The Marquise and Her Cat: A Puss in Boots Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  The tailor’s dog naps on the stoop, and I give him a quick scratch before I step into the shop. I find the tailor’s wife, Patricia, sitting in the corner, stitching together the bodice of a gown.

  “Good afternoon, Etta,” she says as I close the door behind me. “What can I help you with?”

  “I need a pair of breeches.” I pause as I look over the bolts of fabric on the wall. “And some muslin.”

  Patricia sets her work on the chair. “For Eugene or Thomas?”

  I rub my cheek. “For me, actually.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up, but she goes into the back and brings out a simple pair of breeches in a dark color not unlike Beau’s blocks of chocolate. “I suppose these will fit you.”

  “Thank you.” I examine them, wondering how strange it will feel to wear trousers after a lifetime spent in a skirt.

  She gives me a funny look, one questioning whether I’ve parted ways with my modesty, but she only nods.

  After I pay her, I leave the shop with my new breeches and the fabric for my shirt. Only one copper coin remains in my apron pocket. I hold my purchase close, pride blooming in my chest that, for the first time, I bought something with money I earned myself.

  “Now what, cat?” I ask when I reach him again.

  “Now we go home. You have a shirt to sew.”

  And a garden to tend, berries to pick, laundry to wash, bread to bake, and supper to make. I heft my bag over my shoulder. At least we’ll eat well tonight.

  When I reach the mill, I find Thomas working in the vegetable garden, doing the weeding I promised I would tend this morning.

  I toss my bag at him. “I’ll finish in the garden if you dress this for me.”

  He looks in the bag. Astonished, he asks, “Where did you get the rabbit?”

  “I caught it.”

  I’m not sure Thomas believes me, but he carries the bag to an old stump in the shade of a tree. Before I start on the garden, I take my new breeches and fabric to the loft and leave them on my pallet.

  In the evening, I stew the rabbit.

  “Meat two nights in a row,” Eugene says as he finishes off his plate, looking pleasantly full. “Imagine that.”

  Warm with pride in my contribution, I toss Puss another generous helping of scraps before I climb up the loft to start on my shirt. The cat soon follows, and I work by candlelight as Puss sleeps at the end of my pallet.

  Every day after I finish my morning chores, Puss and I hunt for rabbits. Every afternoon, I take my bounty to the butcher.

  “You’ll have to obtain a permit to hunt in the king’s forest soon,” Puss says one afternoon.

  We’ve waited all day in the meadow behind the mill, but we’ve seen no hares. They’re growing wise to us.

  “How do you know all this, cat?” I twirl a blade of grass between my fingers.

  Lying in the meadow is infinitely more comfortable in my breeches and shirt. They are worth every coin I spent, even if Eugene went pale the first time he saw me, and Thomas said I looked like an outlaw. My ivory sleeves are puffed with cuffs at the wrists, and, with my belt and boots, I feel a bit like a pirate queen. I haven’t told anyone that bit of fancy—not even Puss. Especially not Puss. The cat would mock me from here to Edelmyer and back again.

  I received several raised eyebrows the first few weeks, but the villagers are growing accustomed to my new outfit.

  “Cats are born wise,” Puss answers.

  Scoffing, I roll onto my back and watch the puffy white clouds drift across the sky.

  Finally, when the sun is low and the meadow shines gold, we catch a single rabbit. Hoping to make it to the butcher’s shop before Sarah-Anne’s father closes for the day, I hurry to Glenridge.

  For once, Puss wanders back to the mill to hunt mice, leaving me alone. It’s about time. I was beginning to think we were going to need another barn cat.

  When I reach the butcher’s shop, I find it closed. The family’s likely in the back, having supper, and I don’t want to interrupt them. I shift from one foot to the other, debating what I’m going to do with the rabbit.

  I could go home…or I could take it to Beau.

  Steeling my courage, I walk down the street. I try the chocolate shop’s door, curious to see if he’s perhaps working late. When it doesn’t open, I knock.

