Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

The garden at the east side of Eric's residence had become another of Delia's private sanctuary. She found a simple, quiet peace in the feel of the cool earth and the scent of blooming flowers. Dressed in a simple work dress with her sleeves rolled up, she was on her knees, carefully planting a row of new lavender seedlings.

"Your Grace," a familiar, respectful voice greeted her.

Delia looked up from her work. It was Mr. Rye. "There is a letter for you," he said, holding out a single, folded envelope on a small silver tray.

Seeing the letter, Delia immediately dropped the small trowel she was holding. A sense of urgency washed over her, chasing away the peaceful calm of the garden. She wiped the dirt from her hands onto her apron and took the letter. "Thank you, Mr. Rye," she said, her voice a little breathless.

Mr. Rye bowed and left her to her privacy. Delia's fingers, still trembling slightly, broke the simple wax seal. The note was short, the handwriting neat and precise.

I have found Mrs. Doris. I am at the main marketplace, by the old clock tower. You can come now. I am waiting for you.

Delia's heart began to beat faster. Mrs. Doris. Finally. She went back inside, her mind racing. She took a quick, warm bath and changed into a more appropriate set of clothes—a simple but elegant day dress, a pair of gloves, and a modest hat. A short while later, her carriage arrived at the bustling marketplace.

She came down from the carriage and told Mr. Rye to wait for her, that she would be back soon. He nodded, his expression one of quiet obedience. Delia started walking through the crowded, noisy market, her eyes searching through the throngs of people until, finally, she saw him. The man who was her secret ally. The man who was helping her. Mr. Prescott.

"My goodness, Mr. Prescott," she said, her voice full of a genuine apology as she reached him. "I am so very sorry. Did I keep you waiting for long?"

Prescott, Augusta's own aide and informant, replied with a polite, professional smile. "No, it is quite fine, Your Grace. I only just arrived myself."

"And the Baroness?" Delia asked, a hint of worry in her voice.

"She is otherwise occupied today," Prescott replied simply. He then gestured for her to follow him. "This way, please."

As they walked through the narrow, crowded laneways of the market, he spoke, his voice low and confidential.

"When I received your letter asking me to help you find Mrs. Doris, I must admit, I found it very suspicious. According to the official Ellington household records, she was dismissed for theft. So I must ask, Your Grace, why do you want to meet with a disgraced former servant?"

"Because," Delia replied, her own voice a quiet whisper, "she has the answers to the things that I desperately need to know."

Prescott took another route, leading her away from the main market and into a quieter area of small, independent shops. "She is just at the back of her own small store," he explained. "She is arranging her farm produce for tomorrow's market. From what I have gathered, her life has had many ups and downs since she was so suddenly dismissed from her position."

They got to the back of Mrs. Doris's small, humble store. The woman was there, her back to them, separating fresh green vegetables from a crate of red, ripe apples. Delia stood at a distance, watching the woman. Mrs. Doris. Her nanny. The first, and for a long time, the only woman to ever show her true, unconditional motherly love.

Memories, warm and painful, flooded into Delia's head. She remembered a time when a little Anne had pushed her into the mud, ruining her only good dress. Augusta had screamed at her for being so clumsy, but Mrs. Doris had rushed out, had stood between Delia and the Baroness, and had taken the blame herself. She had protected her, had taken her inside, cleaned her up, and had secretly mended the dress all through the night. She had always been there, a warm, safe shield against the cold cruelty of that house.

Delia fought back a tear, her heart aching as she saw how thin the woman was now, how her dress was worn and faded, how her hands, which had once been so soft, were now rough and calloused from hard work.

Prescott walked into the small yard and said, "Excuse me. Ma'am?"

Mrs. Doris replied, still busy with her work, without even looking up. "I am closed for the day. If you want something, you will have to come back tomorrow morning or go to the other stores available."

"By any chance," Prescott asked, his voice polite but firm, "are you Mrs. Doris Moore?"

Doris finally lifted her head, her expression one of weary annoyance. "And who is asking?" she asked, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

Prescott looked over his shoulder at Delia, who was trying so very hard not to cry. Doris followed his gaze and saw a fancy, elegantly dressed young lady standing there. At first, she wanted to go back to her work, to shrug it off as just another one of those bored aristocrats looking for some kind of trouble. But then, as she looked more closely, she found something incredibly familiar in that pair of sad, beautiful blue eyes.

"Mrs. Doris," Delia said, her own voice a choked, emotional whisper.

The old woman stood up, her movements slow and a little stiff. She walked slowly to where Delia was standing. Her shaky, work-worn hand came up and gently, hesitantly, touched Delia's cheek.

"Lady Delia?" she asked, her own voice a whisper of genuine disbelief. "Is it… is it really you, my child?"

Delia could only nod her head, the tears now streaming freely down her face.

With a cry of pure, heartbreaking joy, Mrs. Doris hugged her tightly, her thin arms wrapping around Delia in a fierce, protective embrace. "You are alive," she sobbed, her own tears soaking the shoulder of Delia's fine dress. "My Delia… my sweet girl is alive."