He’ll most likely yowl his fool head off when I try to pin him down long enough to slip them over his paws.
I’m standing outside the entry, staring at the sign, when the cobbler opens the door.
“Etta?” he asks, surprised to see me on his step. “Can I help you?”
I draw the pouch of coins from my satchel, glance at my threadbare, stained slippers, and make a hasty decision. “I’d like to buy myself a pair of boots.”
Chapter 4
The boots are sturdy and made of sumptuously soft, supple leather. They are the most extravagant thing I’ve ever owned, and I’ve hidden them in the back of my corner of the loft where my brothers won’t find them. It’s been a month, and yet every time I look at them, I’m consumed with guilt.
My dying aunt had one final request, and I was too selfish to honor it. Not only that, but the money could have been used for something more practical—like food or repairs to the mill.
This morning, my brothers are planting the field, and I’m inside, scrubbing the dredges of the last week of pottage out of the old cast-iron pot. Every night, we eat a little of the grain-based porridge, and every morning, we toss in a few vegetables. Sometimes we add a few scraps of meat if we have them (and we rarely do). But I’ve had enough today. It’s time to start fresh.
The cat—my cat—watches me from his favorite spot in the sill. I’ve opened the shutters, and the sunshine streams down on his tawny brown fur.
“Shouldn’t you be catching mice?” I ask. As I say the words, I begin to wonder if I’ve gone as mad as Mildred.
Of course he doesn’t answer. His only response is the slow twitch of his furry tail.
“Do you miss her?” I say again, simply because I have no one else to talk to. “Are you lonely?”
I dump the hot water outside the window, place the newly-cleaned pot over the fireplace, and brush away a long strand of hair that hangs in my face. Not looking at the cat as I speak idly to him, I go about my morning business. When my chores are finished, I pull a basket from its hook by the door and step into the sunshine.
Immediately, the cat rises from his perch and trots out with me. When I turn to close the door, he stops as well. I give him a sideways look and continue toward the patch of forest just beyond the field. I wave to Thomas and Eugene when I pass them. They fight with the donkey, who, as usual, has decided he doesn’t want to cooperate. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the cart or the plow we attach to him, the beast never wants to earn his keep.
Eugene calls after I’ve passed, “Where are you headed?”
I swing the basket forward. “I’m going to look for mushrooms.”
My eldest brother nods and goes back to his chore. I frown at him. He owns the mill now. Why hasn’t he asked Sarah-Anne yet? Surely she’s growing impatient.
But I know the answer. It’s because of me and Thomas. If Eugene marries, where will we go? What will we do? Thomas could take a job as an apprentice, but what about me? I very much doubt Sarah-Anne would want me to stay. Even though Eugene has moved into Mildred’s room, there’s still very little privacy in the tiny house.
The day is too beautiful to dwell on such thoughts, and I push them out of my mind.
To my surprise, the cat follows me into the forest. He trots at my side, pausing every once in a while to pounce on insects in the weeds.
This part of the woods is perfect for hunting for the marnelle mushrooms that grow in the spring. They like warm, sunny hillsides, and they often pop up near fallen trees. Since it rained yesterday, there’s a good chance I’ll find some before I have to turn back.
Before I start foraging, I walk for a while, breathing in the scents of spring and seeing if I can catch a glimpse of the sprites that are rumored to live in these trees. It’s peaceful, quiet except for the leaves rustling in the bare breeze.
I find my first mushroom in a sunny patch near a decomposing tree. After checking it over, careful to make sure it’s safe to eat, I pop it in my mouth and close my eyes. It’s hard to believe something so lowly can taste so decadent. The winter was long, and I’m so sick of pottage.
After I’ve walked for a mile or more, I sit on a large boulder to the side of the path. I glance at my slippers and frown when I see the leather has worn through near the ball of my left foot.
“What am I going to do about that?” I ask the cat, since there is no one else around.
“Why don’t you wear my boots?” he replies. “With as large as you had them made, they certainly won’t fit me.”
