by Farr, Diane
Natalie sighed and shook her head. No sense regretting what couldn’t be changed. And besides, every time she saw the squire’s broad, beaming face she remembered why she hadn’t married him. Jasper was a kind and jovial soul, but, really ... shouldn’t a lady welcome her husband’s kisses? Natalie couldn’t imagine kissing Squire Farnsworth with any degree of enthusiasm. So that was that.
Four-and-twenty years! Christmastide would mark her twenty-fifth birthday. Why, she had been alive for nearly a quarter of a century. All that time wasted. It was maddening. Wasn’t there something she could do with her life? No husband, no child, no house of her own, no useful employment of any kind. She was nothing but a charity case, really; a worthless parasite. And without the management of Crosby Hall to occupy her, she would be bored to tears as well.
If only Derek were home! Thanks to the peculiarities of Crosby Hall’s entail, Hector was the brother with all the power, so there was little that Derek could actually do—but he would have stood up for her, defended her, shielded her from Hector’s spite and Mabel’s aggression. And when he couldn’t defend her, he would have joked her out of the megrims. She missed him every day, but especially now, when she felt so friendless. Relinquishing the reins of Crosby Hall to Mabel Whittaker was the hardest trial Natalie had ever had to face.
She emerged from her brown study to discover that her restless feet had carried her nearly to the village. She paused. Everyone in the village knew her, and she was reluctant to be seen in the old hat she used for gardening. After tramping across the fields, she must look wind-blown and bedraggled, too. But just as she was about to turn and retrace her steps, a bright splash of blue caught her eye.
A beautifully-dressed little girl, a stranger, was standing in front of the village’s sole inn. She was a tiny, doll-like thing, yet she seemed to be quite alone. It was the color of her cloak that had drawn Natalie’s attention. What held Natalie’s attention was the fact that the child was apparently in the midst of a spirited conversation with nobody.
The little girl tilted her head, arguing earnestly. She shook her finger in the air as if scolding a dog, then took three little hops to her right and halted, one foot in the air. She balanced solemnly for a few moments, then slowly lifted the hem of her cloak as if trying to catch the breeze and fly away.
Natalie smiled. Something about the little sprite tugged at her heart. She walked forward, but the child was so intent on her imaginary world that when Natalie finally spoke to her, she jumped and gasped.
“I beg your pardon,” said Natalie politely. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The little girl carefully returned her foot to the ground and dropped the edges of her cloak. The face she lifted to gaze at Natalie was deeply serious, almost fearful. “I didn’t hear you coming,” she said gravely.
“No,” agreed Natalie. “You were busy.” She smiled. “May I ask what you were doing?”
Fear and guilt flitted across the child’s face. “Nothing,” she whispered.
Natalie was immediately sorry she had asked. Was the little girl ashamed of her imaginativeness? On impulse, she squatted beside her as if confiding a secret. “When I was about your age,” she said softly, “I had an imaginary kitten. Her name was Clara.”
The child looked both interested and wary, as if she very much wanted to believe Natalie—but didn’t quite dare. “Did you? Really?”
“Indeed I did. Clara was almost as much fun as a real kitten. And she always came when I called her, which is more than a real kitten would have done.”
The tense little shoulders relaxed a tiny bit. “Did she purr?”
“Oh, yes. She purred beautifully. Shall I tell you a secret?”
The girl nodded, her eyes huge in her small, pale face.
Natalie winked. “Clara could talk.”
The child squirmed with delight. “Kittens can’t talk.”
“Imaginary kittens can. Why, there were days when Clara talked so much I could hardly hear myself think.”
The smile disappeared from the little girl’s face as suddenly as if Natalie had wiped it off with a rag. “Did you make her sit in the corner?” she asked fearfully. “Did you tie her up?”
Natalie was startled. “Certainly not. I loved Clara.”
“Even when she was naughty?”
“Especially when she was naughty,” said Natalie firmly. “She was my very own. Whenever Clara was naughty, who was to blame? Tell me.”
The little girl thought for a moment. A sparkle suddenly lit the back of her eyes. “You were.”
