The Unchaste

Middle March

Winter mellowed out untouching all that it had touched; idle as cold honey and just as slow.

But when March came in masquerading, the air was still cold and spring, still lingering in the arrears.

Things were different now, Delilah changed. Her malevolence died out. The resentment she had carried in her heart_ no one asked why_ wilted away on its edges, like dried, creased rim falling off the petals of crimson roses. Aged, crumbled parchment, eaten by silverfishes and burrowed pages deep. And though it was still there, inside her in deep, her contempt had been subdued by other, lighter, more mystical feelings.

Delilah became Lord Richard’s fond company. They spent time together more than they spent it anywhere else. In his study, generally and when not there, in the library and around the garden.

The disquiet foreboding that a woman oft fetches in proximity of a man tip-toed out from between them, softly. Barefoot. Without them either noticing.

They became intimate in an odd, innocent way.

He talked of things Delilah hadn’t ever thought she would find conversable. Science. Biology in its utmost mechanism. Philosophy and silent certainties.

He talked of the world the way it was.

On days when the weather would be harsh, and hailstorm would come down, rampaging the moors; Delilah stayed the night at Stormcastle and on those night, their discussions went far longer than blameless, in the harsh light of candles and surrounded by books they both chose to read but never endured long. She was as full of curiosity as he was of wisdom.

And the more she heard him, the more she fell quiet.

There was a tension too, stuck between her and him. A bridge drawn taut. Ever present. Subtle usually, but sometimes, it grew so unbearable that Delilah had to voluntarily pull away from him.

Sometimes, he wouldn’t stop looking at her in that way and she struggled to breathe in his presence.

Sometimes, she would stand up abruptly and leave the room, much to his bewilderment and her own reconciliation.

Otherwise, Delilah was convinced, and convinced with a conviction, that he was an ally and their attachment was real….

***

“George what is wrong with you?”

Delilah stared at the man who stood gloomily on the other side of the garden, stubbornly quiet, examining a bud of carnation that was yet to bloom.

“You favor him.” The dark eyed man growled, pressing the soft leaf between his fingers. “I do not see how you cannot see it. He is manipulating you onto his side. He has blinded you with his charm, befooled you with his faux compassion. Delilah, he is not a good man.”

Delilah frowned. “On the contrary, I have seen things you haven’t. You must believe me, for my instincts if not my amity. He might be all reserved and all rumored but I have seen his kindness. His humanity.”

“Humanity!” George scoffed and looked over at her. “Some humanity then, saying he keeps a maltreated and brutalized young kid tied onto a chair down his basement and you, Delilah Eves, call it compassion.”