Once again, I find there’s unfortunately no point to this letter. I simply needed an outlet for what has gone on the past few days, and you’ve always been my favorite person to write to. I feel better already, actually.
Don’t worry about a thing, Della. I’m going to fix this.
More soon.
Yours,
Andrew
“I just don’t like it, Clara.” Della sighed. She was certain this wasn’t the first time she was saying those same words. It had been her constant refrain since she received the letter. Even before. Since themoment that preemptive panic had set in. She ran her thumb over his signature. Even though his penmanship had become scrawling and chaotic throughout the letter, that signature was as sharp as ever. She could hold the paper up to a torch and line it up with any of the signatures from any of the other letters he’d ever sent her. It was always so pinpoint perfect. So sharp and reliable and consistent. Just like him.
“I know, Della.” Clara lowered herself down on the edge of Della’s bed, facing where she sat at her writing desk. “But it’s been days. All you’ve done is read the letter over and over again. Have you considered that it might be time to do something else?”
Clara’s eyebrow raised again. Not to indicate stubbornness, Della didn’t think. This was different. She did this sometimes when she was trying to lead Della down a certain path. She was trying to get her to follow the progression of her thoughts. As if that were not a winding path to certain trouble.
“And what would you have me do?” Della asked. It was better to just come right out and say it, she believed. The less speaking in metaphors and riddles the better. That was for someone with a much stronger constitution than herself. She had such little energy for mental luxuries like those. Della shifted her legs again. One of these days she was going to hurl this damn desk chair out the second-story window. There was no possible way in which she could contort herself to achieve even a modicum of comfort in it. Someone in such pain should really have more plush furniture available at their disposal.
“Have you written back?” Clara asked. She tucked her feet underneath her, getting her dirty boots on Della’s clean bedding. Della didn’t mind. That wasn’t the side of the bed she slept on, anyway. In fact, she’d come to think of it as Andrew’s, even though he’d never slept there. She knew that was the side he preferred, and that was enough.
“No,” Della admitted, and it felt like an expression of guilt. She often took several days to write Andrew back. She enjoyed taking thattime as part of her process. It was an effort to extend the life of the blissful feeling his letters always brought her, but she wasn’t trying to extend anything now. She wasn’t feeling that particular delight at the moment. She was still swamped in dread, and she didn’t know how to paddle her way out. She didn’t know which way was up.
“I’ve tried,” Della nodded to several pieces of paper she’d desecrated in her attempts to write a single bloody letter. It was a terrible waste. Another sigh hissed out between her teeth, and Della realized she was completely at a loss. “Words feel... inadequate, somehow. I’ve always been able to write to him, even if no one else. But I need to know what happened, and he won’t tell me—”
“Then go see him,” Clara interrupted, the words blurting out of her mouth like the strength of Hercules couldn’t have held them back. “I am sorry,” she muttered after the outburst. “But I have wanted to say that for days. I thought you’d come to that conclusion yourself, but that process is taking entirely too long.”
“What do you mean?” Della asked, certain she’d misheard. Or misunderstood. She knew Clara couldn’t be suggesting what she thought she was. It was preposterous, but then again, so was Clara.
“Go to him,” she explained simply, as if he were at the manor next door and she could go by and call on him first thing in the morning. “Go to London. You said it yourself, you need to know what happened and he won’t tell you. Not in writing, anyway.”
“Yes, but...” Della stammered, all of the reasons she couldn’t just make a trek into the city flowing through her mind. None of them would form into words, though, and Clara continued to look at her expectantly. “I cannot go to London.”
That was all she’d been able to say, and it had to be enough. She believed thatnowas a complete sentence.
“You can’t,” Clara hiked that eyebrow up again, this time in challenge, “or you won’t?”
Della rolled her eyes. In her mind, there wasn’t a difference. It wassemantics. Either way, she was staying right here. She had to. There was no other choice.
“With all of that money you’ve been saving, I think you could make it to London rather comfortably. Perhaps even quickly.” Clara’s entire face turned into a smirk, and Della fought off a gasp.
“How do you know about that?” she asked, feeling surprisingly more impressed than betrayed or violated.
“There are no secrets between a lady and her maid.” Clara winked. She was leaning so far forward that the elbows resting on her knees threatened to slip out from under her.
Della straightened up her posture. Another sigh escaped her lips without her permission. She hadn’t wanted to have this conversation. She didn’t want to list all of the reasons that this plan could be nothing more than another one of Clara’s grand ideas. Nothing more than an appeal to her sense of adventure.
“That money is for the future. I had hoped no one knew I’ve been skimming off the top of the monthly allowances my parents send. But it’s to protect all of us. Their generosity is going to run out one day, and I needed some way for all of you to keep your livelihoods.”
There were a multitude of reasons they didn’t discuss this—the period in the future that seemed so uncertain. Not the least of which was their lack of power, their inability to control the way that story would unfold.
“Don’t you see?” Clara’s eyes had softened. They might even be tearing up, and Della couldn’t remember ever seeing Clara cry. Not in all these years. “This is a risk we have to take. You can keep socking away coins here and there to try to save us from destitution, or we can go to London and take what’s rightfully yours.” She’d stood up, knocking dusty dirt off her shoes and making her rousing speech all the more convincing.
“We?” Della asked. She’d been fixated on that.
“Della, of course. We. Harry and I would go with you, at least. Noone left behind, remember?” Clara had begun to pace the floor. Della could practically see the thoughts steaming out of her ears and mingling with the open air.
It was a preposterous idea. As much as was the idea that she could actually have things like property and a future and a home of her own. And Andrew. If she went to London, maybe she could have Andrew. She could find him and keep him. If he’d let her.
“I cannot allow you to do that, Clara. Risk your positions on a fool’s errand to the city? There is too much at stake. If my family even so much as sees you, if they knew you’d helped me leave the manor—”