“That’s right. She was my imaginary kitten, and no one else’s.”
“What became of her?”
Natalie was surprised for a moment. The child asked the question so seriously, she felt as if something momentous hung upon her answer. “Well,” she said carefully, “I don’t quite know. I haven’t seen Clara for a long, long time.”
“Perhaps she’s dead,” said the little girl in a low tone.
What a life this child must lead, to have such thoughts! Natalie impulsively reached for her and gently held her by the elbows. “No, my dear, that cannot be. Imaginary kittens live forever. I’m sure she is alive and well.” Inspiration struck. “Shall I call to her? Do you think she would come? Even after all these years?”
A nearly invisible smile curved the edges of the little girl’s mouth. “You said she always did.”
Natalie straightened and looked down the street. “Here, Clara,” she called softly. “Here, puss-puss. Here, kitty.” She glanced around the inn’s small yard. “Heeeere, Clara.” She bent and pretended to peer beneath the scraggly shrubs that stood near the doorway. “Clara? Is that you?”
She was tickled when the little girl came and stood beside her, bending nearly double to look beneath the branches. “What color is she?”
“White. A pure white kitten with green eyes. Do you see her?”
The child stared with fierce concentration. “I see something white,” she breathed. She held out her fingers as if inviting a kitten to come to her. “Clara? Come, Clara,” she crooned. “Come, kitty.”
A sharp voice sounded behind them, causing both Natalie and the little girl to jump. “What’s all this, then?” said the voice.
Natalie straightened, blushing a little. The woman addressing them was clearly a servant, but she had an air of outraged authority that made one feel instantly guilty. “I’m so sorry,” said Natalie politely. “My little friend, here, is helping me find my imaginary kitten.”
She was hoping to reassure the woman that she and the child were only playing. Reassurance, however, was not the effect she achieved. The woman looked seriously annoyed. The little girl was standing motionless, looking for all the world as if she had frozen in place from pure dread.
There was something dark in the air, something wrong here.
Natalie felt compelled to fill the charged silence, even at the risk of babbling. “I hope you don’t mind,” she blurted. “I certainly meant no harm to the child.”
“I’m sure you did not, miss,” said the servant. Her words were courteous, but the tight lines around her mouth indicated displeasure. “But I had hoped that Sarah knew better than to bother a stranger with her nonsense.”
So it was the little girl who had angered the woman. Dismayed, Natalie rushed back into speech. “Oh, but I’m afraid you have misunderstood me. Sarah didn’t bother me in the least. I found her play quite charming.”
Now the woman looked even angrier. Her hand shot out so quickly, for a moment Natalie thought she was going to strike the child. Instead, her fingers closed like a vise on Sarah’s little arm. Sarah made no sound, but she visibly shrank at the woman’s touch. Natalie almost cried out with distress; the expression on the child’s face was pathetic.
“Oh, no, pray—!” said Natalie quickly. “I approached Sarah, not the other way round. Pray do not be angry! We were only playing, you know. I assure you there was no harm done.”
The ser
vant shot Natalie a look so venomous that Natalie fell back a step, startled. “I’m sure you meant well, miss, but Sarah knows that there are rules she must follow. It’s my duty to see that she follows them.”
Heavens, what a gorgon. It was clear that Natalie must appeal to the woman’s superiors; she would get nowhere pleading Sarah’s cause with this harridan. “Perhaps I might speak with the child’s mother?” suggested Natalie. “If I could only explain myself, I feel sure that—”
“That won’t be possible. Good day.”
She began half-dragging the frightened child back into the inn. The expression of despair on Sarah’s face indicated a certainty that she was about to be punished, and the woman’s disproportionate anger seemed to bear this out. Natalie still could not fathom why. Baffled and alarmed, she instinctively followed them, trailing in their wake as they moved from the sunlit yard into the comparative darkness of the inn’s interior. She had a vague notion of intervening, should the woman actually move to hurt the little girl, but before she had gathered her wits to speak the two came to an abrupt halt in the passage. Natalie nearly caromed into them from behind.
