Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Benedict followed the direction of Marjorie’s finger.
Nothing moved.
The shrub stood several yards away at the edge of the cedar’s shade, a thick, rather untidy clump of glossy leaves.
Benedict believed it had been planted by his mother, though he could not recall its name.
Until that moment, its only contribution to Rivermere had been taking up an inconvenient patch of lawn.
“What is what?” Amelia asked, lifting her head from Benedict’s shoulder.
“The thing beneath the bush.”
“There is no thing beneath the bush,” Benedict assured them.
“There!” Marjorie squealed. “It moved!”
Sophia closed the book upon one finger. “Bushes have been known to move.”
“There is no wind,” Marjorie replied.
Benedict glanced at Sophia. “An especially subtle wind, perhaps.”
Her eyes brightened. “You remembered.”
He had remembered far too much about the afternoon, including the way the sunlight rested upon her face whenever she smiled and the warmth that had entered her expression when she saw the girls curled against him. Then, the bush rustled. Amelia sat upright.
“That was not the wind.”
Everyone stared as another faint movement passed through the lowest leaves.
Marjorie scrambled to her feet. “I shall investigate.”
“You shall remain here,” Benedict ordered.
Her face fell. “But I discovered it.”
“Discovery does not make you invulnerable.”
“It may be a rabbit,” Sophia suggested.
“Or a hedgehog,” Amelia said.
“Or a secret passage,” Marjorie breathed.
Benedict looked at the bush. “It is not a secret passage.”
“You cannot know until we examine it.”
“I know because passages do not generally rustle.”
“Someone may be hiding inside it.” That possibility was sufficiently alarming to Amelia that she moved closer to Sophia.
Marjorie’s imagination gathered speed. “It may be a smuggler.”
“In a garden bush?” Benedict asked incredulously.
“A very small smuggler.”
“Or a French pirate,” Amelia offered, though without much conviction.
Sophia rose and brushed crumbs from her skirts. “Perhaps we ought all to look. Otherwise, Marjorie will invent increasingly dangerous occupants until the bush contains an entire invading army.”
Marjorie looked delighted by the possibility.
Benedict stood. “I shall inspect it.”
“So shall I,” Marjorie declared.
“No.”
“You may require assistance.”
“With a shrub?”
“With the smuggler.”
“There is no smuggler.”
“You appear very certain for a man who has not yet looked.”
Benedict glanced at Sophia, expecting support. Her lips were pressed together, and her eyes carried a suspicious brightness.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” she admitted.
He had already lost command of the expedition.
“Remain behind me,” he ordered.
They advanced across the lawn in a formation no military commander would have approved. Benedict went first. Sophia followed with Amelia’s hand in hers, while Marjorie moved continually from one side to the other in an effort to see around him.
The bush rustled once more.
All four stopped.
Marjorie seized the back of Benedict’s waistcoat.
He looked over his shoulder, hiding his amusement. “I thought you were unafraid.”
“I am not afraid,” she whispered. “I am holding you in case you are.”
A soft laugh escaped Sophia. Benedict ignored it and bent toward the shrub. At first, he saw only damp soil and fallen leaves. Then two small eyes stared back at him from beneath the lowest branches.
He straightened.
“What is it?” Amelia asked.
Before he could answer, a faint and thoroughly miserable sound emerged. “Meow.”
The girls gasped together.
Marjorie released Benedict and dropped to her knees. “It is a kitten!”
“Do not put your hand beneath there.”
“It may be frightened.”
“It may bite.”
“It is the size of a teapot.”
“Teapots do not possess teeth.”
“Some of Cook’s might,” Marjorie replied. “They are very old.”
Sophia knelt beside her and carefully lifted one of the branches. “Oh, the poor little creature.”
Benedict looked again. The animal was indeed small, unreasonably so.
Its fur might once have been white and gray, though mud had rendered the distinction largely theoretical.
One ear was folded, its whiskers drooped, and a wet leaf clung to the top of its head with such precision that it looked as if it had dressed for the occasion.
Amelia crouched on Sophia’s other side. “Is it injured?”
