They sat, trapped in the heavy traffic. Andrew couldn’t look out the window any longer. The sight of carriages and people and horses going every which way made him nauseous. If there was going to be an accident, he couldn’t watch. Horses unsettled him to begin with, but this crush of activity in so small a space was a recipe for disaster. Some part of him feared this whole night was, actually.
His mother and Della made small talk as they spied on other partygoers. They discussed gowns and gloves and his mother gasped as she swore she saw a dowager countess’s ankle as she descended from her curricle. They seemed to be having fun, at least.
They slowly neared the top of the Kittredge’s drive, and Andrew began to hear the music and the voices and the laughter. It crept up on him, rising slowly until his senses were almost overwhelmed. He heard the noise, he saw flashes of people moving through the candlelight, he smelled Della’s delicate perfume. He felt her skirts brush against the tops of his new, over-shined shoes.
As the voices began to blur together, he wondered if any of them would be the one to win Della’s heart. He wondered if tonight would be his last night with her like this, tucked in close enough to feel her. He thought of how many more opportunities he might have left to experience the exquisite peace he felt when he touched her.
The carriage door opened before Andrew could prepare himself. He climbed out first, thanking the formally dressed footman. He helped his mother take the stairs, and she did so with an excitement in her step that Andrew hadn’t seen in years. Then he reached for Della. Always, it felt like, he was reaching for Della. She tucked her walking stick under one arm and rested her palms on his shoulders. It was such a privilege to have her trust, to have her lean into him and allow herself to be swept through the air in his arms.
All too soon, she was safely on the ground. She gripped her walking stick in her left hand. Her right hand lingered on his shoulder,sliding down his arm with a certain devastating slowness.
“Thank you, Andrew,” she breathed, and her face transformed into a wide, open smile.
It was heartbreaking.
They’d discussed this part. It was better for Della to have her moment alone, to walk in and receive the entrance she deserved. Andrew and Alice would stay behind and remain unannounced. He knew this. He’d been anticipating it, but he still wanted to chase after her the second she took that first step.
Della didn’t turn back. As the dazzling lights reflected off of her beaded gown, she walked forward. Her lingering hand fell away, and Andrew let her go.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“The Right Honorablethe Baroness of Kinloss.”
The footman’s voice was booming, and Della wasn’t sure if that was the sound itself or the way it echoed in the suddenly quiet ballroom. It was so immediately silent that Della heard her own heartbeat in her ears. She gripped her walking stick with clammy hands and she forced her face into the smile she used to practice daily. One that was demure and meek. Her mother had always said she reminded her so much of herself as a young debutante, and Della only felt like it now. That unassuming smile was so artificial it had to remind her of her mother.
Every head turned at her introduction, and all of the movement in the ballroom seemed to halt. So did Della’s breath. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Many of the expressions she saw were curious, open mouths and squinting eyes, trying to put a name to a face they’d likely forgotten. Other faces flashed with recognition, because despite her illness, she did still look like herself. Those who knew her as a young lady seemed to sense it was her, but they too were puzzled by the title they’d never known her to have.
After a moment, the room seemed to collectively resume speaking, and Della was finally able to breathe. She’d done it. She’d introduced herself to society, standing up in front of everyone so they knew exactly who she was. From this vantage point,she could see each and every face. Most were turned back toward their conversations. Servants floated around with champagne, and people lingered near tables spread with food.
Della felt lingering eyes on her, somewhere to her right. It wasn’t the comfort of Alice or the searing warmth of Andrew. Before she even turned her head, Della felt the maliciousness hidden behind that gaze. Her mother. The only person in the world who could despise her so desperately. She wouldn’t look. Not yet.
She’d only just realized why she could see everyone so clearly.
She stood at the top of the home’s grand staircase. Somehow, Della had never thought of this part, and she had no idea what to do in the face of such an obstacle. She’d considered the repercussions of making such an entrance, but the mechanics behind doing so in her disabled body eluded her. Ever so slowly, Della took the first step. It seemed the only option. There was only one way forward, and it was down those stairs. It felt good to move, after long minutes trapped inside the carriage. One step, then the next. One hand on her walking stick and the other on the banister. Others were being announced and music still flowed through the room, but all eyes had resumed watching her.
