Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The kittens had been entirely unplanned.
He wanted that on the record, at least internally, because he was not a man who did unplanned things. Except when it came to his wife, who seemed to inspire all manner of spontaneity in him.
The weather was uncharacteristically awful. No sunshine, bitter cold winds, and the occasional bite of snow and ice. In June. Needless to say, he had more than his fair share of work managing the tenants and their subsequent weather-induced problems.
The sequence of events had been as follows: he had gone to the barn to speak to Groves about the east field drainage, which was a legitimate and fully planned errand.
The kittens had been a subsequent discovery, entirely incidental, the barn cat having produced them some three weeks prior in the space behind the feed bins where she always produced them and which Groves had apparently failed to mention in any of his recent reports.
There were five of them.
He had noted their existence, completed his conversation with Groves about the drainage, and left the barn.
He had then stood in the yard for approximately forty-five seconds and thought about Imogen, which was, he was finding, a rather frequent occurrence.
He thought about the library. About the window seat, and the way she read with her feet tucked up beneath her and one hand in her hair, and the small, involuntary sounds she made when she reached a passage that interested her.
He thought about the walled garden, and the way she had come in last Thursday with mud on her gloves and a look of such genuine satisfaction on her face that he had stopped mid-sentence in whatever he had been saying to his land steward and lost his place entirely.
He thought about the fact that Whitmore, which he had always found a comfortable and well-ordered house, had recently begun to feel like something more than that. Something livelier. Something that had been, without his noticing the precise moment of transition, inhabited.
Then he thought about the bloody weather. Currently, the sharp cold wind nipped at his exposed skin, making him shiver inside his great coat.
He went back inside and found her in the library.
“Come with me,” he said.
She looked up from her book. “Where?”
“Barn.”
She uncurled herself from the window seat without further question. He helped her wrap herself in her warmest cloak, then led her across the grounds to the barn.
Groves had, at some point in the intervening hour, moved the feed bins slightly to give better access.
The barn cat, a large, opinionated tortoiseshell named Margaret, was visible in the corner.
She was lying on her side grooming herself while her kittens climbed over her in their exploration of the space.
Five kittens. Various colors. Various states of alertness. One was attempting to climb the side of the feed bin. One was asleep in a configuration that suggested he had no bones.
He heard Imogen’s breath catch.
He looked at her.
She was standing completely still with both hands pressed to her mouth and her eyes had gone entirely soft.
“Oh,” she said, from behind her hands.
“The barn cat produces them seasonally,” he said, which was not the most romantic framing available but was accurate. “Groves keeps one or two for the barn and finds homes for the rest.”
She was already crouching down, moving toward them with the particular slow deliberateness of someone who understood animals and did not wish to alarm them.
Margaret watched her approach with yellow-eyed suspicion, then apparently reached some internal verdict, because she shifted her tail and permitted the inspection.
“But with the horrid weather, I was thinking they might need to be somewhere warmer,” he said.
Imogen reached out one hand and let the nearest kitten, a small, round, grey-and-white creature, approach it. Fearlessly, it ambled to her.It put its nose against her finger, sneezed, and then rubbed against her digit again.
“Tristan,” she said. She scooped up the grey kitten and nuzzled him.
“You may keep one,” he said.
She opened her mouth, then closed it with a frown. “But you said the weather, and they needed somewhere warmer.”
“Yes, well, we will bring them all in for now. But ultimately, you may only keep one.”
Groves muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “not bloody likely,” but Tristan ignored him.
Imogen leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, husband.” She looked down at the five tiny cats, then up at him. “Which one?”
“Whichever one you like. And you don’t have to decide today.”
She looked at them for a long moment with great seriousness.
The grey-and-white kitten still clutched in her hand.
One of its siblings, a marmalade-colored creature of bold temperament, had noticed the newcomer and was making its way across the hay.
The marmalade kitten arrived at her knee and sat down and looked up at her.
She looked down at it.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that this one may have already decided.”
“You can go in and ready an area for them. We should probably keep them somewhat contained so they don’t have complete run of the manor. Then Groves will bring them up to the house with Margaret.”
“Thank you,” Imogen said. She gave him her wide smile, the one that felt as if it could bring on the sunshine despite the unseasonably cold weather.
He glanced at the marmalade kitten now in her hands. “It will need a name,” he said.
She considered the kitten, which was now attempting to investigate her ear. “Ptolemy,” she said.
He looked at her.
“He has very pharaonic energy,” she said, with perfect seriousness.
Tristan looked at the orange kitten, who had inserted his entire nose into Imogen’s ear in a manner that was many things, none of which were pharaonic.
“Obviously,” he said.
She laughed, her real, unguarded laugh that was loud and boisterous, and all things considered, totally perfect.