Chapter 18
“Ithink your clouds need more indigo,” Lavinia said as she tilted her head to study the small rectangle of paper between Sophia’s hands. “A storm never looks truly menacing until it is threatening to stain the sky for all eternity.”
Sophia, intent on her brush, did not look up. “Indigo is a violent color,” she replied. “Father says it is undisciplined. He prefers ultramarine, or nothing at all.”
Lavinia allowed herself a smile. “All the best colors are undisciplined.”
Sophia dabbed her brush into the palette, mixing a blue so dark it nearly blotted the light from the table. They were sitting beneath the shadow of Evermere Hall’s south facade, the garden tumbling around them in all sorts of colors and blooms.
Lavinia watched Sophia’s small hand tremble as she outlined the trunk of a windswept tree, then added a delicate patch of heather at its roots. There was something about the way the girl painted with each stroke, carefully placed as if she were mapping a route across dangerous territory.
“You need not make it look exactly as it is,” Lavinia said, softer now. “Art is for imagining how things might be.”
Sophia frowned. “Father says imagination is unproductive.”
Lavinia snorted, earning herself a sidelong glance. “Then he must never have imagined a world in which breakfast is served at noon, and everyone is free to paint trees purple, if they wish it.”
Sophia tried to stifle a smile. It failed. Lavinia leaned back, satisfied. The lesson, such as it was, had already achieved more than she’d hoped.
Then a sound pierced the air, and Lavinia sat up. It came again, and Sophia froze, her brush suspended in the air.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
“I did,” Lavinia replied. “I believe it sounds like a cat.”
Sophia dropped the brush at once, heedless of the splotch it left on her sleeve, and scanned the garden with all the solemnity of a soldier at the ramparts. “It came from the roses,” she said, already half out of her seat.
Lavinia rose too, careful not to tip the table. “Best to approach with caution. Cats are known for their craftiness.”
Sophia crept forward, step by step, until she reached the mass of overgrown rosebushes that shielded the edge of the terrace from the rest of the lawn. She parted the canes with her hands, peering into the dark hollow within.
“There it is,” she breathed, and knelt at once.
Lavinia followed, and as she bent down, she saw curled among the dead leaves and petals a small gray kitten with white paws. Its fur was thin, its ribs visible, its eyes as wide and blue as Sophia’s own.
“Oh!” Sophia reached in with her hands trembling. The kitten drew back, then, after a moment, allowed itself to be scooped up.
She cradled it, her whole body vibrating with the effort not to squeeze too tight. “It’s a kitten,” she said. “It’s shaking.”
Lavinia touched the kitten’s head with one finger. “It’s a very hungry kitten, by the look of it.”
Sophia clutched it to her chest, rocking back and forth. “What do we do?” She looked up expectantly at Lavinia.
“Do you wish to keep it?” Lavinia asked, not needing to. The answer was written in every line of the girl’s posture.
“Yes,” Sophia said at once, then her face fell. “But—Father doesn’t like animals in the house. He says they’re messy and undignified.”
Lavinia considered. “Your father is not the final authority on everything that enters the estate. He may have strong opinions, but he cannot be everywhere at once.”
Sophia looked up, hope beginning to glow behind the worry. “Do you think… I mean, would it be… Could we hide it?”
Lavinia straightened. “I am not generally in favor of hiding things. It complicates life and makes one’s conscience itch. But I am willing to make an exception in the case of animals that tremble and have nowhere else to go.”
Sophia’s smile threatened to split her face in half.
“Come,” Lavinia beckoned her forward. “Let us find a place that is warm and quiet, and then we shall consider how best to proceed.”
They returned to the table, where Sophia immediately wrapped the kitten in her own shawl, humming under her breath as if to lull it. Lavinia cleared away the paints and paper, then surveyed the garden.
“We cannot keep it here,” she mused. “There are too many eyes, and the weather is capricious. What about the stables?”
Sophia shook her head. “The grooms hate rats. If they see a cat, they will feed it until it’s too fat to move. Father would notice.”
“Then we require a more inventive solution.” Lavinia set her hands on her hips and surveyed the grounds.
It did not take long to find the answer: an abandoned gardener’s shed, mostly collapsed and tucked behind a trellis of climbing roses at the far end of the kitchen garden. The door hung askew, but inside it was dry and smelled of old wood and crushed mint.
