Cat's Cradle

by Shannon Donelly

  Emaline glanced up to watch Sir Ashten’s face as he looked into the cupboard.

  There. In his eyes. She saw the faintest softening. A wistful look that brought out the green. The lines around his mouth eased, and the smile which curved that sensual mouth of his did not look so cynical.

  A second later, all traces of that other man vanished. His smile turned down, his eyes hardened, and he said, his tone sarcastic, “I shall have to make them a tour highlight when I show potential sellers about, and I will tell them, ‘And here is the library, stocked with a goodly supply of cats.’ “

  Her hand tightened on the cupboard door and she blinked up at him. “Buyers? You cannot be thinking of selling the estate?”

  He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised and a challenge in his eyes. “I know it’s a wreck of a house. But with luck—and if there are any blind men in the district—I shall sell Adair Manor for a tidy sum.” He glanced around him. “Not, I daresay, for what it’s worth—and certainly not for the twenty thousand your cousin stood it against—but perhaps with some paint, it might clean up well enough.”

  Panic pounded in her veins, she scrambled to her feet.

  Ever since she had had Newell’s letter, she had feared this. Oh, Lord, what would become of her and the boys if they lost the lease of the gate house? Newell had also allowed the boys hunting rights on the estate. How would they get by without the game the boys snared in the winter? And the fish they had from the river. A gamester was not the most desirable of neighbors, but she so had hoped he would at least be like Newell in being an absent landlord.

  Instead, he wanted to sell. He was upsetting everything, both her life and any hope of saving enough to one day send the boys to university.

  Oh, drat him. And drat Newell!

  Picking up her bedraggled cloak, she smoothed the worn cloth and said, her voice sharp, “Well, sir, I grant that the house is in disrepair, but that is easily remedied. And while most of the land is untenanted at the moment, it used to bring in a comfortable income of nearly nine hundred a year.”

  He gave a laugh, and stood there, grinning at her. “My dear housebreaker, I’m more accustomed to bringing in nine hundred a night at the tables.”

  Her blush deepened, and Ash watched with the color rise on her cheeks with appreciation. He did not add that there were nights when he lost more than nine hundred, nor did he mention how the dice and cards could be fickle business partners. That, he judged, would give her too much cause for righteous argument.

  Relenting on his teasing of her, he shook his head and said, “If you are worried about your cats, I shall make them a condition of sale. Or, you could buy the house yourself?”

  Those tawny eyes clouded with trouble and a touch of hurt. What the devil had he said to seemingly wound her?

  “Please, do not put yourself out over Bea and her kittens. I shall have them home with me in a few days. And now I bid you good evening, sir.” With that, she swept out, taking her cloak with her and leaving him with a purring cat and five kittens.

  He turned to them, pulling open the cupboard door to glance inside. Bea regarded him in turn with a steady glare that almost seemed to him to be accusing.

  “I did not mean to upset her. And why should she not purchase the house?” He glared back at Bea and her kittens, and it occurred to him that his housebreaker’s gown had been more than a touch out of fashion, and her ancient cloak had seen better years. He had thought she had worn old clothes to go poking about a dusty ruin, but perhaps she had other reasons to wear such aged garments.

  Bea let out a plaintive meow.

  Ash’s scowl deepened. “You may yowl all you like, but I am not here to help you or her, or anyone but myself. So you may stay or go, but you had better not interfere with any sale of this house, do you hear?” He stopped himself and glanced back to the empty doorway that Mrs. Emaline Pearson had strode out.

  “Damn, but she’s already got me talking to cats!”

  * * *

  “Mother! Mother!” The twin cries of greeting warmed Emaline’s heart. Two boys tumbled into her arms and she bent down to hug them close. She pulled back to ruffle Will’s reddish-blond hair. A stout seven, Will had his father’s pale blue eyes and a strong imagination. It was Will who made up the stories, but it was Thomas who led the two of them into trouble.

