Della slipped from the room with remarkable stealth for someone with such usually inoperable limbs. She wasn’t a particularly religious person, but she sent up a silent prayer as she hugged the wall and walked down the short hallway toward the front of the home. There was so much that could go wrong. She could wake Andrew or Alice. She could stub her toe. Of all options, that one was the most likely.
Della reached the small writing desk in the great room. She fiddled around for a match and lit a slow-burning candle. With a fresh sheet of paper in front of her and a quill in hand, she took a deep, cleansing breath. That sense of foreboding settled over her again, and her stomach churned.
This was the right thing to do, she told herself. It was the only way to save him from a life he’d come to sorely regret.
My dearest, Andrew,she wrote. Already, the page was stained with tears. Della sniffled, trying to rein in her frantic emotions.
I hope you don’t despise me for leaving without a proper goodbye. It was just something I couldn’t say to you. There are many things I haven’t been able to say, and I am so sorry for that. I want you toknow that you are always welcome at Kinloss. Nothing would make me happier than if you were there by my side every day.
Images of that hypothetical future filled Della’s mind and ruined all progress she’d made in trying to stop her tears. It was beyond a futile effort.
But I cannot ask that of you, to leave everything you know and the life you’ve built, just for me. You have already done more than enough, more than anyone else in the world has ever done for me. If this is all we ever have, I will be forever grateful.
I want so much more. I’ve never been able to tell you that, because I’ve been so desperately afraid you might not feel the same. Now, what I fear is that I am too late. There was a time, when I was nearing eighteen and my world was on the edge of falling apart, that I wanted nothing more than to be your wife. For years, I mourned the loss of that future. Now, my world has just been put back together, reshaped into something entirely new. I don’t know how you fit into it anymore, but I know that I want you to. However you’d like. I hope that you’ll still write me letters. I hope that you’ll visit, if you don’t think too ill of me after all of this. I hope I get to kiss you one more time. I don’t even dare to hope for anything more than that.
Della sniffled again, but she was no match for the power of her own tears. The sheer force of her emotion was staggering, and she didn’t know if she had the strength to finish writing. Her bags were packed, and transportation had been arranged. The morning light would come, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to leave.
I love you so dearly, Andrew. That is my deepest hope, that you know that. I pray this isn’t goodbye.
Yours always,
Della
She folded up the letter and blew out the candle.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As her carriagerolled the final few meters to Westfield Manor, Della was reminded of the first time she’d approached this place the very same way. She’d been on the verge of eighteen, riding across the countryside alone to a home she barely knew. She hadn’t been able to cry, then. All the way from London, she’d ridden in somber silence, an icy numbness taking over her heart. This time, she’d cried nearly the entire way.
Della thought this must be what it felt like to be in mourning. A constant state of despair that had no solution and seemingly no end. She mourned the man she left behind, and she regretted doing so the farther she rode away from him. A thousand times, she’d thought about turning around. She’d thought through every word of her letter and wondered if she’d said enough. She rewrote it in her head over and over again. There was nothing else to do but listen to the horses trot and the chirp of an occasional bird.
And cry. There was crying to do. The bumpy carriage ride was time spent in grief. The trip was short as possible, and she kept a quick pace so as to minimize the unsafety and impropriety a woman risked when traveling alone.
At some point, she’d stopped wiping her tears with the handkerchief she kept tucked into the sleeve of her pelisse. Doing so was useless when the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Hourafter hour. Over time, those tears were for more than Andrew. She missed him so much her chest ached, but the real mourning was for herself. Her family. The closer she got to the manor, the more she thought of that young girl who’d been sent here with only an unfamiliar maid for companionship and protection. She thought of the cruelty and the coldness and the complete disregard for her wellbeing her parents had shown. They’d cared more for their own reputations than her.
She’d mourned the lost life of a debutante long ago, but now she felt the full force of years of lies and subterfuge and casual mistreatment. It was cleansing, crying until she couldn’t anymore. She felt almost renewed, a sense of freshness beneath the exhaustion weighing down her soul. She would leave the weeping and the mourning here at Westfield Manor and embark on the journey to her new home guided by that refreshed spirit.
Her carriage rolled to a stop, and she heard the muffled speech of the coachmen rattling around. The door opened, and Della breathed in a lungful of fresh, familiar air. It really was clearer in the countryside. She could only hope Scotland was just as nice.
“Harry.” She smiled as her faithful butler reached a hand out to assist her. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Della! What a surprise! We knew you’d be back soon, but you must’ve raced home.” He helped her down the stairs, and Della turned her face to the fading sun. It was warmer here, and brighter, even at sunset.
“A pleasant surprise, I hope,” she told him.
“Of course.” He nodded fervently. “I was a bit concerned, with an unmarked carriage arriving unannounced. I’m sure you were the best possible outcome. Clara will be delighted to see you.”
He seemed poised to speak again, but Della was overwhelmed by an attack on her person. Her walking stick clattered to the ground as she was swept up. The motion was fast enough to be blurry in her vision, but Della would recognize that explosion of energy anywhere.
“Clara, sweetheart, you’re going to break her.” Harry didn’t try to separate them, he only took a step to the side. Della took note of the term of endearment, too. She would inquire about that later.
“I’m not so fragile as that,” Della tried to say, but it really was quite a tight hug. Her ribs might be suddenly misaligned.
“What are you doing here?” Clara asked, pulling away from the crushing embrace to look Della over from head to toe as if examining for injuries. She wore her old clothes, the trousers Gwendoline had made and a man’s shirtsleeves. “I mean, I know this is your home for a while longer, but we did not expect you back so soon. You didn’t write.”
Clara looked around suddenly, at the coachmen loading back up to leave, then to Harry, then back to Della.
“Where is Andrew?” Clara asked. One glance into Della’s tear-wrecked eyes, and she knew. “Oh, no,” she said, reaching for Della’s arms again. “Is that why you look so dreadful?”
