“Kidnapped?” he repeated, sounding amused. “What makes you think you’ve been kidnapped?”
For a moment, she faltered, confused. “Because… well, where is Orville?”
Grinning widely, he said, “He’s right here, sweetheart. I wrote you those letters and you are to be mine one month from now.”
All the blood seemed to race from her system and her vision grew black around the edges. The last thing she remembered before she fainted was his yellow teeth and that terrible, pudgy, thin lipped grin.
Chapter 5
When Delia awoke, it was to a soft sunlight filtering in through a set of gauzy white curtains. She blinked heavily, her delicate hand rising to her forehead. She still felt disoriented and a little shaky, but she managed to sit up. When she did, she noticed where she was.
Delia had been tucked away into a small bed with a delicately embroidered quilt that depicted pleasant wildflowers. Surrounding her was a small, but cozy room. It had a small desk with a chair in it and a mirror hanging on the wall opposite her bed. There was just the one window and a basin filled with water, probably for washing, and a small towel beside it. The only other thing about the room was the door.
The place was meager but pleasant, and Delia felt instantly relieved. She realized that she must have fainted in her anticipation, overwhelmed by the huge change in her life, and that whole nasty business of the revelation of who Orville Peterson really was had been nothing but a terrible dream.
Smiling at herself ruefully, shaking her head lightly, Delia swung her legs over the side of the bed and moved to stand. The blood rushed again through her body and for a moment she was unsteady. But the moment passed, and when she felt strong enough, she moved towards the door. Pulling it open, she headed outside and began to look around a bit.
The house was a good size, though by no means massive. It was pleasantly decorated with candles and bouquets of wildflowers, some dried and some fresh. There was the faint scent of fresh bread and what might have been sweetened apples wafting through the place, most likely coming from the kitchen. As Delia continued to walk through the house, she saw that there was a sitting room with a rocking chair and some knitting, a throw rug to cover the well-worn floorboards and more flowers placed as table centerpieces.
Delia frowned slightly. The whole place was beautiful, cozy and warm, like a home instead of merely a house, and its feel was the epitome of a country home. It was delightful, but it wasn’t what she’d been expecting.
Orville had described his place as a massive ranch with a mansion built onto it and servants scurrying about everywhere. This was quaint; certainly not a sprawling ranch by any means.
The only explanation that Delia could come to was that this was not Orville’s abode, but then, whose was it?
As she headed towards what seemed to be the front door, she heard voices talking quietly.
“—needs rest. Clearly she’s had a bit of a shock and she needs to take time to settle from it.” It was a woman’s voice, graceful and patient with age, and so very gentle sounding. “I’m sure she’ll come around given some time—”
She was cut off and as soon as Delia heard the sickly voice that filtered through, she felt pale again. “She’s got a month. After that, we’re going to be married. She’s already agreed to it, so you just do your part and watch her as you’ve agreed.”
The woman sighed a little. “My husband and I have said as much and we shall do as we said. Our word is important to us both, but I must warn you, Mr. Peterson, that young lady seems quite delicate. I don’t think she is fit for the kind of work you’re expecting.”
Mr. Peterson? Delia thought in horror. She must have heard wrong, but suddenly she remembered the pudgy, grotesque little man’s laugh and his statement that he was indeed Orville Peterson. It seemed like a cruel, cruel joke, but slowly Delia was beginning to think that it was no joke at all. Could he really be the man she had travelled so far for?
“She’ll get used to it,” the man said aggressively. “Just gotta get her off that high horse and remind her of her place.”
A chill ran through Delia’s body. Her place? Get used to it? Just what was it he expected of her? And just what did he think her place was?
There was a silence suggesting the conversation was over, but then the woman spoke again. “You’d best be good to her, Mr. Peterson. I’ll not be party to any mistreatment of that poor child, you mark my words.”
The man—Orville, her future husband—seemed dismissive when he answered, “I’ll do with her as I please. She’s mine, so you just keep to yourself and do what I’ve paid you for.”
Delia heard stomping footsteps that grew fainter and fainter. Then she heard the door as it opened and realized that in mere moments she would be caught having just eavesdropped on the conversation. For a brief moment, panic swept over her; should she run? Pretend as though she’d just woken? That she hadn’t heard any of it?
Before she could make a decision one way or the other, the woman she’d heard speaking just moments before stepped into her line of sight. She was older with gray hair pulled back into a neat bun and glasses resting on her thin little nose, slid halfway down already. Her dress was simple and sweet, faded from years of use it looked like, with an apron over the front of it, but it seemed like it suited her. She didn’t look unfortunate in the least.
“Oh,” she said in surprise, blinking her pale blue eyes—where had Delia seen eyes like those before?—at the younger woman. “I hadn’t realized you’d awoken already!”
Delia fidgeted slightly with her hands, wringing them together, feeling as though she were a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. After a moment, the older woman smiled kindly, knowingly at her.
“It’s alright, dear,” the woman assured her. “That all had as much to do with you more than anyone else. Perhaps it’s best you heard it all now.”
She gave Delia a sympathetic look that melted her heart a little bit; the woman seemed so very sweet.
