Della wanted to come, but I’d put my foot down before an argument could start.
Her hipbones stuck out and her flat stomach was concave from vomiting so much.
She was on the mend, and no way would I let her risk her health after the nightmare we’d just survived.
The return trip took me over eight hours, not to mention the pack up time. And I’d never admit—even under pain of death—but I had to stop a few times due to a frustrating case of breathlessness.
I feared by not having antibiotics to ward off the flu so long ago, I’d scared my lungs a little. I kind of wanted to take Doctor Strand up on his offer to take a look at me, but our funds were strapped, and I wanted to keep what we had just in case Della needed more treatment.
Besides, I was used to long journeys, and had far too much to do than worry about an occasional cough.
* * * * *
One week turned to two, and we settled in.
In the cosy annex, we washed the curtains to remove any scent of its previous inhabitant, dusted the cute figurines of pumpkins and snow peas above the TV, and cleaned the tiny kitchen with its white countertop and wooden cupboards.
Della had a few more doctor visits, which ate into the final reserves of our cash, but she was finally given the all-clear along with a fresh prescription for the pill.
It’d been the longest we’d ever gone without having sex, and the night we celebrated her recovery—trying not to think about the fact that she’d actually been pregnant—we fell into bed together and finally gave in to how much we’d missed each other.
We made it last as long as we could, long and slow and deep.
And when it grew too much, we came together, hard and fast and wild.
Only to do it all over again a couple of hours later.
* * * * *
Two weeks melted into three, and I started working on the house.
By day, Della and I roamed the large corridors and bedrooms, making notes of what to tackle first, and reading through the list Mrs Collins had provided.
By night, we crossed the overgrown lawn, went past the weed-dotted tennis court, and hid in the small annex where the open fireplace crackled and popped, and I raided the terribly untended veggie garden by the old kitchen, pulling up long overdue broccoli and kale, leaving Della to use her internet trawling to turn them into a feast.
We’d become more adaptable—not just to outdoor living but to city living, too. When it was on our terms, neither of us felt trapped or ridiculed or afraid.
The town was nice enough with a couple of supermarkets, cheaper restaurants, and plenty of houses that looked like they kept their doors unlocked—if it came down to needing to ‘borrow’ a few things if our money ran out.
Mrs Collins was true to her word, and a week after moving in, she had three trucks deliver timber, paint, and fixings. The materials were stored in the old garage at the back, and that was one of the last interactions we had all winter.
She trusted us in her home and we trusted her to leave us alone.
Our bargain meant I had no intention of letting her down.
Her late husband’s tools, stored in the workshop behind the four-car garage, were a candy box of ancient cranks and rusty hammers—a history lesson in gadget evolution, but they did the job.
Six weeks flew by, and I tackled the roof first.
Before the weather turned entirely disgusting, I ripped off the broken tiles, removed the rotten joists and bearers, and began rebuilding the ancient girl to survive another century.
Those were some of my favourite days—working in the attic with Della perched on old trunks, reading me stories from ancient diaries and dusting off porcelain-faced dolls and patching up bug-chewed teddy bears.
It did something to me watching her cradle the toys so lovingly, almost as if imagining the kids who had once played with them before time turned them to adult, then to dust.
I didn’t have the guts to ask her how she felt about pregnancy after the pain she’d endured. Then again, I knew Della was a fighter and determined, and despite what had happened, she’d still want a kid…eventually.
And although I was still well acquainted with the terror of losing her, I couldn’t deny I already loved her for the mother she would become. The way she’d hold our son or daughter. The way she’d kiss them and read to them and introduce them to the world that we viewed as harsh but would be so fantastical to them as we’d ensure they’d forever be protected and cherished.
That winter was just as good as the previous one in our cottage.
As we grew familiar with the manor house, we’d run the halls, have paint fights that turned into tickle wars, chase up the rambling stairs and indulge in still-dressed sex, rutting against a wall or over the arm of a hundred-year-old chaise.