Puss without Boots: A Puss in Boots Retelling (Fairy Tale Kingdoms Book 1)

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “The entire lot of it will be eaten up by the few necessary repairs that I must make to the mill if it will make it through another season. And next year will be the same. And every year after that. With only our small field, and with many of the local farmers building their own mills, we simply do not own enough to get ahead.”

  I’m not used to seeing my brother so melancholy, and it makes me nervous. I can’t even disagree because I have no argument. He’s right.

  Thomas frowns. “I’ll send money back—”

  “No,” Eugene says, cutting him off. “You’ll need that money to get settled.”

  With nothing left to say, we fall quiet again. As soon as the dishes are cleared and cleaned, I escape to my corner of the loft. Without a word, Puss crawls on my lap and settles there, purring more to comfort me than because he’s particularly content.

  When the wheat is tall and golden, and the stalks sway in the breeze like waves in the ocean, Eugene and Thomas harvest the field. The grain now rests in large twined bundles, and we pray the rains will stay away until they dry. We’re usually safe this time of year, but we still keep an eye on the youngest of the neighbor’s cattle, watching for the signs of nervousness that Father swore meant bad weather is on its way.

  I lean on an old fence and watch them now. A heifer grazes, and she looks as if she hasn’t a care in the world. I glance from her to another young dairy cow, but they all have the same slightly glazed-over bovine look. With a sigh, I push away from the fence.

  A welcome breeze blows from the north, taking some of the heat of the early autumn day with it. The days have been cooler, but today is hot. I push my hair back as I meander down the road toward the mill.

  My basket is full to the brim with blackberries. Yesterday, when Puss and I were hunting, I noticed the bushes were heavy with the dark fruits. Early this morning, before I started on my daily chores, I slipped away to gather some before birds and bears stripped the bushes.

  “Where’s your cat?” a familiar voice calls from the lane behind me.

  Smiling, I turn to greet Beau. “Good morning.”

  The chocolatier is properly pressed and perfect, and his light brown hair is light in the sun. He smiles with his whole face, and his enthusiasm is catching.

  “You’ve been busy,” he says, eying my basket.

  “Help yourself.” I offer the berries to him. As he takes several from the top, I ask, “What brings you away from your shop?”

  “I requested a milk delivery from the Roslins.” He motions toward our neighbor’s cottage. “I’m running low.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I ask as I start toward the mill. “Your shop is doing well?”

  Beau falls into step next to me. “Well enough.”

  I give him a sideways glance. I’m fairly certain the shop is only a fleeting hobby, and he doesn’t need the gold. Still, I hope if he’s doing well he won’t have the desire to move away.

  We’re nearing the cottage when the door swings open and Baron Broussard steps from our humble home. I freeze, terrified to see the man on Eugene’s land. But moments later, Eugene steps from behind him, smiling with what looks like relief.

  Immediately, I pull Beau with me into a cluster of trees where we can watch the exchange without being seen.

  “What’s Broussard doing here?” Beau whispers.

  My attention is fully on my brother, and I only shake my head to answer Beau’s question.

  Broussard is handsome for his age, which must be nearing his thirtieth year. His young wife passed away at the same time as my parents, all taken by the sickness that swept the village seemingly overnight. He has never remarried, and he has no heir. Though he owns half the village, he does not own the mill.

  So what business does he have here?

  After several more minutes of quiet discussion that I can’t quite make out, the two men shake hands. Broussard mounts his horse and turns toward the lane, looking satisfied. The expression makes me uneasy, and I clench my basket tightly enough my knuckles turn white.

  “If Broussard finds us hiding together in the brush, your reputation is sure to suffer,” Beau whispers near my ear.

  I nod, knowing he’s right, and we step into the lane just before the baron rounds the bend.

  Broussard smiles with recognition when he sees me, and he draws his horse to a halt. “Etta.” His eyes travel over me, and a smile grows on his lips. “How grown up you’ve become.”

  That ill feeling grows. I dip in a curtsy. “Good day to you, Monsieur Broussard.”

