Chapter 50 - Fifty
The moon was beginning to climb the sky, casting a silvery glow over the quiet street as the carriage pulled to a stop. George came down first, his movements stiff and formal. He then went around and opened Delia’s door, holding his hand in an attempt to take her trunk from her.
She held onto the handle, pulling it back. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice low and angry. "Didn’t I warn you never to appear in front of me again?"
George ignored her questions, his own face set in determination. He replied with his own question. "You are going to the Duke’s residence, right? I’ll drive you there."
"No, thank you," Delia said, yanking the trunk from his grasp. "I will go on my own."
George tried again to take the trunk, his grip firm. "I know the way," he insisted. "And I need to talk to you, Delia. It’s important."
She held her ground, her fingers digging into the worn leather handle of the trunk. "I said no, George Pembroke! What part of that do you not understand? What is your problem?"
"Please, Delia, just let me do this one thing," he pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. "It might be the last time I can ever do anything for you."
His words, so full of pathetic, manipulative despair, made her resolve falter for just a second. In that moment of hesitation, he snatched the trunk from her grasp, quickly loaded it into the carriage, and then turned back to her. He held out his hand to help her up. She swatted it away with a sharp, angry motion and got inside the carriage herself, taking a seat as far away from him as possible.
The ride to the Duke’s residence was completed in a heavy, suffocating silence. The only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. The moon climbed higher, a silent, white witness to the tension between them.