Anita Mills (3 page)

Sir John had been about to dispose of Abelard into Thomas’ arms with the admonition to take him to the stables and keep him out of sight when the sounds of a carriage rolling down the drive brought him up short. He peered out the tall, small-paned windows that framed the double front doors, wondering who would brave the cold for a visit. The black lacquered coach pulled up almost to the steps, disgorging none other than Sherborne himself. Under other circumstances, Sir John would have been less than pleased to see his wife’s scapegrace nephew, but in this case he was relieved.

A gust of cold wind blew in as the door was opened to admit the viscount. And with a crow of triumph Sir John thrust the kitten at him as Richard handed his caped greatcoat to the footman.

“Here—’tis yours, sirrah, though what you can want with the beast, I am sure I don’t know. A man with a cat—humph! And while you are about it, you might as well have the mother and the other one too! Saves me the trouble of having ’em drowned and listening to Harriet weep over it!”

With that, he strode off, paper still in hand, toward the warmth of the front saloon. For a long moment Richard stared after him, thinking his uncle had lost his mind. And then he looked down at the fuzzy black ball that both chewed and clawed at the leather of his fine driving glove.

“Er … Thomas, is it? Would you be so kind as to inform Miss Rowe that I am here?” he addressed the footman, still bemused by the creature straddling his wrist. “And ask her to hurry—I am not overly fond of cats.”

By the time Harriet got downstairs, Richard Standen was engaged in gingerly disentangling his glove from Abelard’s teeth and claws. Grinning ruefully, he looked up as she rounded the first landing.

“There you are, Harry. Do you think you could possibly retrieve this beast before he ruins ten pounds?”

“Ten pounds? How can that be?” she asked with a faint lift to an eyebrow. “Surely you cannot have spent that much on a pair of gloves.”

But as she came off the last step, he could see the twitch at the corners of her mouth as she tried hard not to laugh. “I fail to see what amuses you,” he muttered with feeling. “I had scarce crossed the threshold when this animal was literally thrown onto my arm, Harry. Ouch, you little devil!” He paused to remove his blue superfine coat sleeve from the kitten’s teeth, but Abelard had now managed to cling to his forearm from beneath, hanging firmly by all four feet. “I didn’t wish to harm it, of course, but I am less than fond of cats—even yours,” he complained. “Otherwise, I should have thrown it to the floor.”

Unsympathetic to his plight, Harriet failed to suppress her laughter and dissolved in tο an outright giggle. Her dark eyes sparkling, she reached for Abelard. “Oh, Richard, I never thought I should see it—Richard Standen treed by a cat, of all things, and a helpless k-kitten at that!” Her slender fingers gently lifted the black furball from the coat sleeve, disengaging its small claws carefully. “Oh, dear, some of the threads are quite pulled, I fear.”

“Thank you. And I was not ’treed,’ precisely,” he retorted. “I told you—I didn’t want to hurt it or the coat. But I take leave to tell you that I think your father is more than a trifle touched in his upper works these days, Harry,” he fumed. “He dropped that thing on me and then just walked off, saying something about my wanting cats.”

“Oh.” She flushed guiltily and dropped her head as she rubbed the fluffy fur behind the kitten’s ears. Her voice regretful, her face averted, she admitted, “Yes … well, I fear some of the fault is mine, you see.” Then, daring to meet his blue eyes, she plunged into an explanation. “Well, I was afraid they would demand to see your letter, and I could think of no plausible reason why you should be writing to me, Richard, so I said you were inquiring about a cat—or, to be more precise, that you were wishful of a kitten.”

“You told them I wanted a
cat
? Whatever for? Could you not have said I just wanted to write a letter to you? Harry—” He stopped short, noting that the animation had left her face and her eyes, and his voice dropped as he added more kindly, “Harry, you should not have to explain anything so insignificant as a letter to anyone.”

“Tell Hannah that,” she responded bitterly, looking away again. “You cannot know how it is to have to answer for every single thing, can you? You are a man, after all, and therefore free to do as you please, so you cannot understand. Well, I am not allowed to have my own opinions, my own friends … or … or kittens even!” Tears welled in her eyes, brightening them, before she hastily rubbed the wetness away.

“Egad! I’d no notion, of course—I mean, I knew it could not be very comfortable for you with my aunt, but I thought…”

“You are a man, Richard,” she repeated. “You do not have to answer to the conventions of society, to a stepmama like Hannah, or to—”

“Can you not just leave?” He caught himself, realizing she spoke the truth, that it was different for a female. “Surely Uncle John—”

A harsh, derisive, brittle laugh escaped her. “My father? You jest, of course. He takes her side in even the smallest struggles between us. If aught can be said of Sir John Rowe, sir, ’tis that he prizes peace above all things.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

She regained her composure by nuzzling the purring kitten with her cheek, and then she did the unthinkable—she sniffed. “Your pardon, my lord—’twas not my intent to burden you with my small problems. ’Tis just that I am blue-deviled, but no matter—I shall come about.”

