He stood from the bed just as he had earlier that morning, abruptly and vehemently, though his hands lingered. They drifted slowly over her, not feeling the sensation of the counterpane but the heat of her skin beneath. He reached the door entirely too soon, and he paused for a single moment in the doorway. He’d lost all the warmth of her body, and he shivered as a bereaved chill swept over him.
“Andrew?” he heard her say, still in that faint whisper.
This was another moment he’d keep. Not saying goodbye, not leaving. But the sound of his name in her early morning voice. Against his better judgment, he turned back to face her. She was stunning. All he could see was her pale face and her dark hair and the faint lines of displeasure around her lips.
“Don’t forget to write.”
*
He hadn’t responded.Della lay there for what felt like hours, absorbing what was left of his scent on the sheets and considering everything he’d said and everything he didn’t say. She’d asked him last night if he’d come back, and she didn’t like his answer. She’d asked him to write to her, and he hadn’t answered at all.
It had been a long while since Della had felt this hopeless. All of the contentment she’d worked so hard to build was long gone. It was in a carriage headed back to London, perhaps never to return. She tried to go back to sleep, but she was haunted by the sight of him walking out the door. It repeated over and over in her mind, and the relative silence around her served as soul-stirring background music.
“Mr. Lockhart?” Della heard, along with a particularly aggressive knock at the door. “Have you seen Della? I cannot find her anywhere, and its long past time for breakfast. I’ve never once walked into her room to find her missing.”
Della rolled her eyes. She’d failed to account for Clara when she’d decided to lie here forever, and that was a critical mistake.
“I should be concerned, but I’m hoping that you have”—Clara’s voice abruptly halted when she opened the door—“an explanation,” she finished.
“It’s terribly rude to enter someone’s chambers without knocking,” Della chastised.
“I knocked,” Clara responded. She entered the room in earnest, taking slow steps until she reached Della’s side of the bed. “And there was no answer. I tend to take silence as permission.”
In spite of herself, Della laughed. Clara leaned against the bedpost and crossed her arms. Della’s laughter fell away at the sight of that posture. She felt as if she were being reprimanded by her mother. This interaction held all of that protective energy, but none of the existential terror.
“Dare I even ask why you are here?” Clara began to tap her foot against the carpet impatiently. Della rolled her eyes again like a misbehaving child. “And where is Mr. Lockhart?” Clara looked around as if she’d just realized the man to which this room belonged was in fact nowhere in sight. Well, this room used to belong to him, anyway. Della feared once she left, she might never be able to set foot in this chamber again.
“He’s gone,” Della forced herself to say. She crossed her own arms, assuming a defensive posture now that she’d been awake long enough for her arms and legs to move at least somewhat.
“Gone?” Clara fell into the armchair next to the bed, succumbing to yet another fit of dramatics. “What do you mean?”
Della sighed. She loved Clara. She loved everyone here at Westfield Manor, but she found the thought of explaining this to any of them exhausting beyond belief. Already, it weighed on her. It made her eyelids heavy and her bones ache. That her bones always ached was not the point of the matter.
“He’s gone,” she repeated, her voice broken by another heavy sigh. “He left. He went back to London in search of answers. I don’t know that he’ll ever find any.”
She closed her eyes, letting the heaviness take over. She was emotionally treading water, and she was getting tired. It felt like the time to let go and lose herself in the watery depths.
“So you are telling me that he’s left, what, in the middle of the night?” Clara’s voice bordered on hysterical, and Della couldn’t tell if that was anger or vexation or a deep sadness she heard there. Perhaps a devastating mix of all three.
“Early this morning,” Della clarified. “Right at dawn, I believe.” Her head was beginning to ache, too, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she’d been holding back tears, or if it was the screech of Clara’s voice, or if it was simply a result of missing breakfast. She never missed breakfast. Clara had been well within her rights to worry.
“Without saying goodbye?” Clara asked. Della’s eyes were still closed, but she could almost imagine the look on her face. Wide eyes. Probably leaning so far forward in her chair that she’d have fallen by now if not for her death grip on the arms.
“No, he said goodbye.” Della rubbed at a sore spot in the center of her chest. “To me, I mean. I suppose he didn’t speak to anyone else before he left.”
“I’m sure Harry would’ve told me if he’d seen him leave,” Clara muttered.
That sore spot bloomed into a deeper ache. Clara was so certain of Harry. Of her relationship with him, whatever that may be. Della had briefly thought she had that security, too. That certainty. Now, he was gone, and she wasn’t sure of anything at all.
“Did he have business back home?” Clara asked. Della actually winced at the use of the word.Home.The best part of traveling, he’d said.
“I don’t know,” Della admitted.
“Well...” Clara replied. She was silent for a moment, and Della could feel her carefully collecting her words. That was a terrifying notion, Clara being careful. “I’m sure he’ll find whatever he’s looking for.”
“I don’t know,” Della repeated. “I don’t know what we do now.”
She heard a rustling and an indignant huff. When Della finally opened her eyes, Clara was much closer. Standing over the bed in a way that was almost menacing.
