Chapter 248: Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Eight
The grand house was unnervingly quiet.
The silence was a heavy blanket, amplifying the loneliness that had settled deep in Delia’s bones since Eric had left. In her room, a single lantern cast a warm, golden circle of light on her desk, leaving the corners of the chamber in deep shadow. She held a pen in her hand, the tip hovering over a sheet of fine stationery.
She looked down at the words she had managed to write, her own handwriting looking like that of a stranger.
"... Are you doing well? I saw the news and heard the gossip that there was a fatal accident at the workshop. I hope you are managing everything. I miss..."
Her breath hitched on the last word. I miss you. The simple, powerful truth of it made her chest ache. How could she miss him? The man whose carriage had ended her second life. The man who had kept such a devastating secret from her. It felt like a betrayal to her own pain. With a deep sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of her sorrow, her fingers tightened, squeezing the letter together into a tight, wrinkled ball. She threw it onto the floor, where it joined two other failed attempts. She looked sad and utterly alone.
Her gaze drifted across the desk and landed on an unopened letter with elegant, unfamiliar handwriting. The seal had been broken, but she had not yet read it. The inscription was simple: "From Catherine Dalton." With a sense of weary curiosity, she picked it up and unfolded the paper.
Delia,
How are you feeling? I’m worried about you. Can you come and see me, please?
The simple, earnest words touched a part of her heart she had long kept guarded. A mother’s concern. It was a foreign, yet deeply longed-for feeling. Delia dropped the letter onto the desk and walked to the large window. She stared out into the dark, empty courtyard, her eyes automatically going to the spot beneath her balcony where Eric always used to stand, looking up at her window before he entered the house. The space was empty now, a hollow reminder of the man who was both the source of her deepest love and her greatest pain.
The next morning, a soft but persistent knock sounded on a modest but well-kept door.
Knock...
knock...
knock.
Catherine hurried to answer it, her heart fluttering with a hopeful nervousness. When she opened the door and saw Delia standing on her doorstep, a wide, brilliant smile lit up her face. Delia looked tired, with faint shadows under her eyes, but she was here. In her hands, she held a large basket overflowing with fresh fruits—apples, pears, and late-season berries.
"Welcome," Catherine said, her voice warm and filled with genuine happiness. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open.
She brought Delia inside the cozy front hall. "Oh, here," Delia said, her voice a little shy as she stretched her hands out to offer the basket.
Catherine took it, the weight of it a pleasant surprise. "You shouldn’t have," she replied with a grateful smile. "But thank you. They are beautiful." She placed the basket on a small table by the door, then tilted her head a little, her curiosity getting the better of her. "His Grace didn’t come with you?" she asked gently.
Delia’s fleeting smile vanished. She was silent, her gaze falling to the floor. The air grew thick with unspoken words.
Catherine immediately felt that she had overstepped, her question touching a fresh wound.
"Oh, I’m sorry," she said quickly, her face full of regret. "That was too much, wasn’t it? Forgive me."
"No, that’s not it," Delia replied, finally looking up. Her eyes were filled with a deep sadness. "We’re... taking a little space right now."
The quiet admission told Catherine everything she needed to know. "What?" she asked, her voice soft with concern.
Delia looked around the hallway, seeming a little lost. "May I have a seat?"
"Of course! Forgive my manners," Catherine said, guiding her towards the drawing room.
They both sat on a comfortable sofa as a maid brought them a tray with tea and small cakes. For a few moments, the only sound was the clinking of porcelain.
Catherine decided to ask directly, but with care. "Can I ask why you two fought?"
Delia set her teacup down, her hands moving to fiddle with a loose thread on her dress. "We didn’t fight," she said, her head hung low. "It’s just..." she paused, struggling to find the words. "He’s always been so good to me, right from the very beginning. One day, it just... it made me think. Maybe it’s not because he loves me. Maybe he just pities me." Her voice grew smaller. "Maybe he was good to me because he felt sorry and guilty for what happened to me."
"What are you saying?" Catherine asked, her expression full of disbelief. "Delia, no man in the world would do that much for a woman he simply pities. The way His Grace looks at you, the way he protects you... his actions..." She paused and gave a knowing smile. "That’s love. There is no doubt about that."
"But Baroness Augusta always used to tell me... who would love someone her mother abandoned?" Delia whispered, the old, cruel words still holding their power over her. "After hearing that for so many years, I thought maybe someone like me... someone broken... doesn’t deserve to be loved."
"Listen to me," Catherine said, her voice firm but full of love. "You deserve to be loved more than anyone else in this world. So don’t you ever let evil people’s words get to you. You survived, Delia. You grew up fine all on your own, without anyone to guide you. I am so incredibly proud of you, my darling."
Delia nodded, a watery smile touching her lips. "Thank you for saying that." But the smile was fragile. It wavered, and then her composure crumbled completely. Her smile turned into quiet sobs, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding them back.
"But I... I don’t want to be alone anymore," she confessed, the words torn from her heart. "I need my mother. I don’t know what to do with this overwhelming feeling I’m having inside me." She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at her runny nose. "I miss him so much it hurts." She looked at Catherine, her eyes swimming with tears. "You know, when I was a girl, I used to be so jealous of other children. Children who were loved by their mothers. I wanted that more than anything."
Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes as she listened to her daughter’s painful confession. "As your mother," she said, her own voice thick with emotion, "I am so, so sorry."
Delia looked at her, a new, hopeful light shining through her tears. "Then," she began, her voice small and childlike, "the things you didn’t get to do for me all those years... the bedtime stories, the scraped knees, the advice... can you do them all for me now?"
Catherine’s heart felt like it would burst with love. A joyful, tearful smile spread across her face. "Of course," she whispered. "Of course, my love. Anything."
She stood up from her seat and moved to sit right beside Delia on the sofa. Without a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped her arms around her daughter, pulling her into a warm, secure, motherly hug. Delia stiffened for a second, surprised by the contact, and then she melted into the embrace, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder and finally letting herself cry, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of finally being home.