A voice spoke out of an open doorway to her right. “What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Thorpe?”
It was a masculine voice, dark and sonorous and filled with quiet authority. Its tone was polite but implacable, investing the commonplace question with a warning: you had better have an excellent answer ready, Mrs. Thorpe. A burden seemed to lift from Natalie’s shoulders; here, surely, was a powerful ally. Sarah seemed to think so, too. She pulled free of Mrs. Thorpe’s grasp and ran to the shadowy figure in the doorway.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Natalie’s initial impression of a massive presence resolved into a truer picture of the man who stood there. He was tall, but not the giant her imagination had conjured from his deep voice. He was dark, but his face had the pallor of recent illness or grief. Grief, she guessed, since the austerity of his clothing suggested mourning. His eyes were hooded with shadow, but she sensed a keen and watchful focus there. He stooped slightly, whether out of habit or merely from fitting his tall person into the low door frame she could not tell. Sarah, meanwhile, clung to his legs with the fervor of a plaster saint clutching at the Savior’s robe. He placed one hand lightly on the child’s head, but his attention remained fixed, unwaveringly, on Mrs. Thorpe.
Mrs. Thorpe gave him a strained smile. “There is nothing amiss, sir,” she said, brightly but firmly. “Nothing that I cannot handle.”
“And who is this?” The man’s head swivelled and Natalie felt herself pinned by his shadowed eyes. They were the color of ice long-frozen, their blue gaze as penetrating as winter’s chill. His scrutiny made her feel vulnerable, as if he could see into the depths of her being.
It occurred to her for the first time that her position was awkward. Why on earth had she pursued these strangers into the inn? Whatever dynamic was operating here, it was none of her business. She must seem a perfect busybody. To her annoyance, she felt herself blushing.
Mrs. Thorpe’s lips thinned. “I don’t know her, sir. One of the local women, I should think. She was outside with Sarah just now, but I can’t imagine why she has followed us in.” She added her basilisk glare to the gentleman’s scrutiny, but it was the gentleman’s gaze that disconcerted Natalie.
Natalie opened her mouth to apologize, but closed it again. It seemed dishonest to apologize for behavior she did not, in fact, regret. The inn was a public place, for pity’s sake. She had every right to walk in if she chose. She ignored Mrs. Thorpe and offered the man a tiny curtsey. “My name is Whittaker,” she said stiffly.
The gentleman’s expression did not change. He continued to regard her fixedly. Natalie gave him back stare for stare, but said nothing. She owed no one an explanation of her conduct. Let him stare.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Thorpe smirk. “As I say, sir, I’ve no idea who she is.”
An interruption came from an unlikely source. Sarah spoke, in the thread of a voice. “Papa.”
The man’s attention immediately shifted to the child’s tense face. Sarah looked up at him and bravely whispered, “She is my friend.”
Natalie’s heart melted.
The tall man looked at Natalie again, and she saw a flicker of some powerful emotion—understanding? Gratitude? Before she could decipher it, he bent his head and shadowed his expression. “I see,” was all he said. But Natalie felt, in a flash of certainty, that he really did.
Chapter 2
The young woman met his gaze fearlessly, lifting her chin and regarding him with a level scrutiny that matched his own. The gesture seemed neither defiant nor insolent. Despite her outmoded gown and battered hat, she had a self-possessed air that suggested quality. Malcolm was amused in spite of himself—and intrigued as well.
“Miss Whittaker, would you join me in the coffee room?” He said it as mildly as he knew how, and even stepped back to let her pass before him. Still, her clear brown eyes clouded with doubt.
Mrs. Thorpe interrupted with an angry sniff. “Forgive me,” she snapped, “but I hope you don’t mean to dignify this young person with a private audience. I see no need to reward her for what seems, to me, nothing more than vulgar curiosity. It’s obvious that she’s trying to meddle in something that simply doesn’t concern her.”
Malcolm felt a stab of irritation. “I shall give your opinion the consideration it deserves, Mrs. Thorpe,” he said dryly. He quirked an eyebrow at the newcomer and again indicated the coffee room. “Miss Whittaker?”