“Harry … Harry …” He reached a comforting hand to clasp the hand that held the kitten. “I have known you since I was in short coats and you were but a scrubby little girl in a torn gown—remember that?”

Recovering, she nodded, and a faint smile curved her mouth. “Yes, and I recall that it was because of you that I tore it—I
tried
to tell you that Papa’s bull was mean.”

“That’s better. I like it when you display at least some spirit. We are partners, after all, are we not? If there’s aught that I can do to ease your circumstances, you have but to ask, you know.”

She hesitated, turning her attention once again to the kitten in her arms, and then sighed. “All right—but you will not like the answer, I fear.” Sucking in her breath, she raised her dark eyes to his, and it was impossible to miss the appeal in them. “Then would you be so very kind as to take my cats? Oh, I know you think you would not like having the kittens, but perhaps you could learn—I mean, if you do not say you will take them, Hannah means to have them drowned.” Her voice, hesitant at first, rushed to finish her plea before he could deny what she asked. “Richard, I beg of you—do not let her kill poor innocent creatures! Say you will help me!”

He was taken aback by the urgency of her entreaty, and for a moment he was at a loss for words. “Me?” he choked finally. “Harry, I have just told you—I don’t like cats!”

“Please, Richard—please,” she wheedled, tears welling anew. “Even if you will do no more than take them to your hunting box or to your country home, they will at least have more of a chance than if they are put in a sack and dropped in the river. Richard—”

“Tell you what,” he interrupted desperately, “I’ll speak with Aunt Hannah myself, and—”

“No!” She clutched at his sleeve, her voice growing more agitated. “You still don’t understand, do you? Even if she says she will let them live, ’tis but for now. You see, she knows—she
knows
now what they mean to me and she will use them whenever she is vexed. And if I do not take Mr. Thornton’s offer, they will be drowned!”

“Come on, Harry—I did not come to have you enact a Cheltenham tragedy for me.” Gently disengaging her fingers from his arm, he clasped her hand reassuringly. “It cannot be as bad as all that—ten to one, she will have forgotten all about the damned … the
deuced
cats, ere tomorrow. If you will but keep them out of her sight—”

She made one last bid. “Richard, I will consider the loan repaid if you will but do as I ask.”

“No! Dash it, Harry! I’d as lief pay you a cent per cent’s interest as take a cat! No, I tell you!”

She swallowed hard to fight the lump that rose in her throat, and tried to regain her dignity. “Very well then. I should not have asked it of you.” Clutching the black furball close, she managed to whisper, “If you will but excuse me, I… I’ve matters to attend just now.”

And before he could stop her, she’d fled up the stairs. Richard stared after her, feeling somehow guilty. “I say, Harry … but…” But she’d already turned the corner at the top of the steps and was out of hearing. He looked down at the pulled threads on his sleeve and reminded himself just how much he hated cats. And a sense of injustice stole over him; he’d traveled miles out of his way to tell her about Two Harry, and she had not bothered to ask of the horse at all.

In keeping with the parsimony of Hannah, Lady Rowe, Sir John’s table was remarkable only for its limited selection. Richard Standen, seated at the opposite end from his host, surveyed the single joint of meat, the plain roast goose, and the three dishes of vegetables, and wondered why he’d bothered coming all the way to Rowe’s Hill. To make matters worse, he’d still not had a chance to share his enthusiasm for Two Harry with Harriet, for she sat in low-spirited silence beside Edwin Thornton, who insisted on monopolizing the conversation, sprinkling it liberally with “my lords” whenever he addressed Richard, which was far too frequently.

Mr. Thornton, it was quickly discovered, had opinions on everything, no matter how trivial the matter might be. The weather he pronounced “abominable,” the results of the Vienna Congress “regrettable,” the fashionable life “sinful,” the current female style of dress “shameful,” and Hannah More’s campaign to improve the lot of the poor “foolish and hopeless.” “The poor,” he maintained stoutly, “are but reaping the wages of indolence.”

It was at this latter statement that Harriet showed a spark of animation. Darting a furtive look at her stepmama first, she turned back to her dinner companion.

“How can it be indolence when they have not the basic requirements of existence? I think everyone has a right to decent food, warm clothing, and a place to—”

“Harriet,” Lady Rowe cut in coldly, “I am sure that neither Mr. Thornton nor Sherborne cares in the least what you think. Females should not concern themselves with that which they do not understand.”

