CHAPTER 219: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND NINETEEN

The Ellington manor was quiet. For Anne, her luxurious bedroom had become a prison cell. She had locked herself away since the previous day’s catastrophe and now news that her mother being a fugitive that was hunted down added to her despair. The reflection that stared back at her from the vanity mirror was a stranger—a pale, hollow-eyed girl whose entire life had been termed as a lie.

A soft, polite knock sounded on the door. Anne ignored it. She didn’t want to see anyone. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to be left alone in her misery. The knock came again, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. With a frustrated sigh, she stormed over to the door and yanked it open.

"What?" she snapped, her voice rough with unshed tears and a sleepless night.

It was the new head housekeeper, Mrs. Doris. She was holding a tray with a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of water. She didn’t flinch at Anne’s rude tone. Her expression was calm and neutral.

"You are upset and you don’t want to eat, right?" Mrs. Doris said. It was not a question so much as a simple, factual statement.

Anne glared at her, expecting the kind of nervous, apologetic fawning she had always received from Mrs. Gable. "It is none of your business," she retorted coldly.

To her complete astonishment, Mrs. Doris chuckled. It was a small, dry sound, not unkind, but certainly not subservient. "You are right," the housekeeper said, her eyes meeting Anne’s directly. "It’s not my business. My business is to ensure that food is available to the residents of this house." She held out the tray. "You can do whatever you want with the food. Eat it, or let it grow cold. The choice is yours."

She handed the tray to a stunned Anne and, with a slight nod, turned and walked away, her footsteps quiet and efficient down the long hall.

Anne stood there in the doorway, the warm tray in her hands, completely taken aback. Mrs. Gable would have begged her to eat, would have fussed over her, would have treated her like a fragile princess. This new woman... she treated her like an adult. The thought was both insulting and strangely bracing.

She shoved the thought from her mind and closed the door with a soft click. The smell of the chicken soup, rich and savory, filled the room. Despite her grief, a sharp pang of hunger reminded her she hadn’t eaten since the day before. She put the tray on her bed and sat down.

She picked up the heavy silver spoon and took a spoonful of the fragrant broth. But as she brought it to her lips, the rich smell, which had seemed so appealing a moment before, suddenly turned her stomach. A powerful wave of nausea washed over her. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, her hand flying to her mouth as she scrambled off the bed and ran to the washroom, slamming the door behind her.

A few minutes later, she came back out, her face pale and beaded with a cold sweat. She walked unsteadily back to her bed and sat down, rubbing her flat stomach with a trembling hand.

"Just wait for another week," she whispered to the empty room, her voice a desperate, pleading sound. "Please. Just one more week." Her entire future now rested on a fragile, secret hope growing inside her, a hope she had to protect at all costs.

The soup was forgotten. She could no longer bear the smell of it. She picked up the tray, intending to take it down to the kitchen herself. As she walked quietly down the grand staircase and past the drawing room, she heard voices from within. Her grandfather’s voice.

"Catherine is alive," Edgar was saying, his voice filled with a profound, quiet wonder. "I saw her with my own eyes. She looks healthy and well."

Anne froze, her hand tightening on the tray. She crept closer to the drawing-room door, which was slightly ajar, and peeped through the narrow opening. She saw her grandfather sitting in an armchair across from Henry, who was in his wheelchair, staring down at his own lap.

"She already met with Delia," Edgar continued. "I think... I think we should go and see her. Both of us. We should go, and we should beg for her forgiveness for what happened all those years ago."

Henry spoke, his voice a low, broken whisper. He didn’t look up. "I can’t see Catherine. I can’t face her. I’m too ashamed."

Edgar’s voice choked with the sound of his own tears. "I’m sorry, Henry. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I was a proud and greedy man. I opposed your relationship. If I hadn’t..."

"No," Henry interrupted, finally looking up at his father. His eyes were red-rimmed and full of a deep, soul-crushing guilt. "I am the one at fault. I am a man. I should have been stronger. I couldn’t protect her. I can’t begin to imagine what she must have gone through, all those years, thinking I had abandoned her. All those years she spent without me, and without Delia by her side. She must have believed I had moved on, that I had built a new family without her."

He looked at his father, his eyes now filled with fresh tears. "But I never would have thought Augusta would pin another man’s blood on me. Father, do you know what it was like? All these years, lying in that bed, trapped in my own head? I would always hate myself, over and over, thinking that I had somehow betrayed Catherine, and that my sickness was her way of punishing me for it." He let out a choked, tearful chuckle that was the most painful sound Anne had ever heard. "And now... now my Catherine is back. She’s alive. She’s real. And I am this... this broken thing. How can I face her? How can I look her in the eye?"

Henry was openly crying now, his frail shoulders shaking with sobs he had held in for twenty three years. Edgar joined him, his own face wet with tears. The old Baron stood up, went to his son’s wheelchair, and placed a trembling hand on his back, patting him gently, two broken men finding comfort in their shared grief.

Anne retracted from the door, her heart a cold, hard knot of fury in her chest. She hadn’t heard their pain, their guilt, their shame. All she had heard were the names, repeated over and over. Catherine. Delia.

Her grip tightened on the tray, her knuckles turning white. The silver rattled.

Delia! Delia! Delia! The name screamed in her head. Even now, it’s all about Delia. Catherine is back for Delia. Grandfather wants to give everything to Delia. Father wants to give even more love to Delia.

She didn’t see two men mourning a lost love. She saw them planning a new future, a future built around the daughter who was real, the one who mattered.

"Now I’m sure," she whispered to herself, her voice a venomous hiss as she backed away from the door. "They are planning on how to throw me, the fake daughter, out on the street. They are going to take everything away from me."

The thought was so terrifying, so real, that she almost dropped the tray.