Page 73 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“Exactly.” I smiled.

Cassie let out a long breath. “All right, then,” she said. “Where do we start?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

In the end, it was easy enough. Cassie had the carriage called around and she and I headed into Rochester for the afternoon on the pretext of getting me fitted for a cycling outfit.

“If it were anyone else, my mother would have been outraged,” Cassie grinned as we rumbled along the road. “Because it was you, she practically kissed my feet and pushed me out of the door. She’s extremely concerned you’re going to steal the prince away from Agatha. She’s already told everyone she knows that Agatha’s going to be a princess by the time the year is out. Before you came along everyone thought it was a done deal.”

I laughed, though of course Cassie was striking closer to the truth than she knew. It was exhausting, keeping track of all the lies and half-truths I was telling. I felt like the spider at the centre of a web of tangled threads.

“Actually,” Cassie perked up, “wouldn’t that be the perfect solution? You could marry the prince, Iris, then my mother would probably be delighted to acknowledge you and claim a princess for a stepdaughter. And you wouldn’t have to live with her at all! But how to account for you using a false name…” She tapped her chin with her finger. “I have it!” she exclaimed. “Amnesia!”

“Amnesia!” I snorted.

“Yes. You fell in the river, bumped your head, were found by a family who could have no children of their own, who took you in though you had no memory of where you came from. Your adoptive parents sadly died. Then, quite by chance you came here, and the memories flooded back.” Cassie sat back in her seat, triumphant.

“Cassie,” I spluttered, “it sounds like something out of a Penny Dreadful!”

Cassie got the giggles too. “That’s why everyone would love it. Then at the end you marry a prince and live happily ever after! You’d be the absolute toast of the town; they’d write songs about you and sing them in the street.”

“Let’s call that our reserve plan,” I managed.

“Fine.” Cassie stuck out her lower lip in a mock sulk. “I think it would work a treat.”

Impulsively I reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed mine back.

“It’s true, what you said,” Cassie began awkwardly. “We were just children, seven years ago. Still, I want you to know that I always regretted not speaking up for you when Mama and Agatha were being cruel. Especially after your father died.”

“It’s in the past now,” I said quickly. Although that wasn’t really true. It was easy to forgive Cassie – a child who never did me any harm – but the anger that I felt towards Helena and Agatha was as fresh today as it had been seven years ago.

It wasn’t long before we arrived in Rochester and, as instructed, the coachman pulled up in front of the offices of J.F. Fortescue.

The solicitor’s office was as I remembered it, and Cassie gave our names to the clerk nearest the door, requesting an interview with Mr Fortescue. We sat in tense silence in the same hard-backed chairs where I had once waited for my father, until a man appeared.

He was short and round, with tufts of white hair, and rosy cheeks. A pair of brass spectacles sat on the end of his nose, and all in all he had the appearance of a benevolent character from a Dickens novel – apart from the heavy frown he wore.

“Miss Cassandra Weston?” he asked, and Cassie rose confidently, offering her hand.

“Yes, that is I!” she exclaimed heartily, pumping his hand in a firm handshake. I tried not to wince. It seemed Cassie was going Shakespearean. “I know that you and I haven’t met before, but as my family’s solicitor I thought I had better seek your assistance. Miss Fox and I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Mr Fortescue’s eyes flickered to me, and then softened. I had worn an incredibly frothy and feminine pale pink gown trimmed with lace. I knew how I looked – sweet, vulnerable, innocent … and expensive. Every stitch on me screamed money.

“Please, come through to my office, won’t you?” he said, gesturing towards the open door.

The office was a good size, and well looked after. The huge mahogany desk was meticulously neat, and polished to a high shine. Walls of bookshelves were organized alphabetically, and several tall filing cabinets stood, clearly labelled.

Excellent. Mr Fortescue’s careful nature should hopefully work in our favour.

“My client is here today to talk to you about a matter that is rather sensitive,” Cassie began, perching herself in one of the chairs across from Mr Fortescue’s. I sat down in the one beside her, and Mr Fortescue looked at us from over his desk.

“Your client?” His eyebrows shot up.

“An informal arrangement,” Cassie acknowledged. “I am studying the law, but – as I’m sure you are all too aware – a number of extremely outdated policies mean I am not currently able to practise. It is my hope that this changes soon.”

Mr Fortescue’s mouth thinned in disapproval. It was easy to see that he did not share Cassie’s hopes on that score. Which was what we had counted on.

“As I was saying,” Cassie continued, “my client finds herself in a delicate situation upon which I am not equipped to advise her. Knowing what fine work you have done for my mother and my stepfather’s estate, I, of course, recommended she come to you.”