Della couldn’t look. She wouldn’t. Her eyes were trained on her feet, making sure she didn’t trip over her own hem and making sure no one saw she wore old, worn-in riding boots under her gown. She counted the stairs. There were seventeen. Entirely too many. She considered whether she’d ever counted the stairs at Westfield Manor, and how many there were. She wondered how many there’d be at Kinloss. It was something a baroness ought to know.
Finally, she made it. Her feet reached the ballroom floor, and Della wanted to cheer. It had been painful and slow and wobbly at best, but she’d made it. She finally raised her head in triumph, and she met what felt like a thousand sets of bewildered eyes. Many had the decency to immediately look away, as if they were sparing her a passing glanceinstead of openly gawping. Others continued the rude staring. Some simply leered, gazing at her with pinched eyebrows and unabashed frowns.
This was not a triumph. This was not a moment of celebration. This was a reintroduction to a society that didn’t want her. She’d never felt her own ostracization so acutely as she did in that moment. Perhaps this was what her parents were protecting her from all those years ago, Della thought as she continued to stare back, meeting each disapproving eye in the room. She found her mother’s gaze, guarded and harsh, her eyes bracketed by fine lines. They were so full of rage, and Della couldn’t recognize love in them at all. Perhaps they’d only been protecting themselves, then.
She stood in the very silence she’d so deeply feared. There was sound, but she could hear none of it. Behind her, she heard Lord Kitteridge attempt to reengage the room, and the music still played, but Della was trapped in a nightmare of her own creation. She felt Alice and Andrew come to flank her, posting themselves at either side like they were personally responsible for her safety and wellbeing. They weren’t. She was, and she was doing a poor job of protecting herself at the moment. There was no reason to stay here and subject herself to this torture. If no one could bear the sight of her, she’d spare them the trouble.
Della wouldn’t run. She’d done so much damage to herself the last time she had. She wanted to, though. Almost desperately. It would be almost freeing to pick up her skirts and abandon this place and this party once and for all, but Della knew she had to stop hurting herself all in the name of freedom.
With as much poise and calm as she had left, she walked toward the door she’d just seen a servant appear through. She didn’t know where it led, but she assumed there would be significantly less judgment there, and that was enough for her. She followed a dark corridor, turning the opposite way each time she heard a voice. Dellaopened a door. There was nothing in the dimly lit room besides something covered in a sheet. She assumed it to be a pianoforte based on the shape. In the inconvenient absence of furniture, Della leaned against the wall. The dust in the air was so thick she nearly choked on it, or maybe that was a ball of her own emotions clogging her throat. Tears sprang up in her eyes and she felt the telltale burning in her nose that meant she’d long passed the point of being able to stop herself from crying.
“Damn,” she cursed, realizing she had no handkerchief and no way to stop the stream of tears without staining her perfect gown or her pristine silk gloves. The door opened, and Della sniffled in an effort to appear whole.
“Adelaide,” she heard a woman say. Though she couldn’t see her through the barrage flooding her eyes, she almost thought she’d recognized the voice. But it couldn’t be, she thought. “I’d hoped that was you.”
Della furiously swiped at her eyes, her gloves be damned. As her vision cleared, she stifled a gasp.
“Mercy,” she mumbled. Her voice was an unsure whisper, because as much as the lady in front of her in a resplendent vivid purple gown resembled the friend she hadn’t seen in so many years, she still couldn’t believe her own perception.
“It is Lady Kittredge now,” Mercy grinned. “But I’m sure you do not mean any disrespect, unlike so many people we know.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry I missed your introduction. A foul young lady decided to speak rudely to one of the footmen, and I had to politely ask her to leave.”
“This is your house?” Della asked redundantly. She was still flabbergasted at this turn of events. She never thought she’d see Mercy again, let alone be a guest at a ball at her home.
