Cat's Cradle

by Shannon Donelly

  “Please, by all means do summons Squire Wilberforce,” she said. “I should be delighted to have his assistance taking my kittens home.”

  He frowned. She sounded as if she held all the high cards in this deck. “Come, Mrs. Pearson. You have no reason to remove your kittens. They are being cared for, as you can see yourself by how they’ve grown.”

  She had the grace to color a little. Her cat wound around her ankles, calling up to its kittens with discontented yowls. Ash smiled. He thought he knew the ace to play. “Even your Bea objects to these relocation plans.”

  Emaline’s chin came up at that, and she fixed a hard look on him. “Bea is voicing a mother’s natural concern for her offspring. Perhaps, Sir Ashten, since you do not have children, you do not understand a parent’s anxiety. I have double that norm, for I must be both mother and father to my boys. It is a difficult thing, I assure you, but even you must understand my wish to guard them as much as I can from...from less than exemplary influences.”

  “You mean you do not think me fit company for them?” he said, unreasonably hurt by her condemnation. It was no more than he’d had from others in the past, but still it rankled.

  Her tone and expression softened and she put up a hand to push at the tawny curls that had fallen loose around her face. “It is not you, Sir Ashten. It is your profession. I grew up watching my cousin go from wild to worse. But to my sons, he always arrived at odd moments with armloads of presents and treats and high tales. And now I fear, with your knighthood and...and charm, you will cement their notion that the life of the gaming tables is a viable future for them. Can you honestly say you would wish such a career onto a son of yours?”

  He scowled at her, at those sherry eyes which pleaded for understanding, and he could only think she had said she thought he had charm. He tried to get past the thought—one the pleasure it gave him—and to fix on some reason not to let her take her kittens away.

  But he knew when he had lost a hand.

  She had raised the stakes too high. For he would not wish his own life on any man—let alone on two boys who had indeed looked up at him with something near reverence in their eyes.

  Damn it, but he envied her boys. They had a home—and a mother who’d fight for them like a lioness.

  All he could do was step aside, and watch a grateful smile tremble on her lips before she dipped a curtsey and left, her kittens in a basket and her cat trotting alongside her swaying hem.

  * * *

  “Perhaps I should keep the estate and become a respectable gentleman?”

  A rude snort answered Ash’s musings. He turned away from the window and his view of a tangled, dying garden.

  Knowles had discovered a bedroom at the back of the house that had been left locked, and which had obviously been used for storage. Every damaged item—from chairs that wobbled to couches with torn upholstery to sticks of furniture suitable only for burning—had been dumped here. Ash dubbed it the “abandoned” room, and they were now sorting through what could be put back into service and what ought to be saved for the upcoming Guy Fawkes bonfire. Most of it, Knowles was convinced he could repair. Ash believed him.

  Just now, however, he turned to his servant, his arms folded and one eyebrow lifted in disdain. “Is it really so fantastic that I should wish to settle someplace at last?”

  Knowles looked up from the side table to which he had been reattaching a leg. “How long have we lived any one place? Even during the five-years King’s service that gave you that respectable knighthood of yours?”

  It was an irreverent answer, but Ash expected no less. They had been together long enough to be closer than most blood kin. “We spent an entire year in Venice,” he said. “When I owned that gaming house.”

  Bitter, Knowles growled, “And what did you do but go and lose it? Had a nice house there, we did.”

  “I did not intend to lose it.”

  Knowles snorted again and turned back to his work. “How often does a bloody gaming house lose? Not unless it’s bloody tired of being the house, now does it?”

  “Oh, you’re simply still upset that we left Italy.”

  “Warm, sunny place, now wasn’t it? Only you wanted to come home, didn’t you? That is, if England’s a home to the likes of us. Only spent five years here, we did. And during most of that, you was too young to recollect much.”

  Smiling, Ash turned back to the view from the window. “Oh, I remember it.”

  He did remember. Faint, distant memories of a green lush world and a time before he had known what it was to be a roving gamester.

  Adair Manor, even in disrepair, seemed the epitome of all he could recall of England.

  The gardens near the house tangled wild, green and dying vines, but they would riot with color come the spring. Beyond that, gorse hedges and stone walls cut fields and vistas, carefully mapping the surrounding property. He could see down the beech-lined avenue to the gate house, where a prim kitchen garden lay brown and fallow for winter. No doubt his thrifty housebreaker would plant potatoes and turnips for her winter crop.

  In truth, he had played reckless than night in Venice two years ago. And relief had flicked in him when he’d lost the throw of the dice on which he had risked his entire fortune. Of course, without funds, it had taken them some time—and more games than he could remember—to make their way back to England. But a yearning had driven him to make the trip.

  A deep, restless urge—but for what had he come?

  For vague memories? For a lost past? For an illusion that he could be something he was not?

  Already the familiar discontent had started to rise like shadows in his soul. He wanted something, but he could not put a name to his desire. That longing, however, had kept him up half the night in the library, practicing his card skills. And he had not even a kitten to converse with, or to watch as cards flickered past its wide, amazed blue eyes.

  He started to turn away from the window. A flash of white caught his eye. Leaning forward, he stared out the window. What the...? Was that a cat stalking its way to the house?

  With a wry smile, Ash started for the door. “I’ll be in the library,” he called out. But Knowles, engrossed in his work, only grunted back an answer.

  * * *

  Emaline came into the kitchen, her cloak folded over her arm. “Whatever you are cooking, Mrs. Cranley, smells divine.”

  Mrs. Cranley straightened from the pot she had been stirring. She cooked over the open hearth in the kitchen, managing to bake, fry, boil, and perform any number of miracles with this ancient art. Emaline could only be amazed, and while she might wish she could afford a new enclosed range, Mrs. Cranley scorned them as being impossible contrivances. “How can you tell what’s a proper temperature without a flame to see?” she would say.

  Wiping her hands on her starched apron, Mrs. Cranley gave a satisfied smile. “It’s lamb stew. The boys came home with a shank from Mr. Timothy’s larder, but what an odd fellow he is, to be sure, to think his lamb can do his courting for him.”

  Emaline smiled. Mrs. Cranley saw potential suitors for Emaline in every unattached gentleman in the neighborhood, whether he was nine or ninety. “Well, I certainly would rather a lamb shank than any number of posies.”

  She went over to the basket where they had settled Bea and her kittens. It lay empty, its dented cushion the only evidence that Bea had once lain there. Panic rose, sudden and sharp. Spinning around on her heel, she asked, “Where’s Bea?”

  Mrs. Cranley’s face fell. “Why, she was here just a bit ago. Begged a bit of lamb from me, she did. When I was setting it to stew. You don’t think—”

  “Oh, I do think.”

  Grabbing up her basket, Emaline started for the door. She did not even bother with her cloak. “Do not wait supper for me. I hope not be long.”

  * * *

  Ash watched fascinated as Bea carried her kittens back into the library cupboard, one by one. He had opened the kitchen door for her and she trotted in, head u
p, kitten dangling from her mouth by the scruff of its neck, and the tiny creatures half curled into submission. The kittens cried when she left to go and fetch the next of their number, so he stayed with them.

  He sat in the enormous leather chair, piling the balls of fluff onto his lap, where they wobbled and stared about them.

  When Bea brought the last of them—the black one—she crawled back into her cupboard and gave Ash an expectant stare as if to say, You can put them back in with me now that we are home.

  He did so, and watched with a rather curious satisfaction blossoming in his chest as the kittens snuggled close to their mother for their next meal.

  The expected knocking sounded on the front door all too soon. At first he thought he would allow Knowles to answer like a proper servant in a proper household. Recalling the broken furniture and Knowles distraction, he went to the door himself.

  “I have come for my cat and kittens,” Mrs. Pearson said and swept in like a duchess.

  “Please do come in. Won’t you take a glass of wine? I’ve discovered a tolerable port in the cellar. Or if you would prefer, we now have a daily supply of fresh milk.”

  She halted and turned a startled stare on him, her red-gold eyebrows raised. “Milk?”

  “The kittens put Knowles in the habit of acquiring the stuff. And since our kittens are having some themselves, I thought you might care to join them.”

  “Thank you, but no thank you.” Hesitating, she bit her lower lip. “Are they really eating just now?”

  “Come and see,” he said, gesturing to the library.

  Letting out a resigned sigh, Emaline followed him into the room and glanced into the cupboard. Bea lay there, looking contented, her purr a low rumbling. Five kittens lined up against Bea’s gray and white belly, their faces lost in their mother’s coat.

  “Oh, Bea, why must you always keep your kittens here?” Emaline said, unable to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  “Why indeed?” Sir Ashten said. “Please, will you at least sit down? We have acquired a settee, as you may have noted. And you really ought not to disturb them just now. So why do you not tell me about Bea’s attraction to this particular room?”

  He was playing on her conscience, she knew. And looking as smug as Bea did herself. However, he was right. She could not simply drag the kittens away from their mother just now.

  She sat down on the settee, her basket on her knees. “It is not much of a story. Bea arrived at Adair Manor quite full of kittens, and before we knew what was what, she had her litter here. Of course, we tried to move them. Uncle Walter was not pleased to share his library. But no matter where we took her—kitchen, barn, my room even—Bea brought them back into this room. Eventually, Uncle Walter gave in. And she has given us eight litters of kittens over the past eleven years. All in this same room.”

  He poured two glasses of wine into the mismatched goblets that Knowles had scavenged from a trunk from the abandoned room. “And do you really think you can now convince her to keep her kittens with you at the gate house?”

  She took the wine from him, but did not drink. “I must be more vigilant, that is all. If we watch her, and do not leave open any doors or windows, she will have to stay.”

  He sat in the chair opposite her, looking amused and all too at home. She realized with a slight shock that was how he ought to look. This was his house now, even if he did not want to keep it.

  Folding his hands before him, he asked, “Tell me, Mrs. Pearson, would you care to make a wager on whether you or Bea will be victorious in choosing where she raises her kittens?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Emaline put her wine glass down on the floor and stood up, the comfort that had started to settle inside her shattered. Anger iced her veins. How dare he offer her a bet. She felt as if he had slapped her face.

  Voice shaking, she said, “I do not make wagers. And now I should take my kittens and leave.”

  He stood as well, placing himself between her and the kitten cupboard. “You need not take such a huff. I’m only talking a friendly wager, nothing more. Or are you so righteous you allow no pleasure to enter your life?”

  “There are many things that offer pleasure that do not involve gambling.”

  He smiled, his eyes turning more green than brown, and the suggestion of more pleasurable things lay like an invitation in that smile. All innocence, he asked, “Do you mean such things as kisses out of doors on a crisp autumn day? Or snuggling before a fire while the rain pelts down? Or a warm—”

  “I mean none of those!”

  His smile widened, and his eyes took on a mocking glint. “What? You’ve never enjoyed the pleasure that God designed for a man and woman to share?”

  Cheeks flaming, she tightened her stranglehold on her basket and her temper. “Sir, allow me to tell you that are an unprincipled rogue. You taunt me. But I shall not allow you to torment me into making my cousin’s mistakes. I was seventeen when my mother came to me and explained that a London season would be impossible due to the heavy debt placed on the family by Newell. I did not mind, but I did mind the heartache and worry his excesses caused my aunt and uncle. And if you ever dare suggest any sort of wager to me again, I shall be quite happy to box your ears for such impertinence! Now I bid you good day, and I shall come to collect my kittens on the morrow!”

  She turned, her blue skirts swirling around her heels, her chin up and her color high.

  The front door slammed behind her, and Ash let out a soft whistle. Lord, what a firebrand. A good thing he was selling this house, for if they had to live as neighbors, they would end scratching at each other like two wildcats.

  Pity, though, that a comely widow such as her didn’t even know how to flirt, let alone carry on a light dalliance. He certainly would not have minded instructing her in that art.

  * * *

  The following morning Emaline collected Bea and the kittens early enough to avoid an encounter with Sir Ashten. She thought herself safe from him until the very next day when Mrs. Cranley left open a window through which Bea made good an escape, taking her brood with her. When Emaline went kitten collecting a second time, she thankfully found Sir Ashten out and only had to deal with Knowles.

  The day after, however, it was Will’s fault, for he had not fully shut the door behind him when he left the house for his lessons. For a third time in as many days, Emaline found herself trudging through crunching brown leaves, her nerves worn and her thoughts tumbling.

  Would she have to see him this time? What would he have to say to her? Oh, why had she been so rude? Why had he been so...so...so much a rogue!

  The wind stung cold on her cheeks and brought to mind the images he had planted of warm lips on such a chill day. They swirled inside her like a fever dream.

  What would it be like to have his mouth on hers, soft and tender, a brisk autumn wind stinging her face? How would it feel to have his arms wrapped around her and the trees whispering secrets just as their hearts were?

  She shook off such fantasies, angry with herself and even more so with him. What a devil to have suggested such things. And she was an even worse sinner to dwell on them. Well, she would stop thinking about it. In a few more weeks the kittens would be grown and Bea would stop bringing them back to the manor. Or Sir Ashten would sell the house and be gone.

  Only why was it that either thought lay heavy as a weight on her heart?

  Feet dragging, a tight band of nervousness around her chest, she mounted the stone steps of Adair Manor and plied the brass knocker, now brightly polished.

  Knowles answered her summons and bowed her in with the news that she had managed yet another reprieve. Sir Ashten was out.

  “He’s walking his property,” Knowles said, shutting the door against the chill of the early October day.

  Instead of feeling relieved, irritation stung. Out again. Could the man not stay put anywhere? She could not stop from saying, her tone sharp, “Judging the value that he might get from it, is he?�
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  She blushed at her own poor manners, but Knowles merely shrugged and said, “More like gone off to think himself five and with a home again.”

  His answer made her turn and stare, puzzled. She ought not gossip with Sir Ashten’s servant. But curiosity stirred, wiggling like a hungry kitten that would only quiet down again if fed. So she asked, striving for a casual tone, “Do you mean to say he has not had a home since he was five?”

  Knowles led the way into the library, talking as he went, and Emaline listened to his story, astonished, a little horrified by the tale.

  It seemed that Sir Ashten had been born to a gambling father, and a mother who doted on her husband above all else. Knowles himself had gone into service with the family just before Mr. Ravenhill lost the family home in a wager, resulting in that gentleman setting off for the continent with his wife, his son, and Knowles to look after the boy.

  “It were lean years back then. Never more than a few weeks in any place,” Knowles said, picking up a furry gray kitten and settling it into Emaline’s basket.

  “How awful to be so shifted about,” she said.

  “You don’t miss what you don’t know, missus. But there were times I’d catch him staring into a family’s window, watching them act like a family. Course, matters weren’t helped that Mr. Ravenhill, well, he were rather too fond of making sure the luck ran in his favor, if you know what I mean. Course, Ash wouldn’t have nothing to do wiff such tricks.”

  Blinking, she stared at him, and realization dawned. “His father cheated?”

  “Not regular like. But enough that it led to them parting harsh like. We joined up and was off for India when his parents booked passage to the Americas. ‘Course, Ash had to add a couple years to his age to take the King’s Shilling, but he was tall for his years. Got himself that knighthood for his service, but we didn’t care much for India. Blisterin’ hot it were.”

  Emaline added the last kitten to the basket. She sat on her folded knees, stroking Bea’s head, seeing in her mind’s eye a boy on the verge of manhood, gangly and proud. A man who had won his knighthood the hard way—with his own blood.