Chapter 244: Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Four
The devastating truth hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. Eric watched Delia’s face, a look of confusion, shock, and a deep, spreading hurt that tore at his soul. He wanted to reach for her, to hold her and tell her he was sorry a thousand times over, but he knew that was out of the question. He had forfeited that right. His touch would likely feel like a betrayal now.
He had to try to explain, even if the words felt weak and useless. "I was struggling," he said, his voice raw with a sorrow that seemed to age him. "Every day, I wanted to tell you. But I thought you might have a hard time accepting it, too. I was a coward. That’s why I couldn’t tell you."
His explanation fell into the silence, doing nothing to bridge the vast chasm that had just opened between them. Delia stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. Her face was a pale, emotionless mask, her eyes voids of the warmth they usually held for him. Then, without a single word, she turned and walked out of the hallway, her movements stiff.
Eric’s heart sank. He followed her, his steps heavy. "Delia!" he called out as she walked into her bedroom.
She ignored him. She went directly to the large wooden trunk at the foot of her bed and threw open the lid with a resounding thud. With determined, jerky movements, she began pulling dresses from her wardrobe, her hands moving with a frantic energy as she started putting her clothes into it.
"Where are you going?" he asked, standing helplessly in the doorway. "It’s late." His voice was filled with a desperate concern.
Delia didn’t look at him. She continued packing her belongings, folding a silk gown with hands that trembled slightly. "I will be at an inn for a while," she said, her voice flat and cold. "I need some time to think."
The thought of her alone in some impersonal inn, consumed by the terrible truth he had just revealed, was unbearable. "Then I’ll leave," he said, the words coming out before he could stop them.
Delia paused, a dress held halfway to the trunk. She slowly turned her head. "What?"
"I’ll be the one to leave," Eric continued, taking a hesitant step into the room. "This is your home. You should be somewhere safe and familiar." He looked at her, his eyes pleading. "Please. I’m begging you. Stay here."
Delia wanted to retort, to tell him that the house no longer felt safe, that every corner now seemed tainted by his secret. But she saw the genuine agony in his expression, the sincerity in his plea. It was an act of care, perhaps the only one he could offer her right now. With a slow, weary sigh, she put the dress in her hand back into the wardrobe, the soft fabric whispering against the wood.
Eric let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. The relief was immense, but it was followed by the sharp pain of their impending separation. His head hung low as he prepared to leave her room.
"And..." he started, his voice low, "please don’t ignore my letters."
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and left, a profound sense of defeat weighing down his shoulders. Delia heard his footsteps retreat down the hall towards his own room to pack.
She was alone. She sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her. She looked at the open, half-empty trunk, a symbol of her shattered plan to flee. She looked at the empty space in the doorway where he had stood just seconds ago, a space that now felt cold and vast. Finally, her gaze fell to her own wrist, to the delicate rose bud tattoo.
Overwhelmed, she buried her head in her lap, pressing her forehead against her knees to ground herself against the storm raging inside her.
That same night, a carriage pulled up to a small, secluded cabin. Eric stepped out into the cool, crisp air. He turned to his driver.
"Mr. Rye," he said, his voice firm despite his inner turmoil. "Take care of the Duchess. Watch the house. If anything happens, anything at all, notify me immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace," Mr. Rye said with a respectful bow. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and guided the horses back towards the residence, leaving Eric alone in the quiet darkness.
Eric entered the cabin, the familiar scent of pine and old wood greeting him. He unlocked the door to his study and went inside, dropping his small trunk by the door. The room was dark and cold. He moved with a heavy heart, lighting the oil lamps on the desk and mantelpiece. He then knelt and skillfully lit the kindling in the fireplace. As the flames caught and began to dance, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room, his eyes fell upon the rug before the hearth.
And suddenly, she was there. Not in person, but in the memory that haunted the very air of the room. He remembered their encounter here, the night she had gotten drunk on his wine and her own sorrow.
"Do you know I’ve died before?" she had whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. He remembered how she hugged her knees to her chest, trying to make herself smaller. "I have. Seeing your whole life flash before your eyes... and then going into the light?" A violent shudder had wracked her small frame. "That’s scary. I was so scared."
He could still see her so clearly. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. He remembered the hurt in her voice, the vulnerability she had shown to no one else but him.
"All I wanted was to be loved," she had said, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "To be accepted. To be respected. Was that really too much to ask for?"
He slowly sat down on the rug, his hand touching the exact place where she had sat, where she had let out soft giggles and hiccups between her painful confessions.
The memory was so vivid it was like a ghost in the room with him. He stood up and walked to the large oak desk. He opened a drawer where he kept his most personal belongings and brought out a folded piece of paper. The letter she had left for him that morning.
He unfolded it carefully, his fingers tracing her elegant handwriting. He read the words he already knew by heart:
Thank you for your audience last night, Your Grace.
I believe we still have a deal to finalize. If I don’t show up for too long, can you please come and pick me up?
I also borrowed your carriage to take me back home. Oh, and I dropped something off to replace your wine. I’m sorry I finished it all.
Delia.
A sad smile touched his lips as he read her playful yet polite words. The memory of finding the letter, and the ten pieces of gold she’d left as a replacement, had been a moment of pure joy. Now, that same memory was laced with a deep, cutting sadness.
He sank into the chair behind his desk, the letter still in his hand. The weight of his deception pressed down on him. She had opened her soul to him that night, had told him her greatest secret. And he had said nothing. He had let her believe she was alone.
"I should have told her everything back then," he said to the empty room, his voice thick with regret. He dropped the letter onto the desk and ran his hands through his hair, disheveling it in his frustration. "I have messed everything up."
The fire crackled, the only response to his confession. He was alone with his ghosts, his guilt, and the heartbreaking knowledge that he, in trying to protect her, had hurt her more than anyone else ever could.