But not for Della. She had to remind herself of that, sometimes.
Clara did not skip back to her side, she ran. It was unladylike, even for her. Della knew there could only be one emergency that inspired this sudden rush of chaos. Harry did not shout, and Clara did not run. Unless... Clara reached her side with such force they both nearly toppled over into the grass. Della would not have been able to get back up.
“It’s your parents, Miss Harris.” Clara gripped Della’s arms, already resorting to that sense of formality they both despised. “They’re on their way here.”
Clara sighed.
“Well, I suppose you had better find your shoes.”
Chapter Two
When Della nextsaw Clara, she was properly dressed. She was almost unrecognizable with her dark muslin dress and her hair pinned back. The clothing could be overlooked with a bit of effort, but the darkened nature of Clara’s spirit could not.
“When are they to arrive?” Della asked. She was attempting to get out of bed and actually succeeding, which was a rare occurrence.
“The viscount and viscountess should arrive tomorrow, Miss Harris.” Clara dipped into a curtsy, and Della wanted to roar.
“You know you needn’t do all this for me.” She gestured to Clara’s appearance. Her behavior was off-putting like this. The person in front of her was not Della’s best friend. She seemed to have been replaced by an imposter.
“I know.” Clara shook her head. “But it is good practice.”
Della stood up on her own, a feat not always possible first thing in the morning. She felt bad for summoning Clara; she really didn’t need the help.
“Are you still feeling well?” Clara pulled a day gown out of the armoire without being asked. Della was not fond of the stiffness of the fabric, and she would often lounge about the house in her night rail and a dressing gown. Should her mother ever see such a thing, however, she’d drop dead on the spot.
“I am.” Della put on the proper undergarments and let Clara tightenthe stays that always hurt her ribs. Even if she wore a day gown, she never wore her stays unless she absolutely had to. The laces were horrible to deal with when your hands were irreparably damaged. “But I am sure this period of good health will end as soon as my family descends on the manor.”
Lacing up the ties behind her back, Clara laughed.
“Undoubtedly so.” Clara tied the bows, and they finished getting Della dressed. “Let’s go down for breakfast.”
“Surely a poor, ill woman should be exempt from the notion of socializing so early in the morning,” Della grumbled. She’d woken up in a dour mood, and she didn’t want to be removed from it. It was comfortable in this cocoon of her own disconsolate feelings.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Clara huffed, grabbing Della by the arm and pulling her toward the door. She needed the help, truthfully. Her left hip was locked into place, and it just wouldn’t allow the movement required to walk. “You are not some pitiful, helpless, sick woman. You are ill, yes, but there is nothing sad about you.”
She spoke with such conviction that Della had to agree, even though she didn’t want to. She felt pitiful, sometimes. Sitting alone in her chambers clinging to old letters. Relying on the domestics her parents employed for company. Avoiding the aforementioned parents even when their brief time in residence would be all she’d likely see of them this year.
Her illness was one thing. It was painful. It was relentless. It had irrevocably changed the course of her life, and it was something that would always be with her.
But her isolation was another thing entirely. Clara may think there was nothing sad about her, and Della appreciated her vigor, because she knew she really believed that. It was just difficult to reconcile that with her reality. It was nearly impossible to think she wasn’t some pitiful creature when her own parents had sent her away as they had. When they kept her here nearly alone.
Nearly alone wasn’t alone, though.
Clara kept hold of her arm until Della’s hip stabilized. They both heard it crack like a tree limb breaking, and then everything felt the slightest bit better. For a second, Della wished she could do the same to her emotions—move a certain way, hear a sound arguably too loud for any stable body to make, and then feel magically improved. That was the thing, though. That magic improvement was temporary, and her pain was forever. Perhaps the same could be said for her sudden melancholy.
She felt wobbly today. That was unusual. Perhaps her downtrodden emotions were making her pain worse. She dismissed the thought as the kind of rubbish her mother believed. The kind of hearsay and pseudoscience that backed their logic to send her all the way out here, away from the chaos of London.
“Did they mention if David would be accompanying them?” Della asked of her brother, the future viscount. As much as Della did not want her parents to visit, she would do almost anything to avoid her brother. He was a few years younger, and to Della’s memory, they’d been close as children. Now, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken. The last time she’d received a letter from him, even. It was as if, in her brother’s eyes, her illness had killed her, and that distance made her doubt her own perception of their shared childhood. It made her believe they’d never been close at all.
“Their letter did not say. It was rather brief.”
They left Della’s chambers and descended the stairs at a slow pace. Della could’ve taken any of the chambers on the ground floor, but she rather liked the heightened view from the second story windows.
“At least they’ve sent a letter ahead this time. Every day, I’m fearful they’ll surprise us.”
At her right side, Clara laughed.
“Perhaps if your mother did not have specific requests for the menu that required advance preparation, we would have no warning at all.”