  The man exchanges a few swift words of greeting with Beau, and then his attention returns to me. “I’ve heard you’ve become quite the huntress.”

  “Only adequate, I’m afraid.” I shift, uncomfortable.

  “Come hawking with me, Etta,” he finally says. “It’s a sport I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” As if he senses my reservations, he continues, “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  I lower my eyes to the ground. “Thomas has taken his horse to Rynvale with him.”

  “You’ll borrow one of mine.” Then, with a farewell nod, he rides on. “I’ll send the carriage to fetch you in the morning.”

  Beau whistles under his breath, and I turn to him. His expression is darker than usual, and I tap my finger against the basket as I wait for him to spit out whatever it is he wants to say.

  “It’s not every day a baron asks the miller’s sister to go hawking,” he finally says, more tactful than I expect.

  I frown at the berries in my basket and continue toward the mill. Eugene spots me, but his smile dims when he sees Beau at my side.

  “Monsieur Broussard just invited me to go hawking with him tomorrow,” I tell Eugene, watching him closely to see if it’s something he already knows.

  Is this why the baron was here? Was he asking about me? Surely not.

  Eugene’s eyes go wide. Obviously, he’s as surprised as I am.

  “And what did you tell him?” my brother asks.

  Unsure of myself, I glance at Beau and then look back. “I’m not in the position to decline an offer from a baron.”

  Beau looks uneasy, possibly more uneasy than my brother. “He didn’t give you the chance to decline in any case.”

  Puss leaps from the side window of the mill. I know he’s heard our conversation, and he doesn’t appear to be impressed. Obviously, attention from Broussard is not what he had in mind when he spoke of grander things.

  “Would you care to stay for tea, Monsieur Marchand?” Eugene asks, turning to Beau. “Sarah-Anne’s here as well.”

  Though Eugene doesn’t mention it, the cottage is too quiet with Thomas gone. We both feel his absence, and it’s worse when Sarah-Anne visits Eugene. On those days, I’m very aware of how inconvenient my presence is.

  I turn to Beau. “Yes, do.”

  “Please, call me Beau,” he says to Eugene, and then he smiles at me. “And I’d be happy to.”

  Sarah-Anne greets us as we enter, and already I feel like a visitor in my own home. Her smile flickers when she sees Beau. Suddenly nervous, she busies herself with the tea.

  It’s the first time Beau’s come inside the cottage, and my eyes dart this way and that, taking in the shabby interior. The only decorations are a dried wreath of herbs that hangs over the door to ward off insects and a faded and well-used quilt that rests on the chair in front of the hearth.

  “Why did Broussard come calling?” I stir honey into my tea and then offer the small pot to Beau. He drizzles some in his cup, and I’m grateful that I took the time to harvest some from the hive I found in the forest last week. I may have returned that evening smelling like smoke and having been stung several times, but it’s nice to have a little luxury to offer.

  Sarah-Anne and Eugene exchange a look. They’re obviously pleased with the news, but from their expressions I can tell that they don’t think I will be.

  “Well?” I prod.

  Eugene lets out a long sigh and rests his arms on the t
able. “Monsieur Broussard has offered to buy the mill and let us live on as tenants.”

  I gape at him, not only shocked that my brother would even consider the offer, but that he would look happy about it.

  “Now before you say anything,” Eugene says, leaning forward, “let me finish.”

  Crossing my arms, I snap my mouth shut.

  “He said he will not charge us tenants’ fees for the first three years, which will give us plenty of time to get back on our feet and buy the title back from him.”

  “But at what price?”

  “Broussard only asks fifty percent of the profits we make from the mill.”

  “Fifty perfect!” I exclaim. My tea sloshes on the table as I scoot my chair back.

  Knowing this would be my reaction, Eugene stays calm. “It’s only fair when he’ll let us live here for free.”

  I stand. “You live here for free now!”

  Eugene stands and joins me on my side of the table. Clasping my shoulders, he says, “Etta, this harvest was good. Very good. But it’s not enough to get us back on our feet.”

