“That’s my girl,” he said, grinning. Wade filled her teacup liberally.
Cassandra brought the rim to her lips. She could smell a rich, potent brew and knew without tasting it that this whiskey was stronger—and, therefore, would serve her better—than any chemist’s nostrum.
Wade resumed his seat on the sofa. He returned to where he’d left off in the newspaper and drank his tea-tipple as he perused the articles.
She took the tiniest sips from her teacup. Truth be told, she’d never tried anything stronger than wine or champagne, and did not wish to overindulge.
They settled into their routine. He read an article concerning Princess Helena’s marriage to some minor German prince, which had taken place last month. Wade found the lady ‘dowdy and dull’ and ‘too much like her mother.’
“But I heard,” he said, “Victoria gave her away, which is rather progressive, don’t you think?”
Cassandra sipped, thoughtfully. She’d never considered who might walk a fatherless bride down the aisle. “Given the circumstances, in the absence of her poor Papa—”
Before she could finish her sentence, a great crash echoed through the house. The clatter of silver and the shattering of plate preceded a wail of pain not unlike the cry of a wounded animal.
“What the devil was that?” Wade asked, dragging himself to his feet.
Cassandra placed her teacup on the tray. She could not sit idly knowing someone in the house had suffered an accident. “It sounded like someone took a tumble.”
Gathering her skirts, she hastened through the doorway to the corridor beyond. She stood in the gallery, ears trained in every direction as she tried to follow the sound of the screaming.
Wade followed only a step behind her. “The servants’ passage.”
He directed her to the hidden archway. Its low ceiling and cramped walls led to the back stairs. Cassandra leaned over the railing to peer down the tight twist of wooden stairs. Broken china littered the treads. The remnants of their breakfast streaked the plaster walls.
A screaming maid lay in a heap on the landing. Her leg was obviously broken.
Cassandra descended the stairs, careful to overstep the debris. Her trailing skirt hems dragged the glass and china, and soaked up spilled coffee as she rushed to the poor girl’s aid.
She crouched to touch the maid’s shoulder. “You’ve had a fall. Are you all right?”
The girl wailed. Cassandra brushed the mob cap from her young face, revealing a gaunt, sour visage.
“Heavens, Morla! It’s you!”
The maid gritted her teeth. “I were clearin’ the dining room. The tray were too heavy.”
“Nevermind that.” She pressed her hand to stop her writhing. “No, don’t try to move. You must lay very still.”
Morla began to tremble. “It hurts!”
No doubt it did. One glance at the girl’s leg made Cassandra wince.
By now, other servants had come to investigate the cries. The puffed-up young footman hovered on the stairs below, looking up through the balusters. Wenna peered down from a landing two stories above.
Wadebridge remained a discreet distance away, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the scene.
“What’s this, then?” Mrs. Cardy asked, hauling herself up the stairs. She’d come from the servants’ hall and kitchens with Tremaine, the butler, hot on her heels.
“There has been an accident,” Cassandra informed them. “Morla has taken a tumble and twisted her leg.” She turned to the liveried footman. “You send for the doctor. Hurry! Don’t come back without him.” To another curious member of staff, she ordered, “Fetch a blanket.”
They scattered to do her bidding. It felt right to be in control—to be obeyed—and Cassandra was glad these servants recognized her authority. She knew what she was doing, if they’d only trust her.
She draped the blanket over Morla’s crumpled body, keeping the girl warm, comfortable, and protecting her modesty. It also hid her injury from view.
“Don’t try to look,” Cassandra warned. She shifted on the scarred wooden boards. Her cramps were inconsequential now, and she did her best to power through her own pain.
She looked up at Wade, whose dark face was grim. He did not rush to help or try to take charge. He stood back, silent, and left the situation in her capable hands.