Startled, I scream and leap to my feet. My basket goes flying across the trail, bounces off of a tree trunk, and falls to the ground. The mushrooms I’ve harvested scatter.
I back up until my shoulder blades press against a cool shelf of rock. With nowhere else to escape, I look about me, frantic.
“Thomas?” I call out, my voice shaky.
Of course it was only my brother playing tricks on me. I’m not sure how he slipped away from Eugene, but it’s just like him. Growing irritated, I lean forward and look for him. Now that he’s heard me talking to the cat, he’ll tease me about it for the rest of the foreseeable future.
Slowly, I turn my gaze back to the cat. He sits on the boulder I just vacated, and, as usual, he’s watching me. I eye him, wary.
Thomas doesn’t know about my boots.
“Cats don’t talk,” I say, feeling the need to remind myself out loud.
His whiskers twitch. “Not usually.”
I scream again, push away from the rock, and race down the path. In my haste, I trip over an exposed tree root and crash to the ground. Ignoring the pain, I attempt to scramble to my feet, but I’m not quick enough. From behind, the cat leaps on my back and lands in front of me.
In what looks like feigned dignity, he sits on his haunches and begins to groom his face. “You should be more careful. You’ve ripped your dress again. Weren’t you just complaining about that the other day?”
I clench my eyes shut, refusing to look at him. I can’t seem to draw in a full lungful of air. Whatever Mildred had was catching. I’ve contracted her sickness, and now I’m suffering from her same hallucinations. Panic tightens my chest, and my throat thickens.
No…it was the mushroom. It must have been a poisonous one after all.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice tells me I’ve collected them since I was tiny. I know what the safe mushrooms look like, and the one I ate was edible.
But it’s either the mushroom was poisonous or my cat can speak.
Eyes still shut, I say out loud, “It’s because of all this festering guilt—that’s why I’ve imagined this. I have to tell Eugene and Thomas about the boots.”
“You don’t honestly think you’re—”
“No!” I hiss, opening my eyes again. “You can’t talk!”
Tilting his head, looking more amused than a feline should, he closes his mouth.
“Cats don’t talk,” I say again, making sure he understands.
As if he’s mocking me, he mews.
With a near hysterical laugh, I shove myself up and examine my ripped sleeve. Sighing, I rub my eyes and glance around. Everything looks just as it should. If I’m hallucinating, shouldn’t things look…off? Blurry perhaps?
I walk back to retrieve my basket. I pick up one of the fallen mushrooms and study it. It’s just like the ones we’ve eaten every spring. After tossing it back to the ground, I peer at the cat.
He’s followed me, staying right with me like before. Frowning, I leave the rest of the mushrooms where they lie, pick up my basket, and head back to the cottage.
At supper, I confess my selfish purchase to my brothers.
“Why would you do that?” Eugene asks, more confused than angry. “I would have thought you would have rather bought material for a new dress.”
I bury my head in my hands. “I don’t know. When I saw the cobbler on the cat’s behalf, it was all too ridiculous. I’m so sorry I wasted the money.”
Thomas laughs. “I’d rather you own a new pair of boots than that cat.”
Eugene nods and scoops a spoonful of pottage into his mouth. It’s boring tonight—plain mushy grain and nothing else. It would have been better with mushrooms at the very least.
“Hiding them in the loft doesn’t solve anything,” Eugene says. “You bought them; you should wear them.”
I let out a slow breath. This didn’t go as badly as I had imagined, and yet, I still feel guilty. But hopefully the conversation will clear my conscience, and I’ll no longer have episodes with talking cats.
After our meager supper, I climb the ladder to the loft. Years ago, when we first moved in with Mildred after our parents died, we separated the boys’ side from mine with a large, shabby blanket. It doesn’t offer much privacy, but it’s nice to have a small area that feels like it actually belongs to me.
The cat sleeps on my pallet, and when he hears me, he stretches, yawns wide, and then promptly goes back to sleep.
