Chapter 250: Chapter Two Hundred And Fifty
The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The air around the secluded cabin grew cooler, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Delia sat on the rough wooden steps, a large wicker basket resting by the door. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity.
"Your Grace," Mr. Rye said from his position by the carriage, his voice full of polite concern. "It’s getting late. The road back will be dark soon. It seems His Grace is not around."
Delia looked at the basket. It was filled with freshly baked bread, a hearty stew kept warm with insulated cloths, and a few neatly folded sets of clean clothes. She had come with a clear purpose, but now, sitting in the quiet twilight, her resolve was wavering. She should leave. She should simply leave the basket and go home. But she couldn’t.
"I just want to be sure he receives it," she told herself, the argument playing out in her mind for the third time. "Someone or something might steal it if I leave it here." It was a weak excuse, and she knew it. The truth was, she needed to see him. She needed to see with her own eyes that he was alright.
Just as she was about to give in and tell Mr. Rye to prepare for departure, she heard it—the distant sound of horses whining and the crunch of wheels on the gravel path. She quickly stood up, her heart giving a little jump. She brushed the dust from her dress with quick, nervous motions, trying to compose herself, to look as if she had not been waiting at all.
A carriage, darker and plainer than her own, came into view and rolled to a stop. The door opened, and Eric stepped down. He looked weary, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world. He looked gloomy. But then he saw her.
His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The gloom vanished, and his face lit up with a look of childlike joy and surprise. It was as if the sun had decided to rise again just for him.
"My duch—" he started, the old, familiar term of endearment slipping out before he caught himself. He corrected his words, his voice softer. "Delia."
He moved towards her, his arms opening slightly as if to embrace her, but she took a small, almost imperceptible step back. It was a tiny movement, but it was enough. It was a wall, and he had just run into it.
His hopeful smile faded for a moment, the light in his eyes dimming with a flicker of pain. But he quickly brought the smile back, determined not to let the moment sour. "Are you here to see me?" he asked, his voice filled with a hopeful wonder.
"I brought you clothes and things you might need," she replied, her tone carefully neutral. She gestured towards the basket. "And food, too. I thought you might not have time to arrange for meals out here."
His gaze caught the large basket by the door, and he understood she had been waiting. "Did I make you wait for long?"
She shook her head, the lie coming easily to protect her pride. "No, I just got here."
They both stood there for a long moment, an awkward silence stretching between them, filled with all the things they couldn’t say. He was the man who had lied to her. She was the woman he loved, the woman who no longer trusted him.
Eric broke the silence first. "Do you want to come in for a while?"
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to say no, to keep the safe distance she had just established. But the concerned part of her, the part that had brought her all this way, won out. She gave a single, small nod.
He picked up the heavy basket, and they entered the quiet cabin. When they got to his study, he dropped the basket on a table close to him. The room was just as she remembered it from her first time here—the fireplace, the desk, the comfortable rug. It was the place she had first confessed her deepest secret to him. The memory was a dull ache in her chest.
"Let me get you a cup of water," Eric said, moving to a small side table where a pitcher and glasses sat. His movements were a little clumsy, a sign of his own nervousness.
As he poured the water into a glass, the silence of the room amplifying the sound of the liquid splashing, Delia spoke. "I heard about what happened," she said, her voice steady.
Eric paused, his back still to her. He let out a nervous chuckle that held no humor. "Did you?"
Delia’s expression was stern, an attempt to mask the worry underneath, but her voice betrayed her. "Is everything okay?" The question was soft, filled with a genuine concern she couldn’t hide. "How did a fatal accident happen at the workshop?"
He finished pouring the water and turned around, handing her the glass. He didn’t answer right away. He walked over to the fireplace and stared into the cold, dark hearth. "Actually," he said, his voice tired and heavy, "I am not sure of what to do."
He looked at her, his eyes full of the conflict that was tearing him apart. "If I keep investigating, the establishment will take a huge hit. The rumors will fly, our patrons will lose faith. It will hurt my family, my grandmother. So, there’s a problem."
Delia walked slowly to where he was standing. "So you just want to pretend it doesn’t exist?" she asked, her voice firm. "Eric, do you still not get it?"
He looked at her, confused. She continued, her words now carrying the weight of her own personal pain. "The more challenging something is, the more you need to share it. You don’t carry burdens like this alone. That’s how you trust and respect the person or people you are with. Hiding it..." she paused, the memory of his hidden tattoo, his hidden past, flashing in her mind. "...hiding it isn’t being considerate. It hurts them more. It makes them feel like you don’t trust them enough to face the storm with you. So, investigate, share your burdens with your grandmother and bring closure to the deceased family."
A slow smile spread across Eric’s face. It was a real smile this time, full of a sad, profound understanding. He understood her words clearly. "Yes," he said softly. "You’re right."
He moved closer, his hand lifting as if to gently touch her cheek, to thank her for seeing him, for understanding him. But as his fingers neared, she took a small step back, breaking the spell.
"It’s getting late," she said, her voice once again carefully neutral. "I need to be on my way."
Eric let his hand fall back to his side, retracting it as if he had been burned. He kept the sad smile on his face, a mask for his disappointment. "Yes. Of course," he said. "Let me see you to the carriage."
She gave another small nod, and they walked out of the cabin, back outside towards the waiting carriage.