CHAPTER 211: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

Delia grabbed her small, elegant reticule from the table, her mind still reeling from the dramatic events of the meeting. Another part of her revenge completed.

Eric was right beside her. He offered her his arm in which she took as they both walked towards the street where their carriage was waiting.

"Delia!"

The voice, gentle but firm, stopped them.

Delia and Eric turned to see Catherine approaching them, her steps hesitant but determined. The confident, almost regal bearing she had shown in the meeting room was gone, replaced by a vulnerable and uncertain expression.

"I want to talk to you," she said, her eyes fixed on Delia, full of a hope so fragile it was heartbreaking.

Delia stared at her, her face a mask of exhaustion. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. She was a fortress, her walls built high against the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Catherine took a deep breath, as if gathering all the courage she possessed. "You told me in the parlor," she began, her voice soft and full of regret, "that I should have approached you honestly from the very beginning." A small, sad smile touched her lips. "You were right. Completely right. Approaching you under a false pretense, as ’Lady Isla,’ trying to make you like me before you knew the truth... it wasn’t the right thing to do. It was cowardly."

She looked down at her hands for a moment before meeting Delia’s gaze again. "I should have let you be angry. I should have let you resent me as much as you wanted. It was my duty to face that. I should have worked hard to win your trust, no matter how long it took."

Eric looked at Delia, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression was still unreadable as she listened to her mother’s heartfelt confession.

Catherine took another small step closer, her voice a pleading whisper. "I will be ready when you are, Delia. I won’t push you. I won’t force this. When you feel like you can hear me out, when and if you ever want to see me again, I will be waiting. I will wait for as long as it takes."

She then turned to Eric, her eyes conveying a message of trust. "Please," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Please take care of my Delia."

Eric, understanding the immense weight of her request, simply bowed his head in a gesture of solemn respect. It was a silent promise.

Catherine gave Delia one last, lingering look, her heart in her eyes, before she turned and walked back into the grand establishment. Delia watched her mother’s retreating form, her face still a silent expression.

~ ••••• ~

The carriage carrying Augusta hurtled through the city streets, its wheels clattering violently against the cobblestones. Inside, Augusta was hysterical. She gripped the velvet seat, her knuckles white, her body trembling with a mixture of rage and terror.

"Ride faster, you fool!" she shrieked at the driver, her voice a shrill, ugly sound. "Faster!"

As the carriage swerved into the courtyard of the Ellington manor, it had barely come to a complete stop before Augusta threw the door open herself. She didn’t wait for the footman to lower the steps, but practically scrambled out, her beautiful dress catching on the doorframe, tearing the silk. She ignored the torn silk, just as she ignored the shocked and fearful greetings from the servants who had rushed out to meet her.

She swept into the house like an angry lion, her mask of control slipping off her face. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, hurried towards her, her own face pale with a different kind of fear.

"Baroness!" she cried, her hands wringing in her apron. "Baroness, the Baron... the Baron is ..."

Augusta didn’t even allow her to speak. Her mind was a chaotic mess of Edgar’s return, Catherine’s ghost, and her own public humiliation. She couldn’t handle another problem. She especially couldn’t handle a problem that no longer mattered.

"Gable, tell me about his death later," she snapped, brushing past the housekeeper without a second glance. She was, in her panicked state, referring to her husband, Henry, assuming the worst had finally happened. "I have bigger problems right now."

With that, she stormed up the grand staircase and down the hall to her room, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. The sound echoed through the silent, terrified house.

She didn’t stop. She went straight to her elegant writing table, knocking over a delicate perfume bottle in her haste. She yanked open a drawer, pulled out a sheet of fine stationery. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write, her hand flying across the page. Her handwriting, usually so elegant and controlled, was a rushed, almost illegible scrawl. It was a letter of urgency to Anne, a summons, a desperate plea for her only remaining ally to come to her.

After she was done, she folded the paper with trembling fingers, stuffed it into an envelope, and sealed it with a messy splotch of wax. She went to the door and yanked it open. A young maid, who had been hovering nervously in the hall, jumped back in fright.

"Send this to my daughter at the Kaulder estate," Augusta commanded, thrusting the letter at the girl. "Immediately. Use the fastest rider."

The maid took the letter, her hand shaking. "Yes, Baroness," she whispered. She curtsied quickly and scurried away.

Augusta slammed the door again and was finally alone. She began to pace the length of her luxurious room like a caged tiger, her silk dress rustling with each frantic step. She pressed her hands to her temples, her mind a whirlwind of terror.

"What do I do now?" she murmured to herself, her voice a high, thin sound of pure panic. "They’re all against me. Catherine and Edgar. Prescott betrayed me. The advisors have turned against me."

She stopped in front of her vanity and stared at her reflection, but she didn’t see the powerful, beautiful woman from that morning. She saw a wild, frightened creature with wide, terrified eyes and disheveled hair. Her perfect mask was gone, shattered into a thousand pieces just like her plans.

"What do I do?" she asked the woman in the mirror, her voice rising to a hysterical cry. "They will come for me. They will take everything. They will find out what I did. They will ruin me!"

She stared at the mirror again and let out a manic laughter as she swept her arm across the vanity, sending perfume bottles, silver brushes, and porcelain trinkets crashing to the floor in a commotion of shattering glass and wasted luxury. It wasn’t enough. The rage and fear were still trapped inside her, a poison with no escape. She was alone, defeated, and for the first time in twenty years, completely and utterly terrified.