The old valet was crying, the tears running down his cheeks.
“What is it?” she asked in a whisper.
“It’s the Master, miss.”
Tamara drew in her breath.
“He is not – dead?” she could hardly say the words.
Then, even as she uttered them little above a whisper, she knew as her heart seemed to contract that she loved him.
The knowledge was so overwhelming, at the same time so painful, that she could only stand feeling as if she was turned to stone.
Watkins, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, said,
“No, miss not dead, worse!”
“What could be – worse?” Tamara asked still in a whisper because the words could hardly pass her lips.
“Sir George says that the Master’s broken his back, miss, and he’ll always be paralysed!”
As if it was too much to bear, Watkins covered his eyes with h
