Chapter 254: Chapter Two Hundred And Fifty Four
The carriage swayed in a gentle, comforting rhythm as Mr. Rye expertly guided the horses through the darkening streets. Delia sat perfectly still, the small, carved wooden box resting on her lap like a heavy secret. It was cool to the touch, its surface worn smooth with age. She ran her fingers over the intricate patterns, her mind replaying Eric’s last words to her.
"Promise me you won’t open it till you get home."
The promise was a catalyst increasing her curiosity. Every bump in the road, every turn of the wheel, seemed to amplify the box’s presence. What could be inside? Another apology? An explanation? A farewell? A thousand possibilities, each more unsettling than the last, paraded through her thoughts. She relaxed back into the plush leather seat, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe deeply, to simply wait.
When the carriage finally pulled up into the familiar courtyard of the grand residence, she felt a profound sense of relief. She thanked Mr. Rye and hurried inside, the heavy front doors closing behind her with a soft, definitive click. The house was quiet as usual. She was alone.
Immediately, she set the box on a table in the grand foyer, her fingers fumbling with the small, brass latch. With a soft click, it opened. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, were two items: a single, ornate, old-fashioned key and a folded letter, sealed with the Carson family crest. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she picked up the letter and broke the seal.
The handwriting was Eric’s, elegant and clear.
"There’s something I want you to see." The letter started. "In my room, behind the vanity, there’s a door."
Delia’s brow furrowed. A door? She walked up the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing in the silent house, her mind racing. She entered Eric’s room, the same room she has been avoiding since their separation. The familiar scent of him, a faint mix of sandalwood and old books, still lingered in the air. She lit the wick of the lantern that sat on the bedside table. Her eyes went straight to the large, ornate vanity against the far wall.
"I have dressed in front of this vanity a hundred times," she said to herself, her voice a low whisper in the quiet room. Her thoughts continued, a painful slideshow of memories. We’ve done things here... laughed, talked... even made love in front of this very mirror. And I never noticed a door.
She placed the letter and key on the bed and used all her strength to push the heavy piece of furniture. It groaned in protest but slid aside, revealing a section of the wall that looked just like the rest, covered in the same patterned wallpaper. She pushed against the wall, expecting a panel to give way, but it wouldn’t budge. It was solid.
Confused, she picked up the letter again, her eyes scanning the words once more.
"Use the key in the box to open the door. When you open the door, you will find what you have been looking for."
"What I’ve been looking for?" she repeated, the words making no sense to her. What had she been looking for, other than peace? Other than the truth?
Her gaze fell upon the key. She ran her fingers along the wall where the vanity had been, searching for a keyhole. Her fingers brushed against a tiny, almost invisible seam in the wallpaper, and just below it, a small, recessed brass plate. She inserted the key. It fit perfectly. With a turn of her wrist, she heard a soft, satisfying click as a hidden lock disengaged. She pushed again, and this time, a section of the wall swung inward silently, revealing a dark, cavernous space.
She peeped inside, but it was pitch black. A cool, musty smell, like that of a long-unopened cellar, drifted out. She went back out, walked to the bedside table and took the lit lantern. Carrying the warm, flickering light, she stepped across the threshold.
As she entered, her eyes widened in utter shock. The lantern light danced across rows upon rows of neatly organized shelves. On those shelves, glowing like jewels in the dark, were hundreds of small, labeled glass jars. They were her dyes. All of her lost dyes, the ones Augusta had stolen from her, the physical embodiment of her life’s work. From her very first experimental dye, a grey hue, to the complex, shimmering sunset hue that had been her last creation before her engagement to George—all of her collections were here, perfectly preserved.
"Why... why are these here?" she asked herself, her voice trembling. Her thoughts died when she turned, the lantern light illuminating the rest of the hidden room.
In a separate, well-kept compartment, covered by a fine linen cloth to protect it from dust, sat a single, magnificent bolt of silk. The color was strange, shifting, and deeply familiar. Her own words, spoken to Eric in the kitchen, came rushing back to her, as real and clear as if she were saying them now.
"There’s one that I really want back," her memory whispered. "It was more than just a dye. It was used on a bolt of silk I wove myself. It was an engagement gift... to myself."
She remembered the ache in her voice, the sense of loss.
"I’m not sure what the Baroness did with it, but I’m sure it has not been sewn. I’ve asked everywhere, done my own personal investigations, but I still couldn’t find it. It has a very weird, unique color, so it’s not hard to miss."
She could almost feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, see the curious, gentle look in Eric’s eyes as he had asked, "What’s it like?"
"Like grey storm clouds," she had told him, the words pouring from a place of deep sadness. "I used to think that my life was like a storm cloud—dark, colorless, and filled with a constant rain of tears."
She looked at the bolt of silk again, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It looked familiar because it was hers.
"My silk," she said, her voice a low whisper filled with a dizzying mix of emotions. A gasp of pure happiness escaped her lips as tears welled in her eyes. It was real. She had found it. The joy was quickly followed by a sense of profound disbelief. How was this possible?
But then, another emotion, stronger and more unsettling than the others, took over. Confusion. It washed over her, overriding everything else. He had found it. He had found all of it. He remembered her words, her pain, and he had gone searching.
"But why does Eric have it?" she asked the silent, secret room.