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threatened, Catherine, dear Lord, save us both.”
    â€œHe will never know from me how much I despise him.”
    Winnie seemed to physically relax, her death-grip on Catherine’s hand easing. “Can we change the subject now? It serves to only burdenmy heart further to know that I cause you such worry.”
    â€œDon’t be concerned with my feelings, Winnie. I love you. No matter what happens, that will not change.”
    â€œMummy!”
    A small boy of four raced across the garden, leaving his nanny behind. He slammed into Winnie. Gasping, she paled considerably. “Darling, you mustn’t jostle Mummy so.”
    The boy looked wounded at the sharp reprimand. Catherine realized that Winnie was hurt much worse than she was letting on. She never scolded her child. Never.
    â€œWhit, come see Auntie Catherine,” Catherine said. “My lap is in need of a child.”
    He rushed over and Catherine pulled him close. She wondered how long before his father took his frustrations out on him.
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    It was late in the afternoon when Catherine finally returned home. How would she ever live with the guilt if Avendale killed Winnie? How would she be able to look at herself in the mirror if she did nothing—knowing all that was happening?
    She had an abundance of acquaintances, friends, servants, and yet sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one other than Winnie in whom she felt she could confide all that troubled her. Yet, she dared not tell Winnie everything, because her dear friend was already weighted down with her own troubles, so Catherine carried her worries and her burdens alone.
    Weary, with a heavy heart, she climbed the stairs and stopped outside her father’s bedchamber.
    Since he’d fallen ill, she’d achieved an independence that few ladies ever did. Without her brother here to serve as her guardian, she could do as she pleased and answer to no one.
    Was Winnie right? Would she lose this freedom if she ever did marry? Or was Catherine right—and no man would ever consider her?
    Even as a child, she’d been a bit willful. All right , she scolded herself. A lot willful . Her brother had called her spoiled on more than one occasion. Not that he was one to point fingers. He was the one off touring the world, having his fun, sewing his wild oats, while she was left here to tend to their father. Although to be fair, Sterling didn’t know their father had taken ill.
    After her father’s first apoplectic fit, he’d still been able to talk. He’d told her then that she wasn’t to contact Sterling for any reason. The next fit had left him unable to speak, to communicate at all. He was now simply withering away.
    She took a moment to shore up her emotions. She’d not add to her father’s problems by weeping for her friend, weeping for him, weeping for everything she didn’t have the strength or power to change. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. She was immediately hit with the stench of illness.
    His nurse rose from her chair near his bed, where she’d been embroidering. She curtsied. “My lady.”
    â€œHow is he?”
    â€œAll bathed and tidied up, awaiting your afternoon visit.”
    Catherine walked to the foot of the bed and smiled down on her father. She thought she saw pleasure in his blue eyes, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking on her part. “It’s a lovely day. I should have a servant carry you into the garden.”
    He didn’t react to her suggestion, other than to blink.
    She wondered if he’d be embarrassed—or grateful—to be carted down. It was so difficult to know what to do.
    â€œTemperance, before you take some time for yourself, please have the servants move the chaise longue from the morning room to the garden and then send a footman up to carry my father down.”
    â€œIf I may be so bold, my lady, I’m not certain his physician would agree