Reborn: The Duke's Obsession Chapter 3 - Three
Previously on Reborn: The Duke's Obsession...
"Awaken!" A sudden dousing of cold water jolted Delia awake in her bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Looming over her was the familiar visage of Mrs. Gable, the head maid at Ellington Manor.
"Her Ladyship desires you to prepare," Mrs. Gable stated crisply. "You are to visit the modiste for your wedding gown fitting. Your future mother-in-law awaits."
Delia’s eyelids fluttered, water cascading from her lashes. Wedding gown fitting? Future mother-in-law? The phrases echoed, alien and nonsensical. Her gaze swept the room. It was her old chamber in Ellington Manor, unchanged. The pale blue wallpaper, the heavy velvet drapes, the familiar lavender scent from the potpourri on her vanity.
A profound confusion enveloped her. Had the accident been a phantasm? A dreadful nightmare? Yet, it had felt so tangibly real. The agony, the terror, George’s pity, the collision...
Mrs. Gable huffed in exasperation. "Are you insensible, girl? Rise! You wouldn’t wish to keep Lady Pembroke waiting."
As the maid departed, grumbling about indolent youths, Delia slowly rose from her bed. Her limbs felt remarkably robust, not the aching, fractured appendages of her final moments. She made her way to the large, ornate mirror adorning the wall.
Her reflection stared back. It was undeniably her. Her eyes, wide with incredulity. Her long, dark tresses, tousled from slumber. Her countenance, youthful and unblemished, precisely as it had been before... before everything.
"It truly is me," she breathed, her voice a mere whisper. A delicate, disbelieving joy began to unfurl within her chest. She lifted a hand to her cheek, then her arm. It was then that she noticed it.
On the inner side of her left wrist, just beneath her palm, rested a rosebud. Its pink petals appeared permanently affixed to her skin, as if tattooed. What could this signify? She rubbed at it, but the mark refused to smudge or fade. It was peculiar, yet amidst her current shock and relief, she dismissed it. She would unravel its mystery later.
A definite purpose, strong and clear, permeated her being. This was a second chance. An opportunity to alter the course of events. A chance to circumvent the suffering, the treachery, the tragic conclusion, and exact her vengeance.
She inhaled deeply, her breath trembling. Foremost, she needed to feign normalcy. She washed hastily, the frigid water invigorating her skin. She selected a simple, day-to-day gown, one she knew Baroness Augusta would deem fitting—unadorned, modest, drawing no undue attention.
Once attired, she descended the stairs, her heart oscillating between trepidation and exhilaration. The familiar sounds of the manor permeated the air—the clatter of cookware from the kitchen, the distant murmur of servants, the grand hall clock chiming the hour. She proceeded towards the dining hall, the aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing tea tantalizing her senses.
Before she could even reach the threshold, Baroness Augusta’s sharp retort sliced through the ambiance. "Delia! No breakfast for you this morn."
Delia halted abruptly, her hand gripping the doorknob. Baroness Augusta stood near the majestic staircase, her posture stiff, her expression severe. Her gaze appraised Delia from head to toe.
"You must fit your wedding gown, my dear," the Baroness pursued, a semblance of a smile gracing her lips. "We cannot have you appearing... corpulent." Her words landed like a physical blow.
Previously, Delia had perceived Baroness Augusta’s concerns as merely protective, perhaps a tad excessive regarding appearances. She had assumed the Baroness sought only to ensure she presented her best self for the nuptials. Now, the genuine, malicious intent behind those words struck her with full force. The Baroness harbored no protective feelings; she was deliberately starving her. For months leading up to the wedding, under the pretense of 'fitting the dress,' she had subjected her to deprivation.
A wave of bitter sorrow churned in Delia’s stomach, far more potent than any physical pang of hunger. She recalled the instances of feeling weak, lightheaded, and irritable, attributing them to pre-nuptial jitters. It wasn't stress; it was prolonged hunger. This woman, her supposed stepmother, had intentionally undermined her well-being.
It wasn't as though she partook in meals at the main table, anyway. Even prior to the betrothal, Delia had always prepared her own sustenance—small portions, consumed in solitude within her chambers, a quiet, isolated ritual that had become her accustomed reality. This revelation merely represented another facet of the Baroness’s oppressive control and inherent cruelty.
Delia’s jaw clenched. She lowered her head, a silent acquiescence to the Baroness’s decree, a gesture she now recognized as emblematic of her past powerlessness. "Yes, Baroness," she responded, her tone flat, devoid of any discernible emotion.
She turned and retreated from the beckoning scents of breakfast, her stomach rumbling in protest, yet her mind solidified with newfound resolve. She made her way to the small, cramped pantry she frequented, her eyes scanning the sparse shelves. A handful of stale biscuits and a half-consumed apple constituted the entirety of her available provisions. She seized the apple, her fingers betraying a slight tremor.
As the tartness of the apple cut through the bitterness that lingered in her mouth, her thoughts drifted to the rosebud marking on her wrist. It remained an enigma, but for the moment, it was a secondary puzzle. The primary enigma, however, was the inexplicable return to this life. Still unsettled by the frosty encounter with Baroness Augusta, Delia strode purposefully from the manor. The crisp morning air, a refreshing contrast to the suffocating, heavy atmosphere within, greeted her as she made her way to the courtyard where the carriages were housed. Her own carriage, unpretentious yet well-maintained, awaited her. The driver, a man with a welcoming countenance named Thomas, already held the door ajar. "Good morning, Thomas," Delia greeted, her voice steady. "To town, if you would. The modiste's establishment." Thomas inclined his head and tipped his cap. "Immediately, Miss Delia." She entered the carriage, sinking into the familiar luxury of the plush velvet seats. With a gentle lurch, the carriage began to move, gaining momentum as it transitioned from the gravelled courtyard to the open road. Delia leaned back, a sigh of weariness mingled with a peculiar, burgeoning serenity escaping her lips. The steady rhythm of the horses' hooves and the carriage's gentle rocking began to calm her agitated spirit. She shut her eyes, surrendering to the soothing motion of the journey. For a fleeting instant, she let go of the burdens of her past, the devastating accident, and the unnerving reappearance of the numerals on her wrist. She was alive. She was present, ensconced in this familiar carriage, en route to a dress fitting for a wedding she now knew, with unwavering conviction, she would never attend. A faint, rebellious smile graced her lips. This was her opportunity, and she was determined not to squander it.