The Gilded Cage by Lucinda Gray Page B

taking a hand from either side of the couch they’ve laid me across. “Oh, Lady Katherine,” Elsie begins, then bursts into tears. She pulls her apron to her face. Grace dismisses her with a weary wave, and she runs from the room.
    With every beat of my heart, my grief deepens. I’m alone here. My brother, my laughing brother, is dead. No more paintings. No more George. Nobody to call me Wildcat.
    I pull at my clothes, gasping, suddenly unable to breathe, and Grace brings a sharp-smelling vial to my nose, followed by a short belt of brown liquid in a cut crystal tumbler. “This will help get you through until Dr. Ebner arrives,” she says, helping me to sit up.
    The burning in my nose and at the back of my throat distracts me briefly from my misery. When the door shushes open a moment later, it’s with an apologetic air, bringing to mind the days that followed my parents’ deaths. Everyone around George and me moved in slow motion, as though we couldn’t handle sharp movements. I’d felt like I was underwater.
    A man in a tweed waistcoat enters the room, carrying a black leather medical bag. He’s followed by Stella and an ice-pale Jane. I wonder how long I’ve been unconscious, that she’s been fetched already from Bath. Stella kicks about the room, pleased to see me, but Grace blocks her from jumping on the couch. I want to tell her to put Stella in my arms, but the doctor has already sat down and taken my hand.
    â€œI’m deeply sorry, Lady Randolph,” he says, his mouth just discernible beneath a bushy gray mustache. His brows droop over whiskey-brown eyes, and I think how much George would like to paint a face like this. George, George, George. Every moment I remember it afresh, and it’s another stab to my chest.
    He places a careful hand to my brow. “Can you stand, my lady? I’m afraid you’ll become overheated. Walk a moment, catch your breath.”
    I stand on yearling’s legs. Just beyond the window, the men carry something between them, unwieldy and wrapped in sodden white. I count four bowed heads around my brother’s body: Henry and John, Matt and Mr. Carrick.
    â€œWhere are they taking him?” I ask, my voice cracking and hoarse.
    Grace shakes her head, just barely, but the doctor ignores her. “They’re taking him to the west wing. It’s the coldest part of the house, you see.” He stops uncomfortably, but I take his meaning, knowing they must keep his body from the heat.
    â€œWhat a terrible, terrible thing,” Grace says in a sodden voice. She sits down heavily. “We will build up the railing on the bridge immediately.” She turns her pale face to me. “Forgive me, Katherine, that this accident happened at Walthingham Hall!”
    â€œAn accident,” I parrot dumbly. “But … but George was a strong swimmer. He could swim before he could walk. Even if he slipped…”
    A memory of George as a boy, diving into the ice-cold creek with Connor, threatens to overwhelm me.
    Jane moves forward, silhouetted against the fire’s glow. “It doesn’t matter in such cold water, Kat. Nobody could swim across that lake in winter. It would stop his heart.”
    I turn my face away just as Henry enters the room, trailed by John. Henry moves to my side with speed, which suits me better than the slow, skittish movements more usual to mourning. Laying a heavy hand on my shoulder, he kneels beside me with moist eyes. His skin is sickly pale.
    â€œOh, my sweet cousin,” he says. “You can’t know how sorry I am.”
    â€œHe couldn’t just drown, Henry,” I say. “He couldn’t have.”
    The doctor moves toward us, uneasy, and Henry looks at me sadly. “There is no other explanation, Katherine. A young man at his first ball, on unfamiliar grounds. And he’d had a bit to drink.…”
    I clutch at his arm. “But he rode to