“May I be of assistance, miss?” he said as he looked from her bloodied hands to the fortune around her throat.
“No, thank you, Officer,” she said. “I had a little accident is all.”
“I’ll help you home,” he said, and offered her his beefy hand.
“No! No, thank you. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“What’s your name, miss?”
“What does it matter?”
The police officer pointed to the pearls on her neck. “You’re either a thief or a runaway. Either way, I can’t let you go.”
“I’m not a thief. My name is Miss Cordelia Jones and I fell on the pavement. My jewels are mine and I have done nothing wrong. You cannot detain me.”
“Jones, is it?” he said. “Then your house would be the one just around the block. The Château, isn’t it?”
She pointed down the street. “It is, but I am not going home presently. I am visiting Miss Alida Wilson and Miss Julia Wilson. Their home is only three houses away. Much closer than mine.”
“But you are going back,” the police officer said, and he took her elbow. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Miss Jones. We will pop round your house and check your story. If everything is how you say it is, then you’ll be scot-free to visit whomever you wish.”
She limped slowly back to her prison and tried not to cry. The police officer knocked on the door and it was opened by the butler, Mr. Winkworth. If the sight of Cordelia’s hands covered in blood and her being accompanied by a police officer surprised him, he showed no sign of it on his stoic face. He held open the door for them and said in his deep voice, “Please come in.”
The police officer stepped forward, but Cordelia hesitated. “I do not want to come inside. Mr. Winkworth, tell the police officer who I am.”
The butler blinked twice before turning to pull the cord for more servants. He was calling for reinforcements, and once they arrived her chance of escape would be lost.
“Please, sir,” Cordelia begged the officer. “They have told you who I truly am. If you must return me to a parent, please take me to my father, Mr. Rowland Jones. Please! Do not leave me here with my mother. I am being locked in like a prisoner.”
The burly police officer stepped back from her, unsure of what to do. Cordelia fell to her knees out of desperation and exhaustion. She clasped her sore hands together and begged. “Please! Please help me!”
“Quiet, Cordelia,” her mother said sharply.
Her mother walked down the last stair and toward them. She looked beautiful, elegant, and unruffled in a pink afternoon-tea gown that emphasized her tiny waist. “Winkworth and Peter, escort Miss Cordelia back to her room. And Mrs. Rinkhart, see that her injuries are tended to.”
Mr. Winkworth and the footman Peter each took one of Cordelia’s elbows and lifted her up to her feet. She tried to push them off, even though she did not blame them for their part in her incarceration. The two men were stronger than she, and in less than a minute they had forced her arms down and frog-marched her into the house.
Cordelia’s whole body sagged. If she couldn’t fight them off, she was not going to walk willingly to her prison. The servants would have to drag her there. Winkworth’s and Peter’s fingers dug into her arms, but she resisted like a deadweight. Finally, Peter let go of her arm and she crumbled on the stairs.
“Please, Miss Cordelia,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll lose my position.”
Cordelia lifted her head. “I can’t walk.”
“Then let me carry you.”
She nodded in defeat. Peter put one arm underneath her legs and the other around her shoulder, lifting her off the stairs. She closed her eyes as he carried her up the next two flights of stairs to her blue silk room. Peter set her on a chair. Her eyes flickered back open and she saw the butler, Mr. Winkworth, untying her sheets from the balcony.
“Good heavens,” Mrs. Rinkhart exclaimed and covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s how she got out.”
Mr. Winkworth, his face still expressionless, carried the wrinkled sheets. “I’ll send up one of the maids to make her bed.”
“Very good,” Mrs. Rinkhart said, and walked over to the bureau where there was a pitcher of water and a basin. She brought them both over to the chair where Cordelia was sitting. The housekeeper dipped a white cloth into the water and then took Cordelia’s right hand and gently began to wipe off the dried blood.
“Do you mind if I look at your legs and feet, Miss Cordelia?” she asked. “So I can ascertain if there are any injuries there.”
“I think I might have sprained my ankle.”
Mrs. Rinkhart lifted up the now dirty white skirt and tutted over her bruised knees. She then pulled off Cordelia’s shoes and stockings, exclaiming when she saw the size and color of Cordelia’s left ankle. “Dearie me! How you walked at all on this ankle is beyond me. I’ll fetch some cold compresses and send for the doctor. Your ankle might be broken.”
