"No need to hold her so tightly." The older woman chided. "You can let her go now."
The coachman hesitated. His hand remained firmly around Cassandra’s arm, keeping her upright.
"I was instructed to remain with her." He responded, as though that justified how harshly he was handling her.
The woman leveled him with a stern look.
"You have delivered her safely. Your task is finished."
Still, he did not move.
"I was also instructed to see that everything proceeds according to plan."
"And it will," the woman replied, as she lost what little patience she possessed. "Now leave."
The coachman glanced toward the building, then at Cassandra, thinking hard. His expression suggested that he was weighing the orders he had been given against the woman’s authority.
Whatever misgivings he might have had were eventually overcome by the woman’s unwavering stare. He released Cassandra’s arm and stepped aside.
The younger woman immediately moved in to support her.
"There now," she murmured. "You are now in gentle hands."
Cassandra immediately tried to tug herself out of her hold, determined to walk without assistance, but her knees nearly gave way after the first few steps. The younger woman luckily caught her beneath the arm before she could fall, steadying her against her side while the older woman walked ahead.
Inside, the building seemed even more unfamiliar.
They led her along a narrow corridor and up a few flights of stairs. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the walls as they passed several doors along the way, most of them closed. Cassandra’s eyes moved from one to another, desperately searching for something that might tell her where she was.
Nothing did.
Then, as they passed an open doorway, she caught a glimpse of something inside.
A large wooden cross stood against the far wall, the type that was commonly found in chapels.
Cassandra’s steps faltered with the dawning realization.
A chapel.
The word ’wedding’ returned to the forefront of her mind, heightening her distress.
Her limbs were slowly beginning to regain some of their strength, but the improvement was agonizingly slow. She could move them now. She could even think more clearly than she had been able to inside the carriage.
But she could not yet fully rely on her body.
With each piece of information she learned and the longer she remained in this state, she became less convinced that she had simply fallen ill. It was far more likely that she had been poisoned.
The tea she drank at her parents’ house. That was the last thing she had consumed before she began feeling strangely tired.
She remembered the cup being placed before her in the drawing room. She remembered taking several sips, but she had not finished the entire cup.
Perhaps that was why the effects were beginning to diminish.
Someone had slipped something into her drink, and it had happened in her parents’ home, which meant her father most likely knew about it. It might have even been his plan, for all she knew, and the idea that he was capable of such a heinous thing made her stomach twist.
Was her mother even ill, as the letter insisted, or was it all part of the elaborate scheme?
The questions crowded her mind, each one more disturbing than the last. She had no answers, only fragments of information that seemed to lead her deeper into something she did not understand.
The women brought her into a small room furnished with several chairs and a narrow table.
"Here will do," the older woman said, gesturing to one of the empty seats.
The younger woman helped Cassandra lower herself into the chair. Her legs still felt weak beneath her, and she was grateful for the support despite her growing distrust of everyone around her.
The coachman stubbornly remained near the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.
The older woman flashed him another stern look when she noticed he still lingered close by.
"You may go now, sir."
He frowned imperiously. "I was told to stay."
"And I am telling you that you are no longer needed," she shot back. "Do you intend to stand there like a lecher as we undress the lady? I doubt you want to explain to Mr Whitmore why you got to see his bride in her undergarments before him?"
The coachman spared Cassandra a glance, who sat pale and unsteady in the chair.
For a moment, he seemed reluctant to leave.
The older woman, Josephine, met his gaze with such seriousness that he relented once more. He stepped into the corridor, his expression still conflicted.
The instant the door closed behind him, the older woman strode across the room and locked it.
Cassandra paid attention to every one of the woman’s actions. Something about the woman’s manner had changed.
The sternness remained, but there was a strange franticness radiating from her now. Her movements were quicker, and there was an urgency in the way she looked at Cassandra that had not been there before.
She walked back and crouched slightly so that they were closer to eye level.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, and there was a touch of concern in her voice. "Did they do anything to you?"
But that couldn’t be right, not when the woman was in cahoots with the rest of them.
Cassandra remained wary, watching her carefully. She could not afford to trust kindness simply because it was offered to her. Not now.
The woman wasn’t fazed by the lack of an answer.
Instead, she added gently, "You have been through a lot, and you most likely aren’t feeling your best. Don’t force yourself to speak."
Josephine moved even closer and studied Cassandra’s eyes, lifting her chin and watching her dilated pupils carefully. Her brows drew together briefly as she examined her, as though trying to determine the extent of whatever had been done to her.
Satisfied with what she saw, she headed for the table, picked up the jug sitting on it, and returned with it in hand.
"Drink." She held it in front of Cassandra’s lips.