“Miss Sinclair.” Timothy’s voice took on a tone of firm authority. “Let me see your wrist.”
Reluctantly, Joan extended her arm. Even that small movement made her gasp with pain. The wrist was already swelling visibly, an angry red that would no doubt turn to purple bruising by tomorrow.
Timothy examined it with gentle fingers, and Joan bit her lip to keep from crying out. When he carefully rotated it, testing the range of motion, she couldn’t suppress a whimper.
“It’s not broken,” Timothy said finally. “But it’s badly sprained. You’ll need to bind it.”
Marmalade—the cause of all this chaos—appeared from beneath a nearby bush, meowing plaintively. Imogen scrambled to scoop up the cat, hugging it tightly despite its protests.
The other children had crept closer during the commotion. Now they stood in a loose semicircle, watching the adults with wide, uncertain eyes.
Timothy helped Joan to her feet, one arm supporting her elbow. She swayed slightly, her head spinning, but managed to stay upright through sheer force of will.
“Thank you,” Imogen whispered, looking up at Joan with something like awe in her tear-stained face. “You saved me.”
Joan managed a smile despite the pain radiating from her wrist. “You’re very welcome, dear. But next time you need to rescue a cat, please call for an adult first.”
Imogen nodded solemnly, then burst into fresh tears. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! You’re hurt because of me.”
“Hush now.” Joan touched the girl’s shoulder gently with her good hand. “Accidents happen. What matters is that you’re safe. Go home now, your parents might be worried. All of you.”
The children began to disperse chattering excitedly about the rescue. Imogen waved goodbye to them still clutching the recalcitrant Marmalade.
Timothy looked at Joan with concern written plainly across his weathered face. “You need to get that wrist tended to. And you shouldn’t walk all the way to Fairfax Manor in your condition.”
“I’ll manage,” Joan said, though even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice. Her wrist was throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and she felt slightly sick from the pain.
“At least let me walk you home,” Timothy insisted. “It’s the least I can do after you saved Imogen.”
Joan wanted to protest but the pain was making her lightheaded, and the thought of walking another mile alone in the gathering darkness suddenly seemed overwhelming.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen.”
What a perfectly disastrous day,she thought as they walked home. Cabbage thrown at me, doors slammed in my face, and now this.
But even as the thought formed, she remembered Imogen’s little face and she smiled. Maybe it wasn’t that bad of a day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What is wrong with you?”
Joan looked up at the door and realized then that the Duke had been watching her, or listening to her, at least. Even with his impaired vision, he seemed to notice everything.
She had been at the Duke’s estate for nearly two hours now, working through the quarterly accounts despite the throbbing ache that seemed to worsen with each passing minute.
Just a few more entries, she told herself. Then I can rest.
The orange cat—she had learned its name was Archimedes, of all things—was cradled in his arms, purring contentedly.
Despite her pain and fatigue, Joan felt her face brighten. She had developed an absurd fondness for the creature over the past weeks.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said.
The Duke set Archimedes down, and the cat immediately bounded across the room to Joan. It leaped onto the desk began winding around her arms, purring loud enough to be heard across the room.
Joan couldn’t suppress a smile as she stroked Archimedes with her good hand. The cat’s warmth was oddly comforting, and she felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
She returned her attention to the ledger, attempting to continue her work while simultaneously petting the cat. But after only a few words, pain lanced through her wrist with such intensity that she had to stop. She set down the pen and rubbed at the bandage, biting her lip against a gasp.