  “But I can…” I trail off. Catching a few spare rabbits here and there won’t make up the difference that we need.

  “Monsieur Broussard has offered us one hundred gold pieces—all of which I can put back into the mill. On top of that, I can buy a herd of cattle and chickens. Maybe even a few sheep.” He glances at Sarah-Anne. “And I’ll finally have enough that Sarah-Anne’s father might give us his blessing.”

  I’m stunned by the sum, and I sink into my chair. One hundred gold pieces.

  “He wouldn’t make the offer if he didn’t think he’d profit from it,” Eugene says. “He expects to make his money back in that three years before I buy the land back from him. He wouldn’t lend us the money if he didn’t.”

  I shake my head. It’s too risky. We have no way of knowing how much Broussard will demand for the land at the end of the term.

  “Etta…” Eugene’s face softens, and his voice changes to sympathetic. “Sarah-Anne and I have already agreed. The mill is mine…this is not your decision to make.”

  He may as well strike me in the stomach. I suck in a quiet breath.

  Sarah-Anne watches me with worried eyes, but I can’t look at her.

  “Very well,” I say. Slowly, I sink back to my seat.

  The rest of the hour passes with painful stretches of silence dotted with strained conversation. Just when I’m preparing to take Beau and flee, Eugene mentions the baron’s hawking invitation to Sarah-Anne. Her eyes go wide at the news.

  “You mustn’t turn down an invitation from Broussard,” Sarah-Anne says. “Especially when no one else has hinted at a possible courtship.” Her eyes flit to Beau.

  Beau wears a dry look on his face, her meaning not lost on him. As quickly as I can, I drain the rest of my tea and stand, yanking Beau up with me.

  It’s no surprise that the chocolatier seems somewhat relieved to be away. He thanks Sarah-Anne for her hospitality—in my home, no less, and then we’re out the door. Puss joins us, and the three of us walk down the lane.

  Comfortable with Beau at my side, I worry in silence.

  Finally, it’s Puss who speaks. “I don’t care for Monsieur Broussard. No matter how I know you’ll object, Suzette, it’s time to take the king his partridges.”

  Beau nearly comes undone. Yelping, he jumps away from Puss, stumbles into a puddle in the middle of the road, and nearly falls on his hind end. Luckily he regains his balance. It would be a shame to ruin his fine coat.

  Though I’m amused that the cat finally decided to give someone else heart failure, I attempt to hide my smile for Beau’s sake.

  The chocolatier’s eyes dart to me. “Tell me you heard that.”

  Instead of answering him, I look at Puss. “Did I scream that loudly at first?”

  The cat tilts his head, obviously enjoying himself as well. “Yes.”

  Beau’s gaze goes between me and Puss. His face has gone as pale as fleece. “How is this possible?”

  Puss ignores the question and looks at me. “Do you still refuse to return to the castle?”

  Crossing my arms, I nod.

  “Very well.” Puss turns to Beau although his words are still directed at me. “Then the boy will take the partridges for you.”

  Beau blinks, apparently affronted enough by this new bit to forgive the cat for speaking. “‘Boy?’ Excuse me, cat, but I am not—”

  “Come along.” Puss turns, not interested in whatever Beau was planning on saying, and heads toward the wheat field.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I don’t quite understand what it is I’m doing here,” Beau says as we lie on the far end of the newly-harvested field.

  “It appears, to me at least, that you’ve decided to take orders from a cat,” I answer.

  “Yes,” Beau whispers so as not to scare away the partridges that are finally coming near my bag. “But why?”

  I rip my eyes from the trap. “You’re here because I need you to deliver these partridges to the king for me.” I wrinkle my nose. “Or rather, for the Marquise of Carabas.”

  Beau’s eyes widen with what I swear is recognition followed by disbelief, but he quickly schools the expression. “Who?”

  I give him an odd look and then say, “She’s no one—not yet, but according to Puss, if we keep up with this ruse, I’ll eventually assume her identity.”

  Beau raises a single eyebrow in question—a move he does spectacularly well. “How is the cat going to make you into a marquise? And where will he find you a march to lord over?”