Sophia carried the kitten, swaddled and quiet, while Lavinia led the way. “We must be careful,” Sophia whispered.
Lavinia opened the door, then kneeled to inspect the contents. A pile of sacks, a scatter of empty pots, and an old basket missing its handle.
“This will do,” she said, and, dusting out the basket, lined it with her own shawl.
Sophia laid the kitten inside, then knelt to stroke its head. “There. Safe now.”
They crouched together in the dim shed, the only light a fractured beam through the cracked window. The kitten curled into a ball and, for the first time, purred a faint, uncertain vibration that sent Sophia into near rapture.
“I shall bring it milk,” she said. “And scraps from the kitchen. Do you think that’s enough?”
“For now,” Lavinia replied, “but it will need more soon. A name, for instance.”
Sophia turned this over, then said, “Whisper.”
Lavinia smiled. “An excellent name, if you wish it to remain a secret.”
They sat, side by side, and Sophia kept her hands gently curved around the basket, as if the smallest movement might shatter the spell. The girl’s whole being had softened; she seemed to expand, to fill the small space with her hope.
Lavinia watched her for a moment, then said, “Lady Sophia, do you know what else is undisciplined?”
Sophia shook her head, not looking away from the kitten.
“Love,” Lavinia said.
Sophia’s lips parted, as if she might say something, but instead she pressed her cheek against the edge of the basket.
They were quiet for a time. Then, without warning, Sophia said, “Lady Lavinia, may I tell you something?”
“You may tell me anything, my dear,” Lavinia said.
“My mother—” The words hung, unfinished, and Sophia’s fingers tightened on the basket’s rim. “I never knew her. Father says she loved me very much, but she died before I could remember.”
Lavinia nodded and stroked the girl’s hair.
“There is only one portrait of her in Father’s study, but not anywhere in the house. I asked once why that is so, and Father was angry, and after that I did not ask again.” Sophia’s voice dropped to a whisper.
Lavinia reached out and took Sophia’s hand. It was cold, but it gripped hers with surprising strength.
“Sometimes,” Sophia continued, “I think I am not good enough for him. I am not clever or brave. I do not know how to talk to people. I do not even know how to be a proper daughter. I am—” she struggled for the word, “—insufficient.”
Lavinia squeezed the hand she held. “You are not insufficient,” she said, and the certainty in her voice startled her. “You are simply yourself, and that is all anyone can be.”
Sophia’s breath shuddered, and she blinked rapidly.
“Would you like to hear a secret?” Lavinia said.
Sophia nodded.
“I was a terrible disappointment to my mother. I did not care for music, or embroidery, or any of the things she prized. I wanted only to read books and ride horses and be left to my own devices. She called me stubborn and impossible, but she loved me all the same. Sometimes love is not tidy, or gentle. Sometimes it is just there, no matter how much you think you do not deserve it.”
Sophia stared at her, her eyes large and hopeful.
“Your father loves you,” Lavinia murmured. “But he may not know how to show it.”
Sophia’s mouth twisted. “He never says it.”
“Some people do not know how to say what they feel,” Lavinia said. “But they show it in other ways. In every lesson, in every small gift, in every time he does not interfere in your happiness.”
Sophia’s eyes dropped to the basket. “Do you think he will let me keep him? Whisper?”
“I cannot say,” Lavinia replied. “But I can say this: if you wish to fight for him, you will not be alone.”
Sophia looked up, something fierce and wild in her gaze. “Will you help me?”
Lavinia smiled. “I have never backed down from a good cause.”
They sat for a while longer, Sophia whispering secrets to the kitten, Lavinia listening and pretending not to. The sun crept behind gray clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance, as if to tell them that it was at last time to return to the house.
As they stepped outside, Sophia paused, then turned and flung her arms around Lavinia’s waist. It was a quick, desperate hug, as if the impulse might not survive a moment’s doubt.
“Thank you,” she said, voice muffled in Lavinia’s dress.
Lavinia patted her back, surprised by the force of her own emotion.
They crossed the garden together, and as they neared the house, Lavinia glanced up at one of the windows.
Tristan stood there with his arms folded, and his face was a study in conflicting sentiments. Their eyes met.
He did not appear pleased.