  I’m half-hoping he’s not home. How foolish do I look, standing at the chocolatier’s door with another rabbit? I’ve seen Beau a few times in passing, but I haven’t stopped by his shop like he requested.

  The door opens, and I paste a smile on my face.

  “Etta.” His eyes light when he sees me, and his gaze travels over my outfit. He opens the door wider, inviting me in. “What do I owe the honor?”

  “I have another rabbit.” As I say it, I hoist the bag in front of me.

  When he smiles, my insides warm.

  “Are you in need of another bag?” he asks.

  “Not this time. This is purely a social call.”

  There’s something about these new clothes that makes me feel more confident. They’re patch-free, and, with my shirt tucked into my breeches, they accentuate my waist in a way that my baggy dress and apron never did. The outfit is a far cry from the gowns worn by the girls that I’m sure he’s used to rubbing elbows with, but at least it makes me looks as if I have a shape.

  “Is it?” He sounds pleased.

  I study a painting hanging on his wall. “This time, the rabbit is a gift.”

  “One I’ll accept only if you’ll stay to share it with me.”

  Turning, I smile at him, happy for the company. Though I love my brothers, the mill seems to be growing smaller by the day. “Agreed.”

  It’s long after dark when Puss announces his presence by howling at the closed window.

  “It seems we have a visitor,” Beau says from his side of the small table where we shared our meal.

  When I open the door, I scowl at the cat. Puss saunters into the shop, and his eyes travel over the counter and art. His gaze finally lands on the table that holds the remnants of our supper.

  Familiar with the wicked gleam in his eyes, I pick him up before he can leap in the middle and send the settings flying to the floor. He wriggles in my arms, but, realizing I have no intention of letting him loose, soon stops resisting.

  Trapped, the cat turns his eyes on Beau and glares.

  “I’m under the distinct impression that your feline doesn’t like me very much,” Beau says, giving Puss a wary look of his own.

  “He’s oddly protective of me.”

  Beau busies himself with clearing the table, a smile playing on his lips. “If I were yours, I’d be protective as well.”

  My cheeks warm, and Puss lets out a quiet hiss of indignation. I don’t read too much into the flippantly-spoken words, though. Beau’s been walking this line all evening. When he flashes me a not-so-subtle smile, Sarah-Anne’s warning words circle in my head. But they aren’t the obstacle making me hesitate from flirting back.

  It’s no use. No matter how handsome he is, Beau’s not the man who consumes my thoughts. It would be wrong of me to lead him on.

  “I should go,” I say, and Puss mews in an approving manner.

  Beau looks over, startled. “You don’t have to rush off.”

  I glance out the window. “It’s growing late.”

  “At least let me walk you home. I can’t let you wander through the streets in the dark.”

  A smile twitches my lips. “And what will you protect me from?”

  He leans against the counter. “Wolves? Giants? Witches?”

  “We have none of those in sleepy Glenridge.”

  “Bandits…?” He scrunches his mouth to the side, thinking. Then his eyes sharpen, and he ventures, “What about ogres?”

  Puss becomes too heavy, and I set him on the floor, trusting him to behave himself now that I’ve decided to leave.

  “Wrong province,” I say, grinning despite myself. “They’re farther south.”
>
  Satisfied with my answer, he nods. Then, with a grin of his own, he says, “If you don’t let me do my gentlemanly duty, my pride will take a hard hit.”

  I’m looking at my cat when he says it, and Puss winces and wrinkles his nose as if he’s smelled something bad.

  “Well, we can’t have that,” I say. “Come on, then.”

  With Puss leading us, I take Beau’s offered arm. The streets are alight with thick, flickering flames atop candles in lampposts. Though the hour has grown late, people, after having eaten their suppers, are out, enjoying the warm summer evening. A trio of musicians play from a corner in the square, and a crowd has gathered to watch them. Children run this way and that, and I soak up the merrymaking.

  We’re just passing the butcher’s shop when Beau abruptly attempts to change our course. Curious, I look at him, but my question is quickly answered.

  The pretty eighteen-year-old daughter of the baker stops in front of us. Marissa’s eyes flicker to our linked arms, and she frowns.