  Just now, Thomas, a year older than his brother and a foot taller, had dead leaves in his tousled dark brown hair and far too much innocence in his blue eyes.

  She looked him in the eyes. “And what have you been doing?”

  Thomas gave back a bland stare. “Nothing, Mother.”

  “We met a man,” Will blurted out.

  Thomas gave his brother a scowl. “We did not meet him. Least, not proper. He was only going through the woods.”

  Ignoring his brother, Will shifted to stand on one foot and bent his knee so he could grasp his other boot and hold it. “He said Bea’s had her kittens, and he was going to get her milk, and he and a knight had moved into the big house. A knight named Sir Ravenhill,” Will added, awe in his voice.

  “It is proper to call him Sir Ashten,” Emaline corrected. “And that must have been Knowles you met. He is Sir Ashten’s servant. But you are not to go bothering our new neighbor. I do not want to hear that you have been to the manor.”

  Thomas’ face tightened. “Can we not take Bea the kittening basket we made for her?”

  “No, for I shall bring her home in a day or two.”

  “But why can we not go see her at the manor?” Will said, letting go his foot, his chin jutting forward with stubborn rebellion.

  She opened her mouth to tell them she did not want the influence of a hardened gambler to touch them, but she realized such words might sound all too exotic and tempting for two adventurous boys. Instead, her voice kept flat enough to make the whole issue sound boring, she said, “Sir Ashten means to sell the estate and no doubt will be busy putting it to rights, so you should not bother him.”

  “Can we buy it?” Will asked, his eyes brightening.

  If only we could, she thought, a fist of yearning clenching low in her stomach. If only she had more than eight hundred pounds to her name. If only they did not have to live upon the interest that capital generated. She could not afford a house—even if it was run down—whose price far exceeded her funds, and which would demand even more for its repairs.

  Rising, she changed the subject, for she could not trust herself to give an answer to Will that did not betray her own longing for life to be other than what it was. “The question is, young sir, just what were the two of you doing in the woods today? Were you not supposed to be taking your Latin with Mr. Timothy?”

  A scholar, Geoffrey Timothy had been a student of her late husband, and in his memory had offered to tutor the boys two days a week. She was deeply grateful to him, for while she still hoped to persuade her starchy Cousin Susan to pay for Harrow—or perhaps Winchester—for the boys, so far all she had from Cousin Susan were vague promises. But the boys would need the connections made in a decent school to ensure their futures.

  The boys glanced at each other. Will chewed on his lower lip, and Thomas admitted, “He let us out early, so we went to see the fox den.”

  “The kits are almost grown,” Will said, now hopping from one foot to the other.

  She tried to frown at them instead of giving into the smile she wanted to offer. She had to be both father and mother, and she feared her own impulses to spoil and coddle them. So, her tone fierce, she told them, “Well, next time you are let out early, you are to come home first.”

  Thomas scowled at this restriction, but Will nodded, his eyes wide and his expression solemn.

  But she could bear such harshness no longer, and allowed a smile to soften her face. “And now, are those not fresh scones I smell baking?”

  Both boys brightened and set off for the kitchen, jostling with each other. Thomas’ longer legs gained him a faster start and he pushed ahead of his bro
ther.

  Pulling off her cloak, Emaline folded it and laid it across the back of a chair. She looked around, seeing her home with the eyes of someone who knew it was hers to lose, and with fear cold in her veins.

  The cozy main parlor, the kitchen with its antiquated fittings, their infrequently used dining room, and the study she had turned into a room for the boys to play in during bad weather. She thought of them all. How would they ever find such a good house again? Such an affordable house. Three bedroom upstairs, plus the luxury of an indoor water closet, and space enough for Mrs. Cranley, who served as maid, cook, and housekeeper, to have her own rooms.

  That might be another knot to untangle. Mrs. Cranley had lived her entire life in the neighborhood. Her family lived here—not her husband, for “Mrs.” was a title of respect. But she had two nieces with new babies and an aging mother whom she looked after. If they must move from the gate house, would Mrs. Cranley come with them? And if they lost Mrs. Cranley, how would they ever replace her?