“Shall we have a short sit?” the woman asked, still with that smile.
Delia nodded and allowed the woman to lead her towards the sitting room. As they found seats, Delia began to apologize. “I am so very sorry, it was terribly rude of me to listen in. I hadn’t meant to; I was simply shocked.”
The woman waved off her apologies quickly. “Not to worry, dear. As I said, it was as much to do with you as anyone.”
For a moment, they both fell silent. Delia thought about their conversation and couldn’t help but fret over it. She had been scared before and she found that she still most definitely was. “My name is Delia Hennessey,” she finally told the other woman, realizing that she was being rude by not introducing herself.
The woman smiled. “My name is Grace Henley.”
Henley. The name sparked quick recognition and Delia said, “Oh! I think I met your son the other day!”
Surprise showed on the older woman’s face. “Have you? You met my Baxter?”
“Baxter? Oh, no. Perhaps it was another Henley. His name was George.”
Recognition immediately overtook the woman’s features, her smile kind and fond. “I apologize; I assumed you had meant Baxter because he would be very close in age to you, I think. George is our youngest boy and quite sweet. I do hope he was polite to you?”
Delia nodded quickly. “He was very kind.” She thought back to his evident concern for her safety as she got ready to leave with… with Mr. Peterson. She had waved it off before, but now she had wished she might have listened to his worry. “He is a very good boy.”
Mrs. Henley smiled proudly. “Yes, he is. Both my boys are good boys and we’re quite proud of them. You might get to meet Baxter, too, if you stay with us a time.”
Brought back to her current situation, Delia cleared her throat as delicately as she could. “I was wondering if I might be able to ask you some questions.”
Mrs. Henley had sat in her rocking chair; she sighed now and began to push it ba
ck and forth gently. “I thought you might have some, so please, I will answer what I can.”
“You are being paid to… watch me?” Delia asked, not quite sure how to phrase it.
“To house you,” Mrs. Henley corrected. “We were informed of Mr. Peterson’s intentions towards you and understand that propriety dictates you not sleep under the same roof without a chaperone. We are more than happy to act as that chaperone for the time being.” Frowning a bit, she added, “Until the wedding.”
Delia suppressed the shudder that wanted to come out at the woman’s words. She continued, “I see. And when you say ‘we,’ who is it you mean?”
“Myself and Mr. Henley. Our son George lives mostly in town now, as it is a bit far to travel for work every morning. He comes in now and again to visit and to help us with our poor old bones being as brittle as they are. Baxter comes to stay with us at times, though we oughtn’t expect him anytime soon. He’s been quite busy.”
Delia nodded and fell silent for a moment. She still had more questions, but wasn’t sure if they were the kind that Mrs. Henley might be able to answer. They were centered on Mr. Peterson and how he could be so completely different than his letters had led her to believe—and how was she to get out of things now?
Finally, Delia managed to smile and said, “Do you have the rest of my things?”
The woman nodded. “We do. I’m afraid there isn’t so much room here, but we do have a little closet for you and we’ve found a home for most of your things there. I’ll show it to you if you’d like.”
Mrs. Henley made good on her word and showed Delia where her things were, then gave her a general tour of the whole house. It was a little small, but not for the older couple who owned it; for their simple needs, it was perfect. There were several animals out back, chickens and maybe pigs, she thought, but not much in the way of the larger stock. Delia thought it might be due to their age more than anything, and thought their little place might have some of the same reasoning for it.
After she’d been shown around, Delia was allowed to retire to her temporary room and settle in for the night. She was welcome to dinner, of course, Mrs. Henley told her, but Delia didn’t feel a bit like eating. Her appetite had dissolved as soon as she realized that Mr. Peterson was who he claimed to be.
Sighing, Delia collapsed on her temporary bed and began to cry, though she fought against the hot tears. She fell asleep like that, wishing she could wake again to find that it had all been a nightmare.
Chapter 6
The following weeks were hard on Delia. She had exactly four of them—though she was trying desperately to bargain for more—until she was to be married to Peterson. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of terrible thoughts, ranging from staying to leaving to having nowhere at all to go.
She had debated writing to her mother and begging for the fare to come home—she was positive now that she did not have enough—but had a sneaking suspicion that her mother wouldn’t take her side. Act like a lady, she might say, or weather out the storm, or something equally as useless. Her mother would tell her that she’d gotten herself into this mess and if she were unhappy, she could very well get herself out of it.
Her other option was to follow through with her initial plans and marry Peterson. It was a grim option for sure, but she straightened herself up and determined that it was the best thing to do. Perhaps she had been too harshly judging him and beneath that repulsive exterior he was a good, kindhearted man. The man she had fallen in love with in all of those sweet letters he had sent to her.
With that hope tucked away in her breast, Delia did her duty and allowed Mr. Henley—who was just as old and just as sweet as Mrs. Henley with a soft smile and a tendency to wink—to escort her to the small ranch that was several miles down the road.