“I do not think so,” Sophia murmured. “Only cold, frightened, and exceedingly dirty.”
The kitten meowed again.
Marjorie pressed both hands against her heart. “Oh, it has chosen us.”
“It has done nothing of the kind,” Benedict frowned.
Sophia extended her fingers slowly. The creature sniffed them, hesitated, then crept from beneath the shrub with great caution.
It was even muddier than Benedict had supposed.
One of its paws sank into the damp earth, and it gave a tiny indignant cry before climbing directly into Sophia’s waiting hands.
She lifted it against her chest. The kitten settled into the folds of her gown as though it had always intended to occupy precisely that place. A dark paw print appeared upon the pale fabric of her bodice.
Benedict stared at it. Sophia looked up at him.
“No.”
She blinked. “I have not asked you anything.”
“You are about to.”
“I might only have intended to comment upon the weather.”
“With a muddy animal in your arms?”
“The weather remains worthy of comment.”
“No.”
Marjorie rose slowly. “Uncle Benedict—”
“Absolutely not.”
Amelia’s face fell. “But it is all alone.”
“It may belong to someone.”
“It was hiding beneath a bush,” Marjorie reminded him. “People who own kittens ought not to store them beneath bushes.”
“We shall inquire among the tenants.”
“And if no one claims it?” Sophia asked.
Benedict looked at the animal. It closed its eyes and tucked its head beneath Sophia’s chin. She supported it with one hand while the other gently smoothed the mud-damp fur between its ears. The tenderness of the gesture was inconveniently affecting.
“It is not coming into the house.”
The twins reacted as though he had announced the creature’s immediate execution.
“Not into the house?” Marjorie repeated in horror.
“But it is only a kitten,” Sophia said.
“It is muddy.”
“It may be washed.”
“It will scratch the furniture.”
“It has scarcely enough strength to scratch a handkerchief.”
“It will grow.”
“That is generally what young creatures do.”
Benedict fixed her with a look. Sophia met it without the least sign of retreat, though amusement hovered at the corners of her mouth.
Marjorie moved nearer. “It may sleep in the nursery.”
“No.”
“Under Amelia’s bed.”
“No.”
“Upon my bed?”
“Certainly not.”
“In my wardrobe?”
Amelia spoke with quiet hope. “Perhaps it might remain in the kitchen.”
“No animals in the house.”
“There are mice in the pantry,” Marjorie pointed out. “The kitten could persuade them to leave.”
Sophia lowered her face, but Benedict saw her shoulders move.
“You are encouraging this,” he said.
“I have said very little.”
“You have said ‘it is only a kitten’ in precisely the tone most likely to undermine my authority.”
“It is only a kitten.”
The animal opened its eyes and looked directly at Benedict. He had the unpleasant impression that it understood the debate and found his position needlessly severe.
Amelia touched one cautious finger to its paw. “It may be hungry.”
“It may also have fleas.”
Marjorie drew back slightly.
Sophia looked at him. “Both conditions may be remedied.”
Three faces watched him. Four, if he included the kitten.
Benedict folded his arms. “It may remain upon the estate until its owner is found.”
Marjorie brightened. “In the house?”
“In the stables,” he clarified.
“The stables?” Amelia repeated.
“It will be sheltered, fed, and kept warm. The grooms may determine whether it is injured. That is a reasonable compromise.”
Marjorie looked at Sophia as though appealing to a higher court.
Sophia stroked the kitten’s head. “It is better than nothing.”
“Only slightly,” Marjorie muttered.
“May we visit it?” Amelia asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Every day?” she asked.
“If your lessons are completed.”
“May we feed it?”
“Under the groom’s supervision.”
“May we name it?” Marjorie asked.
Benedict hesitated. The kitten sneezed against Sophia’s bodice.
Marjorie’s eyes widened. “That means yes.”
“It means the animal has mud in its nose.”
They named it Admiral before reaching the stables.
Marjorie claimed it possessed a commanding expression.
Amelia said the name was dignified. Sophia confessed that the kitten did appear capable of conquering small territories.