  “Stop borrowing tomorrow’s troubles,” she told herself. But every instinct warned that more than the seasons were changing around her. And it was all due to that horrible Sir Ashten and his gambling ways.

  * * *

  Ash trod wearily up the stairs from the cellar, unbuttoning his waistcoat with one hand, a dusty bottle of something unlabeled in his other hand. He hoped it was brandy.

  He had spent most of the day going over the house, attic to cellar. Thank the fates, it lacked a dungeon. It had, however, all the signs of a rat infestation and years of neglect to undo. What little else he had found had damn near made him want to pack up and turn his back on the whole place.

  In half the rooms, what had once been silk wall coverings hung in tatters and would need to be stripped away. Most of the furniture had already been carted off, leaving hollow, empty rooms that gave Ash an uneasy chill in his soul. He had decided Knowles must go into the nearest town to obtain the necessities—bedding, food, and something to sit upon which did not look left over from William the Conqueror. He was not going to live in an empty cave of a house. Not even one he intended to sell.

  And he could afford the furniture, thank heavens.

  Stretching, Ash heard the kinks in his back pop. He was getting too old—or too soft—for cold nights on hard floors. There had been a time in his youth when he’d lived with worse than this. But the years of late had been flush. He had become accustomed to the luxury of feather beds, clean linen, and cheery fires.

  Well, at least he had a big chair he could set before the library fire. And a bottle to sample. And some lively company to keep him amused.

  He had poked into the library several times today, each time hoping to surprise his pretty housebreaker again. He had thought he had heard the door open earlier, and her light step upon the floor. But either she had been quicker than he, or it had been his own wishes he’d heard.

  Instead, he’d found only Bea and her squirming kittens, their eyes still closed and their intent focused upon milk and naps. However, when he’d glanced into the cabinet, Bea had offered up a plaintive meow. It had stirred him enough to make him stoop down and scratch her head. Under his fingers, the mother cat’s rumbling purr was oddly soothing, and he began to find a certain novel charm to having his own batch of kittens.

  He had never had any pets before. Had never lived anywhere long enough to make it practical. And if the cat honestly was a good mouser, perhaps he should keep her and her offspring close by until she rid the house of its other unwanted guests.

  He was thinking about that as he opened the door to the library and found himself no longer along. Standing in the threshold, he wondered who would be next to invade this damn house.

  Two boys, close in age, sat cross-legged beside the kitten cupboard.

  “I think Eber for the black,” the older boy said.

  The younger boy sat back, his nose wrinkling. Ash could not tell if it was with distaste or thought. He did not wait to find out, but interrupted and asked, “Just what sort of name is that for a cat?”

  From their spots on the floor, the boys twisted around, twin expressions of alarm blanking their faces. Even in the fading afternoon’s light, Ash recognized at once the tawny coloring of the smaller boy’s hair, and he caught a familiar leonine slant to the older boy’s eyes.

  “You must be Pearsons,” Ash said, strolling into the room. “You have the look of your mother as well as her habit for unconventional entrances.”

  The boys scrambled to their feet, the older one clutching a cumbersome, black leather-bound book and the younger one staring hard at Ash’s boots until Ash glanced down himself to see why his riding boots so fascinated the lad.

  “Mother said we weren’t to bother you,” the older boy stammered out in a nervous rush. “But we had to name Bea’s kittens.”

  The younger one suddenly looked up at Ash, his face scrunched up with disappointment. “You don’t have gold spurs.”

  His brother elbowed him, but the younger one merely glared at him and turned back to Ash, his stare accusing.

  Half-amused and quite certain he ought to chuck these two imps out by their collars, Ash knew they had caught him by his one weakness. His curiosity had been stirred.

  “Spurs?” he asked.

  “Real knights, like Arthur’s, have them,” the boy said.

