forlorn. “I’m afraid we don’t all have excellent mothers like yours.”
She didn’t want to talk about the viscountess. She wasn’t even sure why she’d brought it up. Perhaps because an indignant rage still simmered in her blood, lingering where the flutter of her pulse beat against the skin of her neck. Even the high collar of her dress felt hot with that particular rancor.
“She is an excellent mother.” Gwen averted her eyes. She picked at a stray thread in the embroidery on her dress. They were simple,gorgeous flowers made out of the delicate thread she’d sewn into the muslin. “I am lucky to be here with her. With you.”
“We are lucky to have you.” Della smiled. “I don’t know anyone else who would make trousers short enough to fit Clara.”
Gwen giggled, met her eyes once again.
“It is always so interesting, what Miss Clara asks of me. I believe now she’s wanting a pair of loose trousers made out of the fabric we’d use for a nightgown. It seems so odd to want to wear trousers to bed.Mendon’t even wear trousers to bed.”
Della laughed, but she did wonder how Gwen knew what men were wearing to bed these days. She wouldn’t ask, but she wondered.
“I think that’s a delightful idea. Seems wonderfully comfortable, perhaps even for lounging about the house. I should like a pair myself.”
“Of course.” Gwen nodded seriously. So serious, their Gwen. She was too young to be so... burdened.
“Is that what you’d like to do?” Della asked. “In the future. Work as a dressmaker?”
Gwendoline froze, her fingers stilling against the middle of one embroidered flower. She’d been running her hands over each one, tracing the pattern she’d sewn. Della cursed herself for opening her mouth. This was what happened when she didn’t think her words to death before she spoke them.
“I...” Gwen looked at her, and those soft eyes were rather afraid. “I am not certain.”
Della thought to speak again, to tell her it wasn’t important, they didn’t have to talk about this now, it was all right if she didn’t have a plan for the rest of her life. Remarkably, Gwen kept speaking.
“I mean, yes. That is what I’d like to do.” She balled her fingers into fists and that pale face turned an almost frightening shade of red. “I just do not know if I can. I don’t know if I am... able.”
Her voice broke on the last word, and immediately, Dellaunderstood. She’d long suspected what Gwen had just seemed to confirm. That was something about being ill, it allowed her to sense illness in other people. To notice the signs, even when they tried to hide them. That pale countenance couldn’t be hidden.
“Have you fallen ill?” Della asked simply. She was not one to speak in riddles and metaphors. She wanted direct confirmation of the topic they were discussing, however delicate it may be.
“I am not sure, Miss Della.” Gwen sighed. Her rigid posture fell all at once, and she sank into the oversized armchair as if it were a warm bath. “So often, I think it must be a problem of my own creation. That it must just exist in my own mind.”
Della nodded, for she knew that exact feeling all too well.
“I thought the same thing, dear.” Della shifted her own posture, as her various bones and joints were beginning to stiffen. She attempted to cross one leg over the other, as she’d seen Clara do so easily. That took the pressure off of one hip but put it all on the other. Even more deeply uncomfortable than her last position. Della righted herself again, crossing her legs at the ankles instead.
Gwen’s eyes met hers, and she saw the face of true solidarity. An understanding borne of shared experience.
“I thought that everyone had weak ankles. That all hips were structurally unsound. That all knees burned as if with fever.” The more Della recounted the days of her youth, the more pain she remembered. It was all so easy to brush off when she’d been swimming and running and sneaking out her bedroom window to look at the stars. “It was not until I couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time that I ever considered something was amiss.”
