She lay frozen, book in hand, telling herself not to be silly. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation for the sound. Perhaps Gulliver had sneaked down and become trapped somewhere on this floor. If so, she hoped Winnie found the cat before Mrs. Overtree did.
Sophie lay still a moment longer, listening.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” came a mournful moan. “That’ll be the end of you. He’s gone, and you’re next.”
Sophie laid aside her book, threw back the bedclothes, and rose. She tied her dressing gown around herself, picked up her candle lamp, and carried it to the door. Inching it open, she peered into the dim corridor.
From a distance, came the faint sound of someone playing the pianoforte downstairs. But from much nearer by, a muffled groan reached her.
Pulse pounding, Sophie crept forward, candle high to light her way. She rounded the corner and was stunned to see Miss Whitney crumpled on the floor.
Sophie gasped in alarm. “Winnie! What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“He’s gone,” she wailed. “And I’m next. I know it.”
Is that why the woman had dressed in black? To mourn Stephen’s departure—her defender at Overtree Hall? “Hush,” Sophie gently urged, kneeling beside the woman. It was clear from her slurred speech and bleary eyes that she was intoxicated. Sophie glanced at the broken drinking glass beside her, and smelled brandy.
Miss Whitney followed her gaze and her look of sorrow deepened. “Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done, Winnie old girl.” She leaned over and began sweeping at the shards of glass with bare fingers.
Sophie grasped her hands to stop her. “No, Winnie. Leave it. You’ll cut yourself. I’ll take care of it. Let’s get you to your room before Mrs. Overtree sees you like this.”
Sophie tried to help Winnie up, but in her current limp and uncooperative state, she couldn’t manage it alone. “Winnie, stay here and be quiet. I’ll get help and be back directly, all right?”
“Not coming back...” she moaned again. “What if he doesn’t come back...?”
“He will. And so will I. Give me two minutes.”
Sophie hurried down the stairs, the sound of the pianoforte growing louder as she neared the white parlour. Mr. Keith, she guessed. He had played as a younger man and had recently begun trying to learn how to do so with one hand. She opened the door. There sat Mr. Keith, up late, quietly plunking away at the pianoforte to amuse himself, or perhaps to keep his hand too busy to pour a drink.
“Mr. Keith, can you help me?”
He stopped playing and looked up at her in concern.
“It’s Winnie,” she explained quietly. “She’s fallen and I need help getting her to her room.”
He rose. “Is she badly hurt?”
“No, but she is somewhat... incapacitated.”
His brows rose, but he didn’t press for details. “Take me to her.”
He followed her back upstairs. There, Winnie’s tart breath, swaying form, and slurred muttering rendered her condition obvious.
Keith looked from her to Sophie, brow puckered. “Sink me. Is that what I’m like when I’m foxed?”
“Worse,” Sophie said, then softened her reply with a grin.
“Very funny, Mrs. Overtree. You are beginning to sound like your husband.”
Together they helped Winnie to her feet and half-dragged her, half-carried her to the bottom of the stairs. “Now what?” Sophie asked.
Keith looked up the daunting flight. “Easier if I could carry her, but I’m not exactly sweeping women off their feet these days. Wait a minute...” He paused to think, then said, “Support her upright a moment.”
Sophie did so, and he bent and hefted the old woman over one shoulder like a sack of cabbages.
“Wooee...” Winnie squealed. “The world’s gone topsy-turvy. Ohhh...” she murmured. “I don’t feel well...”
“Don’t be sick on my shoes. Hear me, Winnie? They’re my only decent pair. Nor down my back.” He looked at Sophie and made a face. “Probably serve me right if she did.”