  “Hello, Marissa,” Beau says, a somewhat strained look on his face. He presses his arm closer to his side, keeping my hand firmly in place, and he bows in greeting. “Lovely to run into you.”

  Marissa glances at me before she answers, “You as well.”

  After several more slightly awkward exchanged words, we continue on. Puss takes an odd turn down a street. Since he’s a good ways ahead of us, we have no choice but to follow. Not two minutes later, the scene repeats itself, this time with a farmer’s daughter from the outskirts of Glenridge. She blinks several times when she spots me and Beau.

  “Ah, Maria,” Beau says, this time sounding acutely uncomfortable. “Pleasant evening.”

  The pretty, shy girl lowers her eyes and murmurs a quick greeting as she hurries past us.

  Once she’s gone, Beau clears his throat.

  “You’re popular,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. “Since I’ve moved here, I feel like a prime piece of meat, hanging from the butcher’s shop.”

  I’m reminded of Sarah-Anne’s warning, but I attempt to smile. Poor girls. Before Kerrick—before I even knew Beau—I was a little lovesick over him myself.

  “I’m sure I’m quite safe from ogres, giants, and witches if you’d prefer to head back to your shop and hide from your ardent admirers,” I say.

  Beau glances at me, surprised. “I’d prefer to walk you.”

  “Your shine will wear off,” I assure him as we continue on. “Glenridge is a small town. You’re exciting and new, but I’m sure they’ll tire of you soon.”

  He flashes me a wry smile. “You’re good on a man’s ego.”

  “Do you think you need your ego stroked when women are falling at your feet like flies?”

  Peering straight ahead, he gives me a sideways look. “Some of them don’t fall at all. They offer sweet smiles and rabbits and then disappear for weeks at a time, making me wonder if I’m losing my touch.”

  I warm at the words, but I know it’s just careless banter. Judging from the evening, it’s obvious Beau didn’t come to Glenridge seeking romance. But, like me, it seems he could use a friend.

  “Then they show back up,” he continues, turning so our gazes meet, “looking like an adventuress and smelling of sunshine.”

  My pride glows at the flattery, and I laugh. “See? This is your problem. If you want to deter them, you need to act aloof and disinterested. You’re entirely too charming.”

  He grins. “I’ll work on it.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “You do that.”

  Beau gives me a look, and we continue on. We’ve left the village and its warm light behind, and we walk down the winding lane that eventually leads to the mill.

  “So who is it you fancy?” Beau asks.

  The question takes me by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

  “You have that look about you every time you come to Glenridge—the look of a girl hoping to catch a glimpse of someone.” He flashes me a lopsided smile. “Assuming it’s not me?”

  Ironically, at one point it had been Beau I was looking for. But that was before I met Kerrick, before I even knew Beau.

  “There is no one,” I answer truthfully. “But there is the hope.”

  He thinks about my answer for a moment, and then he nods. Shortly after, I ask him to tell me more about his travels, and we continue to the mill in comfortable conversation.

  Chapter 8

  A gust of wind kicks up, sending branches swaying. A few green leaves fall to the ground, swirling in the breeze before they finally fall. Even the brief respite from the hot, humid day does little to lift my spirits. My horse tosses her head and surges forward, eager to race the wind. In a foul mood unsuited for a pleasure ride, I hold her back. I’ve been in Glenridge an entire season and have not found the slightest sign of an ogre.

  And, on top of that, somehow in the course of an evening, Etta’s decided we should be friends.

  The sight of her on my doorstep yesterday evening sent me reeling. What kind of fools are her brothers that they allow her to wander about the woods and village in that outfit? I clench my eyes shut, trying not to picture the way she looked in her hunting breeches and boots, with her hair persistently falling from its pins and her skin kissed by the summer sun.

  She looked like an adventuress, a woman not unlike those I’ve known on the seas—a woman indifferent to conventions and customs. One who goes wherever she pleases, whenever she pleases.

