Page 29 of The Duchess Trap
She noticed one of the carpenters struggling to hold a long beam steady while balancing his measure. His brow was furrowed, lipspressed thin, and the plank threatened to tip from the rafters at any moment.
Catherine’s mind raced. If the measure was misaligned, it could set the entire ceiling askew.
“Here, sir, let me assist you,” she called.
The carpenter startled, nearly dropping his chalk. “Your Grace—no, it is not fitting?—”
“Nonsense.” Catherine had already gathered her skirts in one hand. She seized the ladder with the other.
Gasps rose behind her. Mrs. Simms cried, “Your Grace, no!”
Catherine placed her slipper on the first rung. “Do not fuss. I shall only hold the end steady whilst he marks it. Surely, the heavens will not collapse at the sight of a duchess upon a ladder.”
“You’ll tear your gown!” one of the little girls squealed, horrified.
Catherine laughed breathlessly as she climbed. “Then I shall have a new one. But we cannot have a crooked ceiling.”
She mounted higher, the hem of her gown catching on the ladder’s edges, until she stood level with the beam.
The carpenter gaped, “Oh, Your Grace, er…”
“It is all right, sir,” Catherine replied, “let me help. I wish to.”
The man hastily offered her the chalk line, and her fingers brushed his rough palm, and she steadied the wood with all her strength. Dust trickled into her hair, her lungs filled with the sharp scent of timber, and exhilaration coursed through her.
I am useful. I am not merely decoration. I am my mother’s daughter still.
“Hold fast, Your Grace,” the man muttered, marking the line.
The beam shifted beneath her hand.
“Careful!” the carpenter cried.
The ladder wobbled. A plank below slipped with a hollow clatter. Catherine felt her foot skid, then her weight tilted backward into empty air.
Screams pierced the hall.
“Your Grace!” A workman lunged upward and caught her arm just as her balance failed.
Pain shot through her wrist as he gripped tight, jerking her back onto the rung. The ladder rattled, but steadied. Catherine’s sidestruck the wood hard, bruising, and her palm scraped viciously against the beam’s edge.
She hissed but forced a smile. “I am well! Only a scratch. Do not look so frightened, children.”
Below, the children clung to one another, eyes wide with terror. Mrs. Simms looked ready to faint.
Catherine drew a steadying breath and held up her bleeding hand. “See? Nothing a bit of soap cannot mend.”
She tried to laugh, though her heart hammered. A streak of blood traced down her wrist, and her ribs throbbed from the bruise blooming there. Still, she refused to descend like a vanquished fool.
She adjusted her grip, forcing her voice to be cheerful. “Now, where were we? Did the line mark true?”
The carpenter stammered his thanks, clearly horrified by what nearly occurred.
Catherine glanced down, about to reassure the children once more… And froze.
The great doors of the hall had swung wide. Light from the gray afternoon spilled across the threshold.
And there he stood: the Duke.
