Chapter 7
Emeline watched a number of emotions cross her father’s face before he settled on a frown. “You surprise me,” he said at length, jaw clenched. “Show me this list.”
“No, thank you. It is private.”
“I am your papa,” he pressed. “Nothing should be private from me.” When Mouette, sitting at his side, gave an exasperated sniff, Justin amended, “For your own welfare, you know.”
“How considerate you are,” Emeline responded with a tight smile, “yet, one feels, also excessively inquisitive.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother’s lovely mouth twitch.
Brows lowered, he muttered, “Perhaps I have a suggestion or two of my own for this list.”
“If so, you must make a record of your own,” came her sweet reply. “You might call it your Son-in-Law List.”
They locked eyes. Emeline enjoyed sparring with Papa, for there was no one else she understood quite so keenly.
“We must go,” Mouette said. “But first, I wanted to tell you that your Raveneau grandparents are having a small party to celebrate Grandpère’s birthday. He, of course, scoffs at such a plan, but the rest of us insist.” Her expression was wistful. “How many more birthdays will he enjoy, after all?”
Emeline’s heart stung at the realization that she hadn’t even visited her grandparents since returning to London. True, it had only been a few days, but she had meant to go to them immediately. “A party is a splendid notion! When will it be?”
“This Saturday. You and Louise must both come.”
Louise and Emeline were cousins through Papa’s brother, Gabriel, but that didn’t matter to the Raveneaus. Louise and her sister, Camille, had always been welcomed as part of Mama’s family.
With that, Emeline hastened to see her parents on their way, just as Louise reappeared with a plate of biscuits.
“Oh, how lovely.” Emeline put a biscuit in her father’s hand. “Eat this on your way home so you don’t become peckish and get into a tiff with Mama.”
No sooner had the door closed, than Emeline caught Louise’s arm and drew her back into the parlor. Their eyes met and they both began to laugh at the same time.
“I can’t wait to hear every detail,” Louise exclaimed. “And what about Lord Hartcliffe? You are now calling him Hart?” She tilted her head suggestively. “It seems that you two are becoming quite…familiar!”
Emeline was dismayed to feel her cheeks grow warm.
“You’re being ridiculous. Besides, as Papa said, he is leaving London very soon.
” She tried to sound very serious. “What is truly important is our new ability to spend our days in the Reading Room! Oh, you cannot imagine the books they have! And there are aides to wait on us, bringing us any volume we desire…” Remembering the young archaeologist who had requested the Viking book, just moments ahead of Hart, Emeline amended, “That is, unless someone else has already claimed it.”
At that moment, her excited speech was interrupted by a shriek from the kitchen at the back of the house. “No, no, get out!” cried Dora.
Emeline lifted her skirts and rushed toward the kitchen with Louise mere steps behind, just in time to hear a series of feline warning screeches.
Entering the room, she beheld Bartholomew, tiny back arched and all his fur on end, confronting a dirty, shaggy, short-legged little beast that vaguely resembled a dog.
The animal cowered in the doorway to the garden, holding one front paw in the air.
Dora came at the intruder with a raised broom. “Out, get out, mongrel!”
Bartholomew chimed in with a long, low, threatening growl that sounded as if he were possessed by a demon.
The scruffy animal retreated a step or two.
“What is happening here?” exclaimed Emeline, lifting her hand to signal that Dora should put down the broom.
“This filthy cur has been lurking outside the kitchen door all day,” Dora cried. “I shooed it off, but it comes back. Doubtless it has some horrible disease!” She was trembling with emotion. “I won’t have it in my kitchen!”
As if to corroborate this speech, Bartholomew strained to arch his back higher, hissing for good measure.
Emeline regarded the intruder, whose eyes were obscured by long, dirty tangles of fur. Was it a dog? After a moment, it lifted its face in her direction and whimpered softly. Bartholomew began to growl again.
“That is quite enough, Mew.” She went forward, crouching down, and firmly moved the cat to one side. Bartholomew narrowed his green eyes at her but stayed put.
“I’ll deal with this little tyrant.” Louise knelt to join her and held their cat on her lap. Emeline noticed she was holding a long towel, just in case Mew’s claws came out.
Extending her hand to the little dog, Emeline said softly, “Hello there, young sir. Are you hurt?”
To her surprise, it lifted its right front paw a little higher.
