The modiste gasped, discreetly stepping back, trying to make herself invisible.
Lady Pembroke's face flushed a deep crimson. "How dare you!" she shrieked, her carefully constructed composure crumbling. "After all we have done for you? All the preparations? The expense! You will bring shame upon us all!"
"The only shame will be in continuing a charade," Delia countered, her voice calm despite the storm raging inside her. "I will inform my father. And I will ensure all expenses incurred are covered."
Lady Pembroke sputtered, speechless for a moment, torn between outrage and the sudden mention of money. "You... you cannot do this! George will be devastated! He loves you, you love him!"
Delia almost laughed. "Does he?" she asked, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "Or does he love the idea of our marriage bolstering his love for my sister ? Love, My Lady, does not starve its beloved to fit into an old dress. Love isn't wicked. Love does not see its partner as a means to an end."
The unspoken accusation hung between them. Lady Pembroke's eyes narrowed, her face a mask of fury. "You will regret this," she hissed, her voice barely audible. "You will regret this for the rest of your life."
Delia simply met her gaze, a new strength blossoming in her chest. "Perhaps," she said, her voice steady. "But at least I will regret it on my own terms."
She began to remove the heavy wedding dress. She unfastened the tiny buttons and untied the laces, the rustling of the fabric loud in the sudden silence of the room. Lady Pembroke stood frozen, her face a mask of disbelief and rage, unable to utter a single word. The modiste, wide-eyed, watched the scene unfold, a mixture of shock and fascination on her face.
Delia stepped out of the cumbersome gown, letting it drop to the floor in a heap of lace and silk. She was now in her simple undergarments, feeling lighter, freer than she had in years. She wore her plain dress and dressed her hair. She didn't spare Lady Pembroke another glance. Her decision was made, and there was no turning back.
She walked towards the door, her movements precise and unhurried. As she pulled the door open, a small bell above it jingled merrily, announcing her departure. The sound was a sweet chime of freedom.
She walked out into the busy street. Thomas, her driver, stood by the carriage, his back to her, adjusting the horses' harness. He turned at the sound of the bell.
"Done already, Milady?" Thomas asked, his brow furrowed slightly at her quick return. He moved to open the carriage door for her.
Delia held his hand briefly as she stepped into the carriage, a small, grateful gesture. "Yes, Mr. Thomas. All done." She looked at him, a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time that day. "And for good."
Thomas, sensing a shift in her mood, offered a small smile in return. As she settled onto the plush seat, he moved to the driver's box, ready to depart. Delia leaned back, whispering to herself, "Let's go."
Thomas whipped the reins, and the carriage jolted forward, pulling away from the modiste's shop and into the bustling town square. Delia watched the shops and people pass by, a strange sense of calm washing over her.
The ride back to Ellington Manor felt quicker than usual. The sun was high in the sky, a warm blanket over the sprawling grounds. As the carriage pulled into the familiar driveway, Delia spotted them: Baroness Augusta and Anne, enjoying a leisurely picnic in the rose garden. A maid was hovering nearby, ready to serve.
Delia took a deep breath. This was the next hurdle. She stepped out of the carriage, her head held high, and walked towards the garden. The scent of blooming roses filled the air.
As she approached, she saw Anne giggling at something Baroness Augusta had said. The scene was picture-perfect, a facade of a loving family. Delia felt a surge of cold anger.
"Good day, Baroness," Delia began, her voice cutting through their light chatter. "I'm canceling the wedding with the Pembrokes. I'm no longer marrying George."
Anne, who had been taking a sip of tea, snapped her head towards Delia, her eyes wide with shock. A small gasp escaped her lips, and some tea dribbled down her chin.
Baroness Augusta, however, did not even flinch. She simply took a delicate bite of a scone, her eyes fixed on the distant trees. She pretended she didn't hear a word Delia said. It was a classic move, one Delia had endured countless times in her previous life.
"Get me another cup of tea, would you?" Augusta said, turning to the maid serving them, her voice smooth and unaffected. The maid, looking confused but obedient, bowed and left to fetch more tea.
Delia's jaw tightened. "Did you not hear me, Baroness," she pressed on, her voice rising slightly, "or do you just pretend not to hear the things I say?"
Baroness Augusta slowly turned her head, her expression one of feigned confusion. "What?" she asked, her eyes devoid of any real interest. Her gaze was dismissive, as if Delia were merely a bothersome fly.
Delia didn't respond. There was no point. Arguing with Baroness Augusta was like talking to a brick wall; she would simply deny, deflect, gaslight or pretend not to understand. Delia had learned that lesson the hard way. The disappointment was bitter, but not surprising. This was the same woman who had starved her, who had manipulated her, and who would have let her go to prison which would lead to her execution without a second thought.
Without another word, Delia lifted the hem of her skirt and turned away. She walked past the rose bushes, past the bewildered maid returning with the tea, and headed straight for the manor.
Anne watched Delia's retreating back, then looked at her mother, a bewildered expression on her face. "What's wrong with her now?" she asked, her voice high and questioning.
Baroness Augusta finally looked at Anne, a faint, almost unnoticeable frown touching her lips. "I'm not sure," she replied, her voice calm, even bored. "She's been a bit... dramatic lately, hasn't she? I'll check up on her later."