length of the stairs. Cassandra gasped; Isabella screamed. Dinah fell to the floor, where she lay lifeless.
They ran to her.
“What happened?” Isabella grabbed a wrist and felt for a pulse. “She must have fainted. Did you see it, Cassandra? Did she faint?”
Cassandra had indeed watched it all happen, though found it hard to believe her own eyes. It was as if Dinah had thrown herself, plunged down deliberately: pitched as one pitches only when confident that one will be caught. And yet they could never have caught her. She had endangered herself, and done so deliberately. What could possibly provoke such peculiar behavior?
Pyramus barked, loud and urgent. Fred came at once to the door. Cassandra went to him, quietly commanded that he run—run quickly!—for the surgeon, then helped Isabella turn Dinah onto her side. She was unconscious, motionless, her face white as death.
“Oh, dear Lord!”
“There is a pulse,” said Isabella. “She lives, but I have no doubt has sustained serious injury. Oh, Dinah,” she whispered, stroking her forehead. “Oh, Dinah. Stay with us. Stay with us, please.”
“We must not move her until the surgeon is here.”
“Mr. Lidderdale?” Isabella looked up, eyes wild.
“I have sent for him. This is serious. We need him here with us.”
Isabella looked over at Dinah. “You are right, Cassandra. She cannot be put at risk on account of my own … While we are waiting, could you get me a cold, damp cloth, and the witch hazel?”
Cassandra did as she was bid and went through the servants’ door. She had certainly seen more efficient sculleries in her time—here chaos had control of every surface and corner—but with her homemaker’s instincts found her way around soon enough. She rushed back to the hall, cloth and bottle in hand, just as Mr. Lidderdale made his own entrance.
“G’day to you, ladies. What we got ’ere, then?” This was indeed the doctor she had encountered the previous day. “Come on then, me pet. Let’s be having a look at you.” He took off his overcoat, which was stained on the front, rolled up the frayed cuffs of his shirt, and began his examination. With strong, sure hands he tested for broken bones, while Cassandra watched on, intrigued.
Now, in broad daylight, there was something familiar about this Mr. Lidderdale. She fancied she had seen him on some other occasion, but could not quite place where. Average height, or below, but with broad shoulders that gave him the presence of one more— Was this the gentleman whom she had seen on the bridge with Isabella, back in the early days of her visit? That morning when Isabella seemed to return in distress? Possibly, though she could not be sure …
“Naught fractured, as I can see.”
“Just concussion?”
“About the size of it. We needs to get her to a more comfortable place, Isa—Miss Fowle. The bedroom be too far.”
“The sofa,” said Isabella. “In the drawing room.”
“You take one side, me the other. Gently does it.”
Together, in partnership, they maneuvered the deadweight and laid her down, tenderly.
“The witch hazel,” Isabella commanded, holding her arm out behind.
Cassandra stepped forward and made her small contribution.
“That’s it. Nicely done,” said the doctor with approval. “A good bump coming up there.”
“Salts?”
“Salts might help bring her round.”
They stood close, one next to the other, and—what was that?—did Isabella lean against him for a moment, or had Cassandra imagined it? There certainly seemed to be some sort of unity, a sense of partnership, between the two, no doubt provoked by a shared worry and concern for poor Dinah. It was indeed very terrible. Suppose, just suppose, she did not make it through?
A long-standing servant, suffering grave—possibly the gravest of—injuries in the line of one’s service was too awful to contemplate. Cassandra knew nothing of Dinah’s family, but there must be a person to call upon, a relative who was possibly dependent on her income. For someone out in the village—for Dinah, certainly, and poor Isabella—this was one of those days that were not to be forgotten, when life twisted its shape and sheared off into another dimension. Feeling powerless and useless, Cassandra sat down on the edge of the armchair, clasped her hands in her lap, and silently prayed that the outcome be less grave than she feared.
“Thank you for coming to us,” Isabella said quietly.
“You’s c’n always count on me. Yer know that.” He laid a hand on her arm.
Cassandra felt, suddenly, as an intruder. They seemed to think themselves alone, and at liberty to speak freely. She kept very