I’m being ridiculous. The cat didn’t actually speak.
Trying to ignore him, I pull my boots from their hiding spot. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting something from the cat. He doesn’t pay me any attention.
Shaking my head, I sit and stroke the soft leather. I’ll wear them tomorrow.
I set them on the floor and change into my night clothes. Careful not to disturb the cat, I slip between my blankets. After the day I’ve had, I’m sure sleep will never come, but then, before I know it, it’s morning.
With a yawn, I stretch. When I look at my feet to see if the cat is still there, I find him gone. In the light of a new day, the idea that he actually spoke to me is simply absurd. Of course I imagined the whole thing. It was lingering stress and guilt from losing Mildred, that’s all.
As I’m plaiting my hair, the cat jumps up the ladder to the loft. He sits, watching me.
“I’m sorry I was harsh with you yesterday,” I say quietly, hoping Thomas is already up and gone. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He tilts his head and saunters to my boots. He knocks one over, falls to his side, and grasps it in his claws like it’s a plaything. I watch him for a moment, somewhat amused. When he pokes his head in it, almost getting himself stuck, I take it away.
I peek around the hanging room separator, making sure Thomas is truly gone, and then settle onto my pallet. Pulling the cat onto my lap, I stroke behind his ears. He breaks out into loud purrs, and I bury my head in his fur.
“What am I going to do?” I ask him, holding him close. “Where am I going to go? No one will marry me. I don’t even have a chicken for a dowry.”
He pulls away and gives me a haughty look.
I scratch his back. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault no one wants a cat.”
Again, he nestles close to me. I pet him for several more moments, and then I sigh.
“You won’t mind if I wear your boots, will you?” I feel ridiculous asking him.
The cat yawns. I’ll take that as a no.
“That’s very kind of you.” I pull the boots on and let out a long, contented sigh. “All right. Let’s get our chores done.”
Chapter 5
The door opens, and I look up from the roasted cocoa beans I’m shelling, hoping, as I always do, that this new patron will be the one I’m waiting for.
Apparently, it’s not my day.
Two giggling girls, daughters of one of the wealthier farmers, step into the shop. I try not to groan and, instead, don a smile. “Good afternoon, Louise,” I say, nodding to the eldest and then the next. “Maria.”
They attempt to hold back laughter while they bat their eyelashes shamefully. I’m a novelty here, the son of a wealthy lord with connections in the far tropical islands of the southern seas. A new face, a new story. Unattached and unspoken for. And, unfortunately for the girls in Glenridge, not the slightest bit interested in these sweet young country bumpkins. Except one. But she’s not here.
She hasn’t even paused outside my door.
Nevertheless, being a man of business, I lean on the counter and give the girls a friendly smile. “What can I do for you today?”
Louise smiles brightly, as if I’ve addressed her alone, and glances at her younger sister. “Maria, mother wants you to help with the laundry this afternoon. Go on now, I’ll be right behind you.”
Maria opens her mouth, and her eyes narrow in irritation.
I’m about to intervene before the feathers start flying, perhaps offer them a free sample of chocolate, when I see the girl I’ve been watching for, Etta, pass by the front windows.
“Excuse me,” I say to the sisters and leave them gaping as I hurry out the front.
She’s gone by the time I push through the door. I stare down the street, contemplating which way she went. I see her constantly now, but I haven’t had the right opportunity to introduce myself.
A soft touch on my shoulder draws my attention back to the shop.
“Monsieur Marchand?” Louise asks. “Are you quite all right?”
I look down the street for several more moments before I nod and usher the pair inside. “Yes…I’m sorry. Now, what can I help you with?”
It takes several minutes for the girls to make up their minds and even longer to scoot their reluctant selves out the door. When they finally leave, I find myself staring into the street, thinking of the girl I’ve yet to speak with, wondering about her. I twist the signet ring on my finger, reminding myself I have a purpose for being here—and it has nothing to do with chasing after the miller’s sister.
