Chapter 3 #2
Leto sniffed Sylvie’s fingers, then took a few steps toward her and pushed herself against Sylvie’s palm. Sylvie reciprocated by scratching Leto’s neck and was rewarded when the cat arched up into her hand.
“I think she likes you,” Mr. Mathison said cheerfully.
“You trust me, so she’s decided to trust me…for the moment,” Sylvie replied, scratching Leto’s face. “I’m going to take a look at your babies now, Leto, but I promise I won’t hurt them.”
Sylvie slowly made her way toward the nest in the hay, keeping one eye on Leto lest she decide to strike out in defense of her young.
Leto, too, kept her eyes on Sylvie, moving with her as she peered over the edge of the nest. There were seven in total: one tortoiseshell like her mother, two orange toms, three gray-and-whites, and a diminutive all-black that appeared to be the runt of the litter.
Her knees began to protest and Sylvie carefully shifted to a new position sitting in the hay, locking eyes with Mr. Mathison for a moment before reaching into the nest and picking up the black kitten.
Leto watched Sylvie intently with wide green eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Mathison said gently, stroking the cat.
One by one, Sylvie lifted and studied each kitten, checking their overall condition, to see if they were getting enough to eat and being cleaned properly. Each time Leto got too tense, Mr. Mathison would touch her, or scratch her in her favorite spot, and she’d relax again.
“Here you are, Leto,” Sylvie said, placing the last kitten back in the nest, “I’m quite finished now.”
She rose with Mr. Mathison’s help and brushed the hay from her skirt as Leto went immediately to her kittens and began to bathe them.
“How do they look?” Mr. Mathison asked, leading her out of the horse box.
“Fairly good,” she responded, noting that he didn’t release her hand until they were halfway to the entrance of the barn.
Last time he’d held her hand they’d been perhaps ten years old.
“The black one is a bit on the small side, even for as young as they are, and Leto isn’t cleaning them overly well.
But on the whole they look normal for their age. ”
A sigh of relief whooshed out of Mr. Mathison and he put a hand to his chest. “Oh good. They looked awfully small to me, and I was afraid she wasn’t feeding them properly.”
Most people wouldn’t think twice about a litter of barn cats, and Sylvie found his concern touching. “I can show you how to clean them up, and how to feed the black one to make sure she’s getting enough to eat, if you’d like.”
“Excellent,” he grinned. “Will you help me look after them? When you have a spare moment, of course.”
Sylvie’s mind traveled over the list of tasks she needed to complete each day and sighed inwardly.
She didn’t really have time to take on another responsibility.
But it wouldn’t really be her responsibility—Mr. Mathison would be doing the lion’s share of the work.
“Help Kit with his kittens?” she asked spontaneously, then giggled. “I could do that.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he answered with a grin, offering her his arm and leading her toward the house. “Wait until you see…”
She clasped his arm firmly and allowed him to whisk her into his kitchen, where he had laid out a cold luncheon on the table.
“What is this?”
“A meal that you didn’t have to prepare.”
She took in the slices of bread and block of cheese, the plate of what looked like ham flanked by four oranges.
Wait. Oranges?
“Where did these come from?” she asked, letting go of his arm to pick up an orange and inspect it as closely as she had the kittens.
“From a friend of mine who keeps an orange tree in his conservatory,” Mr. Mathison answered, closing the gap between them again. “I thought you might enjoy them.”
She tilted her head back to meet his blue eyes.
They hadn’t had much interaction in the two years he’d been back, outside of him walking Moses back home.
Was he still the boy she’d capered with when they were children?
The one who had made a point of continuing their friendship into adolescence despite the difference in their stations?
“If not, I’ll be happy to eat them all myself.,” he continued, his baritone voice breaking her train of thought.
She laughed lightly—that sounded like the old Kit. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
He handed her a plate and picked one up for himself, pausing when a series of loud bangs filled the room. “How do you feel about eating outdoors? Then we won’t have to listen to the noise of the builder’s men working on the house.”
She agreed and, after serving herself, followed him outside and across the farm. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She briefly considered taking his arm again—she craved the feeling of safety and comfort that came with his touch—but couldn’t ascertain how to do so while holding an orange and a plate.
Instead, she inched closer to him as they walked, taking care not to get so close they would bump into each other, but close enough to detect the scent of hay that clung to his clothing.
“Here we are,” he proclaimed, stopping at the edge of a stream. “And look! Someone has left a bottle of lemonade here in the cold water.”
Kit set his food down and pulled a stone bottle out of the cool water, shaking the drops from his hand and holding it out to her.
“You planned this.”
“I did,” he grinned. His expression sobered a bit, and he continued, “I know you have a long list of things that need to be done, but you never seem to have any time to just rest.”
She didn’t reply for several moment, trying to discern what exactly she was feeling. Her grandparents, her friends, they were all wonderful, generous people. But when was the last time anyone had thought to provide her with the luxury of rest?
Sylvie set her plate and orange on the ground and took the cold bottle, uncorking the top and breathing in the sweet, lemony smell with a soft smile.
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice full of emotions she still couldn’t name. “This is a tremendous gift.”
His eyes caught hers and held them. “It’s my pleasure to give it.”
They sat on the grassy bank of the stream under a cloudy sky, eating in companionable silence as the water bubbled along beside them and the birds called back and forth to each other.
Sylvie forced the list of tasks from her mind, the tension in her shoulders slowly releasing with every sip of lemonade.
It was exactly what she had needed.