"Wake up!" A sudden splash of cold water hit Delia's face. She gasped, jolting upright in bed, her heart pounding. The familiar face of Mrs. Gable, the head maid of Ellington Manor, loomed over her.
"Her Ladyship wants you to get ready," Mrs. Gable said, her voice brisk as always. "You're to go to the modiste for your wedding dress fitting. Your soon-to-be mother-in-law is waiting."
Delia blinked, water dripping from her eyelashes. Wedding dress fitting? Mother-in-law? The words seemed to echo in her ears, making no sense. She looked around the room. It was her old room in Ellington Manor, exactly as she remembered it. The pale blue wallpaper, the heavy velvet curtains, the familiar scent of lavender from the potpourri on her dresser.
A wave of confusion washed over her. Had the accident been a dream? A terrible nightmare? But it had felt so real. The pain, the fear, George's pity, the crash...
Mrs. Gable sighed impatiently. "Are you deaf, child? Get up! You don't want to keep Lady Pembroke waiting."
As the maid left the room, muttering about lazy girls, Delia slowly got out of bed. Her legs felt surprisingly strong, not aching and broken as they had been in her last moments. She walked to the large, ornate mirror on the wall.
She stared at her reflection. It was truly her. Her eyes, wide with disbelief. Her long, dark hair, disheveled from sleep. Her face, young and unlined, just as it had been before... before everything.
"It's really me," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. A fragile, disbelieving happiness began to bloom in her chest. She raised a hand to touch her face, then her arm. That's when she saw it.
On the inside of her left wrist, just above her palm, was a bud of roses with pink petals that looked like it was tattooed to her skin. What does it mean? She rubbed at them, but they didn't smudge or fade. It was strange, but in her current state of shock and relief, she simply brushed it aside. She would figure it out later.
A sense of purpose, strong and clear, filled her. This was a second chance. A chance to change things. A chance to avoid the pain, the betrayal, the tragic end and take her revenge.
She took a deep, shaky breath. First, she needed to act normal. She washed quickly, the cold water waking her skin. She chose a simple, everyday dress, one she knew Baroness Augusta would find acceptable – plain, modest, not drawing any attention.
When she was dressed, she went downstairs, her heart thumping with a mix of fear and excitement. The familiar sounds of the manor filled the air – the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the distant voices of servants, the grand clock in the hall chiming the hour. She made her way to the dining hall, the smell of freshly baked bread and brewing tea tempting her.
Before she could even step through the doorway, Baroness Augusta's sharp voice cut through the air. "Delia! No breakfast for you this morning."
Delia stopped short, her hand on the doorknob. Baroness Augusta stood by the grand staircase, her posture rigid, her expression cold. Her eyes swept over Delia, assessing.
"You need to fit into your wedding dress, dear," the Baroness continued, a fake smile playing on her lips. "We can't have you looking... plump." Her words were like a slap.
Before, Delia had thought Baroness Augusta was just looking out for her, perhaps a bit overly concerned with appearances. She had believed the Baroness was simply trying to ensure she looked her best for the wedding. Now, the true, cruel meaning of those words crashed down on her. The Baroness wasn't looking out for her; she was starving her. She had been starving her for months before the wedding, all under the guise of 'fitting into the dress.'
A bitter sadness twisted in Delia's stomach, stronger than any hunger pangs. She remembered all the times she had felt weak, dizzy, and irritable, thinking it was just stress from the upcoming wedding. It wasn't stress; it was hunger. This woman, her supposed stepmother, had deliberately deprived her.
It wasn't like she ate at the main table anyway. Even then, before the engagement, Delia had always made her own food, simple portions, and eaten them alone in her room, a quiet, solitary routine that had become her norm. This was just another layer of the Baroness's control and cruelty.
Delia's jaw tightened. She bowed her head, a silent acknowledgment of the Baroness's command, a gesture she now understood as a symbol of her past helplessness. "Yes, Baroness," she replied, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.
She turned and walked away from the inviting smells of breakfast, her stomach grumbling, but her mind filled with a new resolve. She walked to the small, cramped pantry she used, her eyes scanning the meager shelves. A few stale biscuits and a half-eaten apple were all that was available for her. She grabbed the apple, her fingers trembling slightly.
As she ate the apple, its tartness a sharp difference to the bitter taste in her mouth, she thought about the rose bud on her wrist. It still made no sense, but for now, it was a minor mystery. The bigger mystery was how she had come back.
Delia, still reeling from the cold exchange with Baroness Augusta, walked with a determined stride out of the manor. The fresh morning air hit her face, a welcome change from the stuffy, oppressive atmosphere inside. She made her way to the courtyard where the carriages were kept. Her personal carriage, a modest but well-kept vehicle, waited. The driver, a kind-faced man named Thomas, was already holding the door open.
"Good morning, Thomas," Delia said, trying to keep her voice even. "To town, please. The modiste's shop."
Thomas nodded, tipping his cap. "Right away, Miss Delia."
She stepped into the carriage, the plush velvet seats a familiar comfort. As the carriage lurched forward, slowly at first, then picking up speed as it left the gravel courtyard and hit the main road, Delia leaned back. A sigh escaped her lips, a mix of exhaustion and a strange, newfound peace. The rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage began to soothe her frayed nerves.
She closed her eyes, letting the vibrations of the ride lull her. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the past, the terrible accident, and the chilling reappearance of the numbers on her wrist. She was alive. She was here, in this familiar carriage, heading to a dress fitting for a wedding she now knew, with absolute certainty, she would never go through with.
A small, defiant smile touched her lips. This was her chance, and she wouldn't waste it.