When she exited the carriage however, Mr. Henley gave her pause. “Now you be careful, Miss Delia. My wife is quite fond of you and I’d just as soon she not fret over you.” He gave her a quick wink. “Normally, I’d insist on being your chaperone during your engagement, but I’m afraid I’m just not up to the task.”
Delia gave the older man a warm smile. He was as sweet as he seemed and just as kind as his dear wife. Their affections towards her made her feel warmed inside; she found herself wishing that she were truly living with them as opposed to a mere temporary arrangement. Despite her determination to give Peterson a chance, she couldn’t help but think that the Henleys’ happy little home would be so much better than spending any amount of time with the squat little man.
“No need to worry, Mr. Henley,” Delia reassured him, though she did not feel such assurance herself. “What danger could I possibly be in? We are… betrothed after all.” She said betrothed with a good amount of disdain, though she tried desperately to keep her disappointment to herself.
If Mr. Henley picked up on it, he said nothing. “Well, just the same, I would rather you had a chaperone.”
I would, too, Delia thought, feeling trepidation eating away at her resolve. If she did not go into that little dilapidated shack of a house now, before Mr. Henley left, then she was sure she would simply hop back into the carriage with him and allow him to take her away from this place.
“I really must go,” she told him, sounding genuinely apologetic.
He nodded once and offered another smile. “Alright, my dear. I’ll be back here before sundown to pick you up. Should you wish to leave before that, you be sure to make that man understand. He’s got the means to get you back to Mrs. Henley and myself, so don’t you let him tell you otherwise.”
Delia promised him she would insist to come ‘home’ should she wish it and waved miserably as Mr. Henley ushered the horses back to the way they had come. When she could no longer see him as he disappeared through the trees along the roughhewn road, Delia let her forced smile drop. She felt miserable.
Turning back to the little house, she steeled herself for what was to come. She got to the porch and knocked, waiting for a moment. Mr. Peterson answered, his beady little eyes glittering with something that was probably mischief, but could easily be mistaken for malice. He smiled his toothy grin and ushered her inside. “My darling, please, come inside.”
She swallowed back her disdain at being called darling by him. They were to be wed; she should get used to it. “Thank you,” she said and took a hesitant step inside. It was just as bad as the outside had been, but messier. She could see the kitchen and the dirty dishes there piled high. The living room had clothes and boots strewn haphazardly about it, and she could only imagine what the other rooms looked like. She frowned, but tried not to let her disappointment show too much.
“I suppose we had better get to know one another,” she commented, forcing herself to turn back to the squat little man. She searched his features for something to latch on to, a bright, pretty quality that she might use to battle away his otherwise grotesque physique. She found nothing.
He waved a pudgy hand in her general direction. Snorting, he told her, “That’s what the letters were for. You’re here now, so it’s time to learn your duties.”
Her heart sank. “But—”
His eyes shot to her and his thin lips tugged down in a frown. “We’ll start with house rules. Don’t contradict me, ever.” He narrowed his already squinty eyes at her. “If I tell you to do something, it is your duty as my wife to obey. If you don’t, you’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
Delia shivered at the hinting of punishment. What sort of punishments might such a man dole out? She knew that she definitely didn’t want to know, so she nodded mutely.
“Good. See? You’ll pick it all up easily.”
He escorted her to the kitchen then and gave her her first set of instructions: clean the kitchen.
Delia wasn’t particularly accustomed to cleaning, not really. Her family was wealthy enough to afford maids, though they did not come every day, so Delia’s own chores were minimal. Still, on occasion she had taken to kitchen tasks to help her mother as things
became necessary. She got to work and was relieved to find that he left her alone while she worked.
It took her half the day to get the kitchen cleared up, and when she was done, her next task was to make him lunch. Again, he let her be during her duties. After they were finished, he informed her that it was important that she pick up after herself—and apparently him, too, because she was to clean the living room next.
By the time the sun was starting to slip down into the horizon, Delia was exhausted, Peterson’s house was just shy of spotless, and she was all too relieved to hear Mr. Henley’s horses arrive. She all but ran from the house then and when Mr. Henley asked how her day had been, she forced a smile, and told him, “Fine.”
Chapter 7
Things continued for two weeks like this. Delia would be dropped off by an apologetic Mr. Henley who told her that he wished he might be her chaperone, but simply could not leave Mrs. Henley to herself for such a long time and he was hardly up to the task. Delia would be given a long list of chores to be done and finished, only to be relieved when the sun finally began its descent and Mr. Henley returned.
By the end of the second week, Delia was completely miserable. She had lost any hope of ever coming to tolerate living with such a terrible little man, much less find love and happiness with him. Mrs. Henley must have sensed her disappointment, because she asked her tentatively, “Dear, what is the matter?”
Holding back tears only barely, Delia told her, “I fear that perhaps I will never be happy.”
When Mrs. Henley wrapped her arm around Delia’s shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze; Delia couldn’t withhold her tears any longer. She cried for nearly half an hour, and when her tears finally dried up, the two women found their way to the sitting room. Mrs. Henley sat in her rocking chair gently stroking Delia’s hair, her head settled in the older woman’s lap.
“Perhaps it is time to consider returning home,” Mrs. Henley suggested softly.
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