Chapter Twenty-Two
As Bracebridge stood at the Margaret Street corner of Cavendish Square, a woman came around the opposite corner, a maid and footman trailing after her. She moved with a purposeful stride, not hurried, just determined. Emily moved like that. Full of joy and energy. Even from a distance, she was compelling.
His heart thumped when he realized that the woman was no stranger at all but his own wife. The shock of seeing her in this new way momentarily paralyzed him. She wasn’t the past he regretted, but his future. His wife.
She took the stairs to the door but did not immediately go in, even after her maid and the footman went downstairs to the servants’ quarters. Instead, she crouched at the threshold, protected from the rain by the portico. Had she dropped something? Had Pond forgot she was here and left the door locked, and now she was searching for a hidden key?
He headed toward the house. She was still crouched when he arrived at the steps. If she’d lost her key or some personal possession, the item must be well and truly misplaced. He mounted the steps and heard her speaking in a cajoling croon.
“Poor little thing. Hush, hush. Shh. Kitty, kitty. There’s a sweet one.”
He stepped underneath the portico. Pond had planted flowers in the urns on either side of the door: yellow, purple, and blue. For years prior, they had stood empty.
“Shh. Kitty, kitty. Aren’t you sweet? Are you calm now?” Emily, now aware he was here, looked over her shoulder at him and then upward, because he was standing while she was not. She put a finger across her lips and moved so he could see what she was cooing over.
A cat. Considering its size, more a largish kitten. Whichever it was, it mewed and hissed as if it saw a portal to hell.
“It’s only got three legs, and it’s a baby, the poor thing. Aren’t you brave?” she said to the kitten. She got a hiss in response. “Oh, the poor thing. It can’t survive out here. Not by itself.”
“It has so far.”
“Pond said the kitchen cat has vanished,” she said.
“That isn’t the missing kitchen cat.”
She rolled her eyes at the implication she would mistake a sickly, three-legged kitten for a full-grown mouser. “We could have another cat in the house. Even if the other comes back.”
First Frieda, now a misfit cat? He put his hands on his hips and shook his head, knowing he would give in. What man could possibly resist that pleading look? “Bring it inside, then.”
“I don’t want to terrify it more than it already is, and besides it’s got sharp claws.”
The pitiful beast was jammed into the hollow formed by the side of the house and the stone urn that now held those flowers. Geraniums, he believed, and some sort of daisy. He propped his umbrella against the side of the house and removed his scarf. He folded it twice over as he moved toward her and the kitten. “Allow me.”
She made room for him. The moment he hunkered down beside his wife and made eye contact with the cat, it calmed, though without ceasing its yowls. She was right about it being a kitten still, though it was far too thin to be healthy.
“Do be careful,” she said.
“I shan’t hurt it.” He dropped his scarf over the animal and scooped it up. He held it tight to his chest.
“I meant,” Emily said from behind him, “that I did not want you to be scratched or bitten.”
Absently, he rubbed the kitten’s head. It purred loudly. “Poor little beastie.”
She grabbed his umbrella, then opened the door for him, and in they went. Pond appeared from the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, ready to take coats and hats, then went wide-eyed at the sight of Bracebridge and his burden.
A dull thunk broke the silence; the metal tip of his umbrella hitting the bottom of the canister provided for the purpose of holding it. Emily hurried ahead of him, brushing through the ghost of his recollection of the day he and his brothers had played at soldiers in the foyer. Bracebridge had been at his turn with the sword they’d taken from the suit of armor that was no longer in the corner. His father had lit into him for that. You could have taken someone’s head. A ridiculous accusation. They had all of them studied with a swordmaster. He bloody well knew how to handle a weapon, then and now.
“Look what we’ve found.” Emily pointed to Bracebridge as she addressed Pond. “A kitten! It was by the door when I came home, and Bracebridge rescued it just now.” She made it sound as if he’d fought off the demons of hell rather than bent down and picked it up. Damned if he didn’t feel as if he might have done so, if what he got in return was that awed voice.
“Valiant of you, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He held the kitten securely against his chest. “We’ll take it to the kitchen and see if York will let us raid the larder.”
As ever, Pond remained calm in the midst of the excitement. “Straightaway.”
Emily moved closer to him, rubbing a finger gently along the top of the kitten’s head. “It’s still purring.”
“Indeed, it is.”