From across the street, the baker’s daughter waves to me. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Marchand!”
With a sigh that I smother with a smile, I wave back. As I step into my shop to finish shelling the cocoa beans I’ve neglected, I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I have a chocolate shop to establish, an ogre to find, and I already have more than enough female distraction.
The last thing I need is to let myself become besotted over a girl I’ve never even met.
Chapter 6
Spring turns into summer. The days grow long and warm, and the wheat grows tall. For the first time in over two years, we may have a decent harvest come late summer. The forest is thick with greens and berries, and Mildred’s tiny vegetable garden is flourishing with all the rain we’ve had lately.
With little to do today, Thomas is at a neighboring farm, helping build fences. He’s smitten with the farmer’s daughter, and he’s been there almost more than he’s been here. Eugene chops wood in the shade of a large tree, and I shell the last batch of spring peas on the front steps. It’s peaceful, blissfully hot, and all I want to do is nap—not that there’s any time for that sort of thing.
My cat spent the morning hunting mice, but now he’s lounging in the sunshine at my feet.
“I can’t keep calling you Cat,” I say.
I’ve taken to talking to him again. Even if he’s silent, he’s better company than most.
He sits up, his green eyes trained on me.
“Well?” I ask. “We’ll have to come up with something.”
I toss another empty pod in the pile I’ll take to the compost later.
“How about Bartholomew?” I raise my eyebrows when he wrinkles his nose. “Too long? What about something short, like George?” His tail twitches, and I smile. “Fine. Then why don’t you just tell me your name?”
“I don’t think you’d like that very much,” he says.
I freeze, my eyes on the pot of peas. Slowly, I raise my gaze to him. Glancing at Eugene to make sure he’s out of earshot, I whisper, “Cat…did you just speak?”
He wiggles his whiskers. “We’re making great progress, you and I. You’re not screaming and running down the road as if I have the plague.”
My stomach tightens with unease. Deep down, I’ve known since that day in the woods no matter how I tried to tell myself differently. In fact, it’s possible I’ve just been wai
ting for him to finally make himself known.
“Why did you never speak to me before?” I ask, going back to my task like it’s nothing to have a conversation with one’s barn cat.
“I didn’t feel like it.”
I raise my eyebrows. Of course. He is a cat, after all.
“So tell me, why do you feel like it now?”
He stands and stretches, the movement long and slow, and extends one leg and then the next. “I was born for grander things than this mill. You’re going to help me attain my destiny.”
I laugh. “You were the runty kitten from the butcher’s litter. You’re not destined for grander things any more than I am.”
Sniffing the empty pods I’ve already shelled, he says, “You’re meant for grander things as well.” He looks at me. “And my name is not ‘Cat,’ it’s Master Puss.”
“Oh yes, I do recall that. It’s a bit high and mighty, don’t you think, Feline?”
If a cat could roll his eyes, his would right now.
“I’ll call you Puss,” I say as I scoop him into my arms and scratch behind his ear. “I simply will not refer to you as ‘Master’ anything.”
He struggles to get away, but then, unable to take it any longer, begins to purr. “Very well. Now let me go. We have things to do.”
I set him aside. “We do?”
“I’m going to teach you to hunt.”
I lie flat on my stomach and stare at an empty meadow not far from the mill. The sun sinks low, and soon I’ll have to return home to prepare supper.
“What are we doing, exactly?” I ask Puss.
“We are not doing anything. I am going to catch a rabbit. You are going to watch.” He crouches low, and his hind end twitches in anticipation.
“Then why am I on the ground?”
“So you don’t scare them off. Now stop talking.”
I’m about to say something else anyway, but suddenly the cat lunges forward. A rabbit darts out from the cover of a bush, but he’s not fast enough. Puss leaps on his back, rolls with the creature in his clutches, and the rabbit goes limp.
The Marquise and Her Cat: A Puss in Boots Retelling Page 2