“What a clever dog you are! Will you let me touch you?” When she received no reply, Emeline reached out, first running a gentle hand over his filthy, furry back, then slowly gathering him closer.
She lifted the tufts that hid his eyes, and he gazed back at her.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, he understands!”
“Mistress!” There was a scolding edge to Dora’s voice. “Do you wish to have fleas? The house will be infested soon enough!”
“What would you have me do?” Emeline spoke softly, as if hoping the dog would not understand their conversation. “This poor creature needs our help.”
“London is beset with stray curs on every block. Would you save them all?”
“Perhaps, if it were possible, I would try! However, we must begin with this one injured, helpless dog.” Emeline carefully probed the animal’s front leg, but he quickly jerked it away. “If nothing else, we must allow him to heal from his injury in a safe environment.”
“I’ll help you,” said Louise, pushing her spectacles back into place as she straightened. “I think he must have a bath straightaway.”
Soon, they had filled a basin with warm water and some strong-smelling soap.
After banishing Bartholomew to the garden and donning long aprons, the cousins lifted the dog into bath.
Emeline expected him to resist, but instead he softened his small form and seemed to sigh as they lathered and rinsed him thoroughly.
When he was wet, she felt the sharp outline of his ribs and nearly sobbed aloud.
“Poor little man! He is starving.” Looking around for Dora, Emeline commanded, “Kindly prepare a meal for our guest. Do you have chicken or fish? I think it should not be anything too rich since he may not have eaten properly for a long time.”
“Chicken or fish! For that mongrel?” exclaimed Dora.
“Yes, indeed! A generous portion, if you please.”
Soon enough, she and Louise had cradled the dog in a warm towel. They combed out his mats, clipping the worst of them away, and trimmed his overgrown fur until his black eyes were visible and there was a bit of shape to his frizzled, tan coat. When they were finished, Emeline stared.
“Oh, my, look at his ear.” The dog’s right ear stood up to a point, but the left one was missing its top half. It almost looked as if it had been bitten off long ago and healed. Her throat thickened with emotion.
“How sad! At least, whatever happened to him, seems to be in his past. It’s a badge of honor,” pronounced Louise, standing back to survey the little dog. “I think he is some sort of terrier, don’t you agree?”
Emeline nodded. “One of our neighbors in Grosvenor Square had a Dandie Dinmont terrier. I think this fellow might be a smaller cousin.” As the dog continued to gaze up at her, she added, “I would like to call him Monte. Do you approve?”
Louise pushed a damp chestnut curl back from her brow and nodded. “It’s perfect, I think.”
“Hello, Monte,” Emeline said warmly to the dog.
“You are looking so much better, but what about your leg?” Tentatively, she reached for his paw, and he allowed her to look at it for a few moments before once again pulling free.
“I don’t see anything like an imbedded thorn, so it doesn’t seem to be your paw.
We shall endeavor to discover the nature of your injury, but in the meantime, you must stay indoors and rest.”
She carried him into the parlor and set him down on another towel. Louise looked on with a dubious smile as Monte gobbled up the dish of giblets Dora had grudgingly prepared.
At length, Louise wrinkled her nose and ventured, “What about Bartholomew?”
“Well, I suppose we must move Monte to a bedroom.”
“I don’t think Mew will stand for this dog being in his house. Cats are very territorial, you know.”
“Perhaps he will surprise us,” Emeline said hopefully.
She carried Monte up to her bedroom and folded a blanket to make a little bed for him on the rug. However, when she suggested he might like to lie down, he came and stood against her skirts. There was a knock at the door, followed by Louise’s voice.
“I have brought Monte a small bowl of water.” She paused. “Bartholomew is creating quite a ruckus, howling in the garden. I will bring him into the house and see what happens.”
Emeline cringed a little but nodded. “All right.” She took the water and offered it to him, but he was not interested.
A very short time later, a scratching commenced at Emeline’s door. Monte hurried over to investigate. A soot-gray cat’s paw appeared under the door, claws unsheathed, followed by a series of now-familiar low growls.
“Bother,” muttered Emeline, even as Monte began to yip at the threatening paw.
After a few minutes of this, Louise spoke from the other side of the door.
“Emmie, I don’t think this is going to work out.
” She paused. “How can you ever bring Monte out of this room? Or risk leaving a door open? I have no doubt that Mew would not hesitate to attack poor Monte, and how could he defend himself against those claws and sharp teeth, especially given the injury to his leg?”