From where Richard watched, he could see his step-cousin bite her lower lip to stifle a retort, and as the young woman bent her head lower, he felt a surge of anger at his aunt. “On the contrary,” he heard himself say, “I for one am always interested in what Harriet thinks. If the females in this society do not attempt to improve the lot of all of us, then I fear we shall succumb to the baser nature of man and care not at all.” He was rewarded by a quick glance of pure gratitude from his step-cousin. “I believe when we discourage ladies from thinking, we rob ourselves of full half of the available intelligence in this country.”

“Nonsense!” Sir John exploded. “If the females were in charge of things, we’d be in a sorry pass, I can tell you. Why, they’re the weaker sex, sirrah! We’d be a nation of featherbrains!”

“Weaker, Uncle?” Richard’s gaze traveled significantly to where Hannah sat, her eyes now fixed malevolently on her stepdaughter. “I have never thought my aunt weak in the least, I am sure.”

“Humph! At least she don’t think she can rule things—she don’t try to reform the country.”

“No, she is content enough to rule you,” Harriet muttered under her breath.

“What? What’s that, you say?” her father demanded, turning a baleful eye on her. “Speak up! I’ll not have you gainsaying me in my own house, missy! If you’ve something to say, out with it!”

“It was of no consequence, Papa,” she mumbled, coloring as everyone stared at her.

“I am sure Miss Rowe meant no disrespect,” Edwin Thornton allowed. “Indeed, I have often thought her possessed of good but sometimes misguided intentions. The firm instruction of a sensible husband—”

“I do not want a husband.” She looked up, as though to see the effect of this open pronouncement, and then hastily averted her eyes again. “I know ’tis perverse of me, but I prefer the single state.”

“Perverse! Of course ’tis perverse! Females are put on this earth to marry, missy!” her father roared.

For a moment Richard thought his uncle was going to choke on the food in his mouth, but the redness in his face subsided and he addressed Thornton with a broad wave of his fork. “Pay her no heed, sir—maidenly reserve … that sort of thing. She don’t mean it, do you, my dear?” There was a significant edge to his voice this time, as though she dared not dispute it.

“Of course she did not mean it,” Thornton agreed. “Indeed, I have ever thought—”

“Er, would someone pass the carrots?” Richard interrupted. “I believe I should like some more. Excellent, madam, excellent,” he added to his aunt. “Quite a flavorful glaze to them.”

“Well, they are but caramelized with sugar, of course, but are a favorite of dear Mr. Thornton’s, I believe.”

“Indeed they are,” Thornton agreed readily. “I should take some more also.”

Sir John, grateful to avoid any further contretemps at his table, settled back in his chair and let the matter drop. Conversation again lapsed, except for Thornton, who seemed to feel it incumbent to fill any awkward silences, and who continued expounding between mouthfuls of the approved carrots. Richard gritted his teeth, wished he had not come, and determined to leave as soon as he’d made an accounting of Two Harry’s progress to Harriet.

He found himself watching her as the meal progressed, and he could not help contrasting the almost cowed young woman with the vivacious child he remembered. Whereas most shy girls grew more self-confident with age, Harriet Rowe had reversed the process, and he knew whom to blame for that. What his overbearing aunt and her ineffectual father had done to her was little short of criminal. It was no wonder she had not taken when she emerged from the schoolroom—there was too little animation left to attract any but a pompous fool like Thornton. And it was not that Harriet was unpleasant in appearance, but rather that she lacked the required beauty to compensate for her quiet shyness. To a stranger she would seem dull and plain, thereby ensuring her of little more than the most casual appraisal. She was by virtue of her unmarried state, then, a prisoner, both physically and emotionally, of her unloving family.

Her attention focused intently on her plate now, she appeared to be enduring rather than enjoying her companion’s dull conversation, mumbling incomprehensible replies that somehow satisfied Thornton and yet required no real social intercourse. Her dark eyes bore a carefully schooled expression that revealed nothing. But Richard’s memory could hark back to a time when they sparkled with mischief, widened with the curiosity of youth, and danced with laughter. But that was years ago—fourteen, to be precise.

She turned her head to answer a blunt question from her father, and all Richard could see then was the neat twist of brown braid pinned at the nape, a totally unfashionable style that became her not at all. But Thornton did not seem to mind. Clearly the stolid Edwin was so impressed with his own opinions that he noted not at all that Harriet Rowe did not appear to share them in the least. In fact, he had the appearance of a man trying to fix his interest, determined to discover in his chosen lady a mirror of himself.

Unfortunately, just as the covers were being removed for dessert, the unmistakable and persistent meowing of a cat desiring freedom reverberated through the house. Hannah Rowe stopped in mid-sentence, her irritation evident on her thin-lipped face.