  For an instant, Ash stared back at him. Arthur? He caught the reference at last and almost let out a laugh. So the lad thought him a knight of the Round Table. Had anyone ever been so mistaken? However, the boy’s intent expression stopped him from making sport of the lad.

  He bent down beside the youngster. “Yes, well, I can only wear them when I am summoned by the King to a state occasion, you know. Now, introductions are in order, I believe. I am Sir Ashten Ravenhill, Knight Commander of the Most Honorable Order of the Bath.”

  Straightening, he gave the boys an elegant bow, and saw the flourish of his not very impressive title had made even the older boy’s eyes widen. He’d never felt such an utter fraud before.

  Recovering himself, the older boy gave a hasty bob of his head. “Thomas Pearson, sir. And this is my brother, William.”

  “Will,” the younger boy said, frowning at his brother.

  With a smile, Ash set a hand on Will’s shoulder and turned with him to the cupboard. “Now that’s done, tell me more about these names you are picking for our feline friends. I do feel as if I ought to have some say in the matter since they were born in my house. And I rather fancy Misty as a name for the gray one.”

  Will drew back, shock on his face. “Oh, no, Sir. That’s not one of the begats!”

  “Begats?” Ash asked.

  Plopping down on the floor, Will reached into the cupboard to stroke a tiny, furry head.

  Thomas also sat down again, and Ash joined them, copying their style to sit cross-legged on the floor and wondering if his bad knee would allow him to get up again.

  Opening the book he held, Thomas showed Ash the Bible. “See. We’re already up to the third set of begats.”

  “Chapter eleven, Genesis,” Ash read, eyeing the text with the uncertainty of one with too many sins on his soul to feel comfortable with the Good Book. “Well, Methuselah hardly seems a fit name for a cat.”

  “Oh, that was one of the better ones,” Thomas said.

  “Not like Ara-axed,” Will added.

  “He means Arphaxad, sir.”

  “Yes, but why such mouthfuls?” Ash asked. A thought struck him, sending an unhappy shiver along his skin. “Surely your mother’s not all that pious? Is she a Methodist?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s because of Bea. You see her name is really Begat,” Thomas said.

  Will squirmed and wiggled until he half-lay on the floor. “Mother says that Bea came to the manor years ago. And had nine kittens in the library the night she came.”

  “‘Course that was before Will or I were born,” Thomas said. “But Mother says that Great-uncle Walter joked that the cat
was going to beget a house of cats. So Mother stared calling her Begat for all the kittens she begot.”

  Looking from one of his narrators to the other, Ash’s mouth twitched. So his prim housebreaker had a sense of humor. And was not so pious, after all. Thank the Lord for that. He did not have a history that would appeal to pious ladies.

  Glancing into the cupboard, Ash saw that Bea was busy washing her offspring. She hardly seemed to notice them, and the kittens were too intent on their next meal to mind. “Well, if tradition must be carried on...”

  “Oh, it must, sir,” Thomas insisted.

  Will turned upside down to lay with his back on the floor and his heels resting up on the wall beside the cupboard door. “It must, Sir Ashten.”

  “It’s Sir Ash to you, Sir Will. And, now, where are we with these names?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emaline stood on the steps to Adair Manor, caught between duty and propriety. She had been brought up to think of those twin masters of society before anything else. But which ruled in such a tangle as this?

  She had knocked twice on the heavy oak door, hearing her thuds echo in the nearly empty house. No one had yet answered. Should she leave? But how could she not look in on Bea and her kittens? And how could she enter this house again without giving truth to Sir Asten’s accusations of her being a housebreaker?

  Oh, drat the man for ever showing his face.

  She shifted from one foot to the other.

  The day had been a rare one for autumn—or would have been without this bother. A golden light still hovered in the afternoon sky as dusky purple gathered overhead. The air was as crisp and tangy as one of the apples from the Rustards’ orchards, and a light breeze danced the dark red leaves from the branches of the beech trees. It was a late afternoon that called for a lazy moment to watch the setting sun. Or to use the twilight to steal an apple.