Thank God, she thought. Someone used her real name. It was a familiarity that she shouldn’t allow, being that they hadn’t seen each other since she’d come to Westfield Manor over eight years ago. She should be Miss Harris to anyone in her acquaintance. Her Christian name was perhaps even a step too far, but to shorten it even further was really far too casual.
If I’ve managed my timing, and the post has cooperated with my plan, this should arrive on the anniversary of your birth.
Oh, Andrew. He’d remembered.
I’m told it’s a recently established tradition to celebrate the anniversary of one’s birth like a holiday. The idea sounds rather fanciful and is perhaps better suited for the children of the world, but I do think you are always worth celebrating.
Della’s breath clutched in her throat, and she could no longer pretend it was the fault of her stays. She ran her fingers over those last words before she kept reading. Just to remind herself that he thought she was worth something.
There is no other reason for my writing, I’m afraid. I’ve no meaningful new pieces of my life to share. My work in London continues to drag on. It does so whether I am mentally present or not, oddly enough. I’ve settled a bit more since my last letter. Returning to England after so long abroad was a shock to the senses, and I think perhaps I need a break from the fast pace of town. I know it to be impolite to assume an invitation for myself, especially to the home of an unmarried young lady, but our clandestine correspondence has always been on the wrong side of propriety. So, do you think you might have room for a guest at Westfield Manor?
Della gasped out loud, so taken aback at the mental image of him walking up to her front door. Sitting in her parlor for tea. She could barely picture it. It had been so long since she’d seen his face. He’d have changed so much over such time. She wondered if he’d still have that slightly long hair that curled at the ends. If his smile was still as breathtaking. If he still had those deep dimples on his cheeks she’d always wanted to kiss.
Della wondered if he was still the same man she’d always adored.
I’ll stop my rambling, but please consider my terribly rude proposition. I do certainly miss you. I hope you’ve had a lovely birthday, Della.
Yours,
Andrew
She ran her thumb over those last words, just one more time. He hoped she’d had a lovely birthday. And suddenly, she had.
Chapter Four
Della had retiredearly. Each day spent with her parents was more agonizing than the last, and they’d nearly turned her into the recluse they thought her to be. She’d done some reading, covertly held a lesson with Gwendoline in her chambers, and then drifted off to bed while most of the house was still up and about.
Then, she was suddenly awoken an indeterminable amount of time later by someone parting the heavy curtains around her bed. Della was unsure of how to react. She was shocked still for a moment, until she recognized the wild hair springing free from the pins on her head. Della was almost certain there was almost no privacy between a lady and her maid, but Clara had surely never crossed this particular boundary before.
“Della,” Clara almost hissed. “I fear I’ve done something horrible.”
Without her permission, Clara climbed up onto the bed and let the curtains fall closed. There was absolutely no light around them now, and they were ensconced in a dark quiet. It was possible Della should feel more concern, but what Clara considered to be a horrible action on her part was usually something laughable, like going out dancing in the rain or letting her feet rest on the furniture.
“What is going on?” Della finally asked. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and tried to tame her unruly hair. She could feel little strands standing up at all ends on the crown of her head. Claracouldn’t see her, but that mattered little.
“I fear I’ve done something horrible,” Clara repeated. Della heard her move, tucking her legs underneath her body even though she still wore her proper dress.
“You’ve mentioned that, and yet I am still having trouble understanding.”
Clara huffed. Della tried to sit up, but her hips were not agreeable to the action, so she slumped back onto her multitude of pillows.
“I was downstairs a moment ago, on my way to bid Harry a good night.” As Clara spoke, Della’s mind wandered. She thought of all the horrible things that could happen to Clara and Harry with her parents here. Her stomach turned violently. “He was still awake because your father was still in his library, and he refuses to go to bed until the viscount does, the bloody stubborn man.”
Clara took a deep breath, and Della thought her own lungs hadn’t breathed in years.
“I had planned to walk past, but it wasn’t just your father. Your mother was with him, and they were speaking about you.”
Della gasped, indignation rising in her heart. Not at her parents—she could hardly rouse feelings for them at all—but for Clara. For what Clara may have done in the name of defending her honor.
“Oh, Clara, please tell me you didn’t confront my parents over some perceived slight. You should not have risked yourself, your entire livelihood, over something so inconsequential as their opinion of me. There are few things I care for less.”
“I did nothing of the sort, I assure you.” Clara reached out into the dark, and her fingers found Della’s forearm. “I know I can be quite reckless, but I would never do anything so foolish. You are my dearest friend, but I’m afraid I could never stand up to the viscount and viscountess.”
Della finally breathed a sigh of relief. That was the worst thing she could possibly imagine, Clara standing up to Della’s parents at her ownexpense. Such was the problem, though. Clara couldn’t confront them, and neither could anyone else.
“Well, then.” Della relaxed some, certain this whole endeavor was just a fit of Clara’s dramatics. “What did you do that was so horrible?”
“I listened.” Clara stood up abruptly, like she could no longer tolerate her own stillness. She threw open the curtains that shrouded them, and some light flickered in from the dimming fire. “I stayed, and I listened. I cannot credit why, Della, but there was something that made me hang on their every word.”