  But Etta’s not a woman. She’s a girl, only eighteen or nineteen at the most, a few years younger than I am, and her innocent light brown eyes belie that she’s not as worldly as she may now seem at first glance.

  The back of my neck aches, and I rub a gloved hand over it. I’m farther south than I’ve traveled yet, near the boundary of this kingdom, where King Deloge’s land ends and another’s begins. If Etta’s right, this is the province where the ogres are to be found. Yet every person I’ve asked gives me the same answer: “No, no, Monsieur. No ogres have been seen in these parts for tens of years.” And when I ask them of my father? A man who left here only thirty years before? All I receive are blank stares and murmured apologies.

  No one recognizes the name. My paternal family might as well have gone up in smoke.

  Absently, I rub my ring through the layer of leather. This was supposed to be simple. I was going to sort the ogre matter out by autumn and be back at sea before winter.

  I pull my horse to a stop and take in the landscape. This province is rich in farmland. Fields are lush and tall, and cattle and sheep graze the grassy slopes. The people I’ve met are friendly, yet all have an air of exhaustion about them. Despite the great bounty surrounding them, they are tired and hungry.

  A farmer approaches in his cart, and I raise a hand in greeting. “Who owns these lands?”

  The man jerks his head behind him, farther to the south. “Monsieur Mattis. He lives in the castle over yonder.”

  I glance in that direction, but all I see are fields, a few stretches of meadow, and patches of forest. “How long has the lord lived here?”

  “His family’s always been here, Monsieur. For generations.”

  After letting out another long, defeated breath, I ask, “I’ve heard talk of ogres in these parts. Have you had trouble with them?”

  The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ogres?” He laughs. “I’ve never heard of their likes in this province.”

  Frowning, I bid the man good day.

  Another dead end.

  Chapter 9

  Rynvale, the village surrounding the castle, is huge. I’ve never seen so many people all in one place. Though we live only an hour’s ride away, I’ve never been here.

  Puss trots at my side, but I have to be careful not to speak to him lest people think I’m mad. I make my way through the crowded streets, but I’m not sure where it is I’m headed.

  “Which way?” I hiss under my breath.

  “Toward the castle,” the cat answers, unconcerned that oth
ers may hear him.

  There are so many people, it’s doubtful anyone would even notice a talking cat.

  Eventually, Puss leads me to the lowered drawbridge. Guards stand on either side, and peasants and merchants come and go freely. Still, I hesitate. “Are you sure I’m allowed through there?”

  The cat strolls ahead of me. “Of course I’m sure.”

  No one says a word as we cross over the drawbridge. The castle’s courtyard is even more chaotic than the village. Clusters of guards practice with rapiers and bows, and merchants have set up carts right in the pathways. Other people of varying stations mill around, browsing wares and tossing coins to the musicians and acrobats who weave through the crowd.

  Puss leads me through the fray, right to the castle gates.

  “What is your business?” a bored guard asks.

  The sun hangs directly overhead, and the man must be overheated in his leather and the tabard he wears over his shirt.

  “I’ve come to ask the king’s permission to hunt in his forest?” I’m unsure of myself, and the statement comes out as a question.

  The guard’s eyes drift over me, over my breeches and boots, and he frowns. Instead of challenging me, however, he opens the doors.

  I step forward, awed.

  The quiet of the castle is a far cry from the commotion of the courtyard. The atmosphere is hushed, and the entry is cool. There are people here and there, some sitting on padded benches and others standing in clusters. Swords, shields, and tapestries hang on the walls. Shining suits of armor from an era long past line the entry.

  I must stand gawking because a finely dressed man in official garb, a steward, strides forward to greet me.

  “What is your business?” he asks.

  I blink at him, overwhelmed, and I tell him why I’m here. He efficiently herds me down a hall to the direct right, and soon I’m in an area that’s bare of decoration.

  A man sits behind a scarred wooden desk, and he’s speaking with a nobleman. The steward who escorted me motions that the seated man is the one I need to speak with, and I hang back until he’s finished. Puss sits at my feet, and his tail flicks back and forth as if he has deemed himself too important to wait.