Page 66 of The Duchess Trap
Catherine smiled faintly. “Fortunately, I have both.”
“I know,” the dowager said, her eyes gleaming. “That’s why I am fond of you, dear.”
The carriage slowed before the townhouse gates. Catherine gathered her gloves, smoothing the fabric as if order might calm her racing thoughts. When the wheels finally stilled, she turned to the Dowager Duchess, who was studying her with that same sharp, knowing gaze.
“Thank you,” Catherine said softly. “For today. And for what you told me.”
The dowager’s expression gentled. “Remember what I said, my dear. Patience and stubbornness. They will serve you better than any fortune.”
“I shall try,” Catherine murmured.
“Try less. Simply do.” The older woman smiled, a rare, fleeting warmth in her tone. “Now go on. You’ve had enough of old women for one afternoon.”
Catherine laughed, the sound small but genuine, and reached to squeeze her hand. “Until next time, Your Grace.”
“Until next time,” the dowager echoed.
Catherine stepped down onto the drive, the crisp air brushing her cheeks. She turned once more to wave as the carriage rolled away, the Dowager’s white plume still visible through the window like a faint wisp of cloud.
For a brief, unguarded moment, Catherine felt almost peaceful.
Then she saw the butler waiting at the top of the steps, his expression uncharacteristically strained.
Something was wrong.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing low. “An urgent message has arrived for you.”
Catherine took the folded note, her pulse quickening. “From whom?”
“Brightwater, Your Grace. Mrs. Simms sent a runner.”
Brightwater. A ripple of dread darted through her. She broke the seal with trembling fingers.
Your Grace,
Forgive the haste, but one of the children—young Henry—collapsed during his lesson. We have sent for a physician, buthe has not yet arrived. The boy is struggling to breathe. Please come if you can.
Catherine barely whispered the words aloud. “Henry.”
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“One of the children. He’s ill. Very ill.”
Without another thought, Catherine turned toward the waiting carriage. “I must go.”
“I’ll send word to His Grace,” the butler said quickly.
Catherine nodded once and climbed back inside, her skirts tangling in her haste. The driver looked to her through the window, startled by the urgency in her tone.
“To Brightwater. Quickly.”
CHAPTER 20
“Faster!”
Catherine’s voice was so loud, she startled herself. It cut through the clatter of hooves, sharp and breathless. The driver flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward, wheels biting into the wet cobblestones.
She gripped the edge of the seat, her gloves damp against the worn leather. Every turn of the wheels felt too slow, every heartbeat another moment lost. The image of the note burned behind her eyes.
