Della rose slowly, the aches traveling from her feet up to her shoulders, then back down her arms. She climbed the stairs with the aid of her walking stick and the banister, and she thanked the heavens that her mother preferred rooms in the home’s other wing. She opened the door to her own chambers, and Clara was seated behind the writing desk in her sitting room.
“Clara.” She startled at seeing her rooms already occupied. She would’ve toppled over without the stability of her walking stick. “Goodness me.”
“Oh, do come in!” Clara stood, pulling back the desk chair and patting the padded back.
“I didn’t know I needed an invitation.” Della smiled. Clara’s excitement was obvious, and she wondered what could have changed her mood so significantly. There was hardly much to be excited about with her parents in residence.
“I have a gift for you.” Clara stood with her hands behind her back as Della sat behind the desk. This was all very ceremonious, and for absolutely no reason. “But first, I must apologize for today. We had plans to all have dinner together, and Mrs. Goldsmith was going to make your favorite chocolate cake, but—”
Someone had recognized today. Clara had. They had. Her entire household had planned to make today special for her, and her own parents could only be bothered to ruin it. There was no room on her mother’s delicately selected menu for chocolate cake, and there was certainly no room at her mother’s table for servants. Della felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and for a moment, she was completelywithout words.
“There is no need for apologies, Clara. I’d hoped you’d know that by now.” Della looked at her, and she did seem almost unbearably apologetic. Her face was so earnest. She’d tried so hard, and it almost hurt Della how much Clara cared.
“In fact,” Della grimaced, “have I apologized yet for the atrocious things my mother will surely do?”
Clara laughed. She nodded.
“I’ll accept no apologies from you either. Though I did hear her warn poor Mrs. Goldsmith on her way in against over-sweetening the porridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. She hasn’t even been here for breakfast in a year, but of course, she remembered that the porridge was too sweet. She said they weren’t wealthy enough to be eating in such splendor every day, and you don’t need such rich food. It isn’t good for your health, she said. As if they care about your health. As if they care about you at all.”
Della flinched at the brutally honest statement. Life with her mother was full of little hurts like those, and nothing hurt worse than the truth.
Clara stepped forward, leaned against the solid wood desk. Her brown hair was escaping the pins she despised wearing. Della wondered if her head had started to ache yet. The gray, plain dress she wore was so uncharacteristically boring. She looked every bit the respectable lady’s maid, but Della didn’t want to be speaking with any respectable lady’s maid. She wanted to speak with her best friend.
“This was delivered for you this afternoon, just after your parents arrived. I was able to convince Mr. Stanton to allow me to pass it along personally. I thought you’d rather he not present it on silver in front of your mother.”
Della’s cheeks flushed with warmth. She knew exactly what Clara held so tightly behind her back. Perhaps this day wasn’t a lost cause after all. That instinct of hers never failed. That very morning, she’dunearthed some of Andrew’s old letters, even some of her own early drafts she’d never sent. Andrew’s were pristine and well-preserved, except for the natural wear and tear of being read over and over again. Hers were scribbled out, ripped in half, and occasionally stained with tears. There was no particular reason she was doing this, Della told herself. She was simply feeling nostalgic. Something about her milestone birthday, she assumed.
That the previous part of her life she felt most nostalgic for was her correspondence with Andrew was of little importance.
“Convinced him, did you?” Della arched one eyebrow. “I’ll ask that you protect my delicate sensibilities and spare me the details.”
Clara’s exasperation was a fun thing to play with, but Della was getting a bit impatient herself.
“I assure you it was nothing untoward. Harry truly did not want to alert your mother to your correspondence.”
For that, Della was immeasurably grateful. She hardly thought a series of chaste letters was anything to fret over, but society did so love to fret.
“Thank you, Clara.” She meant it sincerely. “And please thank Mr. Stanton for me. But please do so discreetly. I know that he makes you giddy, and I would hate for my mother to witness it.”
The viscountess had a sixth sense for other people’s happiness. She knew how to find it, how to exploit it, and how to destroy it. Della couldn’t bear it if she let that harm Clara or Harry or anyone in her home.
Clara simply nodded. Her eyes still held that strange excitement, but her face was composed. As if no secrets had been shared.
“I suppose I should leave you to your reading, unless you should need me for anything else?”
Clara handed over a letter. Della recognized the paper and the wafer and the scent wafting from it immediately. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she told herself it was simply a rebellion of her ribs afterso much time spent in restrictive clothing.
“If you could return to assist me out of this infernal contraption some call clothing, that would be much appreciated.” Della hated to ask. As much as she loved Clara’s company, she despised relying on her help. She never wore gowns and undergarments like this that required delicate hands to take on and off.
“Of course,” Clara glided toward the hallway with a smile, and Della heard the soft snick of the door close behind her.
She ran her fingers over the letter. It was a preposterous thing to cherish so fervently. How ridiculous that something as simple as a piece of paper could tempt her heart into such feeling. After holding back everything that made her herself today, most of all her deep emotions, it was such an indulgence just to feel. To touch the paper that he’d touched and run her fingers over the dried ink and imagine being this close to him somehow. Della broke the seal.
She’d kept them all, eight years’ worth of correspondence sat at the bottom of a trunk in the corner of her rooms. She always kept the latest one within arm’s reach. Many of them were creased and weathered from her fingers running over each line of script. That was how she savored them, how she kept their conversation going.
Today, that didn’t feel like enough. Her fingertips and his words weren’t enough to banish the loneliness that made her ache in a way her illness never could. Or maybe it had. Maybe her illness was an integral part of that loneliness.
Dear Della,