He thought he saw a spark of appreciative laughter in the back of the young woman’s eyes. He smiled, pleased by this evidence that she had understood the veiled insult he had handed the redoubtable Mrs. Thorpe. Whatever Miss Whittaker was, she was apparently no slowtop. His smile seemed to make up her mind for her; she relaxed and smiled back.
The effect was extraordinary. Her face lit with a swift, sudden beauty he had not before perceived. The mouth that had struck him as too wide and straight to be pretty curved into a delicious, inviting shape that proved him wrong. The difference her smile made was astonishing—much like those April days when the sun suddenly emerges from behind a cloud and you realize that the hills are a more brilliant green, the flowers a brighter yellow, the entire world a more lovely and pleasant place than you had perceived.
She spoke, then, shaking her head in polite refusal. Her voice was pleasant and musical. “Really, sir, I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but I don’t think—”
Sarah’s little hand shot out and fastened on the lady’s sleeve. Miss Whittaker looked down, startled. Sarah’s eyes were wide and pleading. “Please stay,” she said. “Please?”
Mrs. Thorpe made a huffing sound. “Sarah Chase, we’ve heard quite enough from you,” she said sharply. “I think you had better come with me.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Thorpe,” said Malcolm gently. “I believe it is you, not Sarah, from whom we have heard enough. I’m sure you have duties to perform elsewhere. We won’t keep you from them any longer.”
Without waiting for a reply, he smoothly guided Sarah and Miss Whittaker into the coffee room and closed the door in Mrs. Thorpe’s outraged face. Miss Whittaker, he was glad to see, was a well-brought-up female. When push came to shove, she did as she was bid. She looked a little dazed, but she did, in fact, walk into the coffee room without further protest.
“My word,” she murmured, apparently to herself.
Closing the door on Mrs. Thorpe acted like a tonic on Sarah. She gave a little skip of happiness and seized Malcolm’s hand, swinging it. “She stayed!” exclaimed Sarah. “Look, Papa. She stayed! I didn’t think she would. How long will she stay? Will she have dinner with us? Papa, only fancy—she has an imaginary kitten. She purrs and talks.”
Malcolm looked at Miss Whittaker with renewed interest. “Really? How extraordinary. I’ve never met a lady who purrs and talks.”
Miss Whittaker had turned a becoming sh
ade of pink. Her lips pursed repressively. “It is the kitten, sir, who purrs and talks,” she said severely. “Sarah, you disappoint me. I told you about Clara in the strictest confidence.”
Sarah looked puzzled. “D’you mean it wasn’t true?”
“No, I mean it was a secret.”
Sarah beamed. “But it was true. You didn’t say it wasn’t true. Papa, did you hear? I wasn’t to tell you about Clara because it was a secret. But it was a true secret.”
“Yes, I heard. But I hope you will not divulge any more secrets. It’s very bad form, you know. Miss Whittaker will think you are not to be trusted.” Sarah’s face fell and he inwardly cursed himself. He had forgotten, again, that she was too young to discern a jest from a real rebuke. He gentled his voice and leaned down to her. “Never mind, duckie. I’ve brought down Mrs. Mumbles and Blinky for you. They’re in the corner, with your doll house.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried Sarah, with as much pleasure as if he had offered her the keys to fairyland. He watched her scamper over to the corner and plop down among her toys. Such a simple thing, to bring her so much joy. Why was she so surprised by even the smallest of treats? His heart ached with a love for her that was tinged with sorrow.
He returned his attention to Miss Whittaker in the nick of time. She was glancing around the room with the nervousness of an unbroken colt. He almost expected to see her eyes roll and her head toss. One more second and she would have been gone. As it was, she met his eyes with a sidelong glance. “I see that you have brought me to a private coffee room. I must not stay,” she said firmly.
He offered what he hoped was a disarming smile. “For a few minutes only, Miss Whittaker. Sarah will be with us, you know. Your reputation is quite safe.”