Chapter 8 - Eight
The heavy wooden door to her father’s chambers creaked softly as Delia pushed it open. She slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. The room was dim, the thick velvet curtains drawn tight against the sun, allowing only thin slivers of light to pierce the gloom. The air was still and smelled faintly of medicine, a scent that now clung to her memories of her father.
Baron Henry was once one of the most prominent figures in the king’s court. His sharp mind and tireless work had earned him a place of respect and influence that few could rival. He was the only Baron who served the king personally, a trusted advisor amongst a sea of Viscounts, Counts, and Dukes. His counsel was valued, and his loyalty had won him the king’s genuine favor. But a sudden, cruel illness had stolen him from the vibrant world of court politics and trapped him within the four walls of this silent room.
He was asleep, lying motionless in the center of a large, ornate bed that now seemed to swallow his frail form. His breathing was shallow, a soft, rhythmic sound in the quiet room. Delia walked over to the bed, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug. She looked at his face, once so strong and commanding, now pale and etched with lines of pain even in sleep. His dark hair was threaded with more gray than she remembered, and his strong hands lay limply on the covers.
She gently sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. She reached out and took one of his hands. It felt cool and fragile in her own. With her thumb, she began to rub the back of his hand softly, a familiar, comforting gesture from her childhood.
The slight movement seemed to stir him from his light sleep. His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head slowly on the pillow. His eyes, though clouded with fatigue, focused on her. A flicker of recognition, then warmth, passed through them.
"Delia," he murmured, his voice a dry whisper. "You don’t visit me often anymore." There was a faint hint of a reprimand in his tone, the ghost of the authoritative father he used to be. But as he took in her somber expression, the sternness melted away, replaced by concern. He squeezed her hand weakly. "My child, what seems to be the problem? You look so sad."
Delia lowered her gaze to their joined hands. The words she had practiced felt heavy on her tongue, but it was a necessary one. "Father," she began, her voice filled with sadness. "I broke my engagement to Lord George."
Her father’s brow furrowed. He shifted slightly, trying to prop himself up, a small movement that seemed to cost him a great deal of effort. "Why?" he asked, his voice a little stronger now. "I thought you loved him. Augusta was the one who brought it to my attention. She said you were deeply in love. I accepted the match because I believed it was what you wanted."
Delia met his gaze, shaking her head. Augusta must have spun a convenient fiction to marry her off quickly and quietly. "I don’t want him anymore, Father," she said, her voice firm despite the feigned sadness. "I was mistaken about my feelings."
Baron Henry studied her face for a long moment, searching her eyes. He had always been able to read her, to see past the simple words. He saw a new resolve in her, something he had not seen before. He sighed, a weary sound, and his body relaxed back into the pillows. He did not press for details. Her happiness was all that mattered. "If that is what you want," he said, his voice clear and final, "then I will cancel it. It is done."
A genuine smile touched Delia’s lips, a small ray of light in the dim room. "Thank you, Father," she said, relief washing over her. That was the first hurdle, and it had been surprisingly easy. Her father’s love for her was a powerful shield. She paused, gathering her courage and arranging her next sentences carefully. This next part was just as crucial.
Her hesitation did not go unnoticed. "What’s wrong?" her father asked, his perception still sharp despite his illness. "Tell me."