  I shrug; I have no idea where Puss intends to find me a border land to belong to.

  “And if you want to assume the title.” His smile turns slightly mischievous. “Wouldn’t it be easier to marry a marquis?”

  “This is all trivial right now,” Puss hisses. “For the time being, all you need to know is that Suzette must trap a brace of partridges, and you must take them to the king.”

  “Why me?” Beau asks.

  “Because Suzette’s heart is broken, and she cannot bear to face His Royal Highness.” The cat’s voice drips with disdain.

  “No…” Beau groans quietly and rests his forehead on the ground. “Etta—please tell me it wasn’t Prince Kerrick you were meeting in the woods.”

  I look away so he won’t see how foolish I feel.

  The chocolatier begins to rise. “I’m fairly certain I don’t want to be part of this—”

  “Get down!” Puss snarls.

  Just when Beau opens his mouth to protest at being ordered around by the cat, two partridges stroll into my bag. I leap up and yank it closed. Without his usual words of criticism, Puss finishes the birds off for me.

  “Now,” Puss says to Beau. “You and I will go to Rynvale to see the king.”

  “And why would I do that?” Beau crosses his arms and sets his jaw at a stubborn angle.

  Puss’s tail twitches as it always does when he becomes agitated. “Because you don’t like the idea of Broussard sniffing around Suzette any more than I do.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Beau yanks the bag from the ground.

  “Why am I not coming?” I demand.

  The cat turns to me. “Because it is already late, and we’ll be forced to stay overnight. And, if I recall, you have a hawking engagement tomorrow morning.”

  Puss, apparently deciding our conversation is over, saunters toward Rynvale. I watch him go, irritated, and then I turn to Beau when the cat is out of earshot. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Though he doesn’t look happy, Beau places the bag over his shoulder and gives me a tight smile. “What are friends for?”

  I try to smile back, but my mind is consumed with dread for tomorrow.

  “Do you really think your fool of a cat knows what he’s doing?” Beau asks.

  “I hope so. There is no longer a place for me here, and, honestly, the way Broussard looked at me makes me uncomfortable.”<
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  Beau nods. “I’ll find you as soon as I return.”

  “Your chocolate shop has been closed all day,” I say. “If you go to Rynvale, it will be closed tomorrow as well. Will your business suffer?”

  He waves my concern away. “A few days won’t hurt anything.”

  Overwhelmed with gratitude, I step forward and wrap my arms around his middle, just like I would if Thomas or Eugene were doing me the great favor. “Thank you, Beau.”

  The embrace startles him so thoroughly; he goes as still as a statue. With my cheek pressed against his chest and my face hidden under my hair, I grimace. I’ve overstepped our boundaries.

  As I pull away, he hesitantly pats my shoulder and steps back.

  I try to smile, but now I just feel foolish.

  Beau clears his throat and adjusts the bag. Then, after one more backward glance at me, he strides down the road after Puss.

  First, the cat can talk. Second, Etta smells like earth and sunshine.

  Those two thoughts jumble about in my brain, making me dizzy. With Etta’s bag over my shoulder, I stalk after the cat. Only after we’ve walked nearly fifteen minutes do I stop. I have a perfectly good horse. Why am I walking?

  Growling under my breath, I continue on. There’s no use going back now.

  As if I’m trivial to his grand master plan, the cat doesn’t talk again until we near Rynvale.

  “Go straight to the king. Do not speak with the prince,” the cat instructs just when I begin to worry that I’ve imagined the whole thing.

  “Yes, Monsieur Cat.”

  His eyes flash with irritation at my tone, and I march past him and over the drawbridge. I eye the nobles who lounge around, hoping that I won’t recognize anyone. Luckily, paying my respects to the king was the last thing on my mind when I settled in Glenridge.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, now that I think about it—the king is in attendance. I wait my turn, more than ready to be done with all this. Finally, I’m admitted into the throne room. Next to His Majesty sits the man I remember from the street, the one who was speaking with Etta the first day I laid eyes on her. And it all shifts into place.