Benedict observed that it could scarcely conquer a bowl of milk without falling into it.
For the next several days, Admiral established himself at Rivermere with the effortless confidence of a visiting monarch.
The stable boys found him a basket lined with an old horse blanket.
The head groom, who claimed to dislike cats, brought scraps of chicken from the kitchen and was later discovered allowing Admiral to sleep inside his coat.
Cook sent a saucer of cream while insisting she had done no such thing.
Mrs. Bell permitted the twins to carry him through the servants’ hall once, provided his paws were clean, and no one informed His Grace.
Benedict was informed. Marjorie informed him herself.
“He is becoming very popular,” she announced at breakfast.
“He is becoming spoiled.”
“He has had a difficult childhood.”
He frowned. “He has been here four days.”
“They have been very eventful days.”
Amelia spread marmalade carefully across her toast. “Mr. Harris says Admiral caught a beetle.”
Marjorie nodded proudly. “His first victory.”
“The beetle escaped,” Benedict said.
“No, it was released as an act of mercy.”
Sophia said nothing, but her eyes shone above her teacup.
Benedict maintained his position. The kitten belonged outside. The matter was settled. Therefore, when a faint meow interrupted his work several afternoons later, Benedict assumed he had imagined it.
He continued reading the tenant report before him. The study was quiet except for the scratch of his pen and the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Sunlight crossed the carpet in long golden bars, carrying the faint warmth of late afternoon into a room more accustomed to shadows.
“Meow.”
His pen stopped. Benedict looked toward the open door. The corridor beyond was empty.
“Marjorie?”
No answer came. Then, a movement upon the desk drew his attention. Admiral was sitting between the inkstand and a stack of correspondence.
Benedict stared. The kitten stared back.
“How did you get in here?”
Admiral stepped onto a letter from his solicitor.
“No.”
The kitten walked across the page.
“That is an important document.”
Admiral placed one paw directly into the ink.
Benedict moved with greater speed than dignity and caught him before he could leave black footprints across the estate accounts.
The animal twisted in his hands with astonishing determination, placed one paw against Benedict’s waistcoat, and began climbing.
“Stop that.”
Admiral did not. He scrambled down the front of Benedict’s coat, dropped into his lap, and turned twice before settling into a muddy-gray circle.
Benedict looked toward the doorway. No twins appeared.
No stifled laughter sounded from the corridor.
Whoever arranged the invasion possessed sufficient sense to retreat.
He reached down to remove the kitten. Admiral placed his chin upon Benedict’s wrist and began to purr.
The sound was absurdly loud for so small a creature.
Benedict sighed. “This changes nothing.” The kitten closed its eyes. “You are not remaining here.”
Admiral tucked his paws beneath himself. Benedict returned to the report. The animal’s head rested against his wrist, making the movement of his pen inconvenient. He adjusted the kitten slightly, read the next paragraph, and discovered his hand settled between its ears.
Without thinking, he stroked its head. Admiral’s purring deepened.
The figures before Benedict required careful attention. He read the same line twice, moved the kitten when it began to slide from his knee, and continued stroking its fur with slow, absent movements.
A small dark mark remained upon the creature’s paw where it had stepped in the ink. Benedict rubbed it away with his thumb.
“You are a considerable nuisance,” he murmured.
Admiral stretched one paw across his waistcoat and went to sleep.
At that exact moment, a shadow fell across the doorway.
Benedict looked up only to find Sophia standing in the corridor.
She was staring at the kitten, then at Benedict’s hand resting upon its head, and then at the papers arranged protectively beyond the reach of its paws.
Benedict froze. Admiral continued purring.
For one prolonged moment, Sophia said nothing. Her lips twitched.
Benedict straightened in his chair. “This is not what it appears.”
Her gaze dropped to the sleeping kitten curled contentedly in his lap.
“No?”
“It entered without permission.”
“Of course.”
“I was about to remove it.”
“Indeed.”
Admiral pressed more firmly against Benedict and purred with renewed satisfaction.
Sophia’s smile slowly escaped her control.