“I believe it’s taken a liking to you, Bracebridge.” The animal had settled into its fate as a captive of his arms and scarf. He caught the edge of a breathtaking smile when Emily bent in for a closer look. There was no denying she was a tenderhearted woman.
He lifted the kitten in front of his face for a better look. An awkward-looking creature, from what he could see. Black with white blotches and a head too large for its body. “It’s got one blue eye and one green one,” he said.
“Is that so?” She went up on tiptoe to look, and he lowered the kitten to show her. He breathed in the scent of violets and remembered the softness of her skin, the warmth of her when he entered her. For half a second, she held his gaze with the promise of lust to be explored at their leisure. “So it does. Isn’t that curious?”
Pond led the way to the kitchen, opening doors and ensuring the way was clear for them. Bracebridge was aware of Emily looking at him as if he’d saved God himself instead of a starving, bedraggled, three-legged dab of a cat. They had some distance to walk since the kitchen was in the far-left wing of the house. His cook came to attention the moment they walked into the space, a wide, low-ceilinged room of whitewashed walls and the tiniest of windows at the top of the rear wall.
“Mr. York,” Emily said with a wide gesture. The poor fellow looked as if he feared the worst from this invasion of his domain. “Lord Bracebridge has rescued a kitten.”
Pond smoothly said, “Might there be cream and some of last night’s chicken?”
York crooked a finger at one of the kitchen maids, but the girl was already heading for the pantry. Another fetched a small bowl and filled it with cream.
Bracebridge set the kitten down, keeping a hand on its back to prevent its escape, should it attempt such foolishness. His fear proved unfounded. Even after Emily reached in and gently pulled away his scarf, the kitten pressed against him and purred. The bedraggled, maimed cat hovered at the edge of hideous. Ugly and scrappy, like him, the kitten had persevered.
“Here we are, Lady Bracebridge.” One of the newly hired maids set down the cream and stepped back to watch Emily with worshipful regard. Meanwhile, York chopped and shredded chicken into suitably sized bits and arranged the meat on a plate.
Emily beamed at York when he set the plate before the kitten. His famously ill-tempered cook was transfixed by her. “Thank you, York. You are a hero.”
The animal investigated the chicken first. Its foray revealed that it was male and that the injury to its right rear leg must have occurred early in its young life, since the wound was mostly healed. How it had survived such an injury seemed both mysterious and miraculous.
Moments later, after a first, tentative bite, it snarled and tore into the chicken, absurdly fierce. Bracebridge’s heart pinched.
“Poor, poor creature,” Emily said over the sound of the kitten growling as he ate. “You need a home, don’t you? Would you like to live here?” Immediately, she looked to Bracebridge. “Mayn’t he? For now.”
Without thinking, he stroked the kitten. It purred and snarled at the same time. The servants stood in various attitudes of attention, but it was plain as day he would never be forgiven if he broke Emily’s heart. “I have no objection.”
“He needs a name. A grand name.”
The misfit cat finished the chicken and licked the dish twice over before turning to the cream.
Emily put her arms on the table, eyes on the kitten. “Ajax? Plato? Pythagoras?”
“Cicero?”
“Hypotenuse.” She laughed, and he smiled despite not wanting to. He didn’t smile often enough; that was his trouble. He’d got out of the habit of smiling.
“That’s a mouthful. Isosceles? Because he’s only got three legs. Or Socrates,” he said. “He was wise enough to choose our door as a refuge.”
She narrowed her eyes in thought, oblivious to him saying our door. “Socrates. I like that name. Yes. He is a profound thinker, just as you have observed.” Emily left off gazing at the kitten to look at Bracebridge. Mrs. Iddings had called Emily kind, and that was true. Emphatically true. Frieda. Socrates. Miss Iddings. Clara. Mrs. Elliot, too. His wife took care of those whom she loved.
The kitten finished off his cream and hopped over to him. Bracebridge picked him up. “Socrates, my friend, welcome to your new home. You shall enjoy living here, you lucky beast.” He held up the kitten and looked into its different colored eyes. “I like the little fellow.”
“You’ll keep food on hand for him, won’t you, York?” Emily said.
There was silence while Pond and York looked to Bracebridge for confirmation of her request. He grinned, but the awkwardness expanded. “Please lay in a supply of delicacies to tempt our young philosopher.”
A pang of guilt burned its way through his heart. Had he just made a stray cat more